Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Fuck off," he says.

Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. It was quiet enough so that no one else in the busy tavern heard, but firm. "Excuse me?"

He looks up, meets your eye for the first time. They're glazed, shadowed in deep bags under a strong brow. "Fuck off."

Of all the introductions you've made, the times you've brightly informed someone of your name, this is a first. You were beginning to think it was a town full of saints, everyone pleased to see you, smiling. This is a pull back to earth.

You stare back at him as he lifts his beer and takes a long drink, eyes on yours, waiting patiently as you struggle to form a reply. Annoyance bubbles in you, entitlement at his indifference. "Do you wanna try that again?" you snap, more than a little condescending.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath, hunched shoulders rising. "Fuck off and leave me alone."

You huff out a bitter laugh. "Much better. Thanks." He raises his beer slightly in acknowledgment and turns away from you.

You leave him there in the corner of the bar, sallow and lonely amongst the vibrant crowd. Fuck that guy, whoever he is. He didn't even tell you his fucking name.

"My love," Elliott croons, sweeping a hand back through luscious hair. "Might we venture out of the cabin tonight? I crave a respite from these stuffy walls."

You roll your eyes. You've been rolling your eyes a lot lately, here at Elliott's. If he weren't so disgustingly handsome, so patient and attentive in bed, you wouldn't be here. "What's wrong with the stuffy walls? That's where the bed is."

You drag a hand up his thigh, the fine hair soft under your touch. He's a natural redhead. His dick twitches but he catches your hand with his own, brings it to his chest.

"There is more to life than the abode."

You roll your eyes. Again. "Disagree."

He tuts, sitting up, pulling on his clothes. You remain naked in the bed, staring up at his body before he covers it. It takes him ages to do up all those buttons, you've got time. "Before we began our tryst. What would you be occupying this present night with?"

You shrug. "I dunno. Weed. TikTok." He frowns. You can tell he’s about to ask what that is. "Television," you correct.

He smiles as he begins to lace up his high-waisted pants. God, what a ridiculous man. "Let us fetch a drink! I am not above a cold ale to vanish my vexation."

"Great." Public? With this guy? What does he think you are? A couple? "You know…" You hesitate. As cynical as you are, you don’t actually want to hurt his feelings. He pauses, billowy shirt fluttering down across his torso. "We’re not a couple."

Hurt flashes briefly across his face before the smile returns. "Patience is a particularly apt virtue of mine," he muses, tucking in his shirt. "The path of true love never did run smooth."

"Okay. Well don’t say I didn’t warn you."

The saloon is quiet. Mostly the regulars and a few out-of-towners you don’t recognise. Penny’s mom is arguing with Gus about something over the bar. That guy who told you to fuck off is in the same place as always, tucked in the corner in a shadowy patch next to the fireplace. It’s the best seat in the house. Private. Warm. Right next to the taps. Resentment starts to rise but you push it down as you approach the bar with Elliott, slipping into a couple of bar stools.

Emily’s all pep as she greets you. "What’ll it be?"

You open your mouth to order but Elliott gets there first. "Barkeep! Your finest ale, and a wine for the lady."

Emily nods and turns to pour but you stop her. "No. What the fuck?" You look at Elliott. "Did you just order for me?"

"My love?" His brow crinkles. "What’s the matter?"

"When have you ever seen me drink wine?"

“Many times." He drops his voice. "You drank all of my red wine only last night."

"Okay, fair. But don’t fucking order for me, that’s so weird." You look back to Emily, who’s lingering awkwardly. "Give me something strong and sugary."

She cracks a smile. "I call that the Haley. Coming up."

"I apologise," Elliott murmurs, looking at you with solemn sincerity as Emily pours the drinks. "It was not my intention to offend."

"What was your intention?"

He shakes his head, looks disappointed in himself. "Chivalry, I suppose. A misguided attempt."

"Yeah." You soften a little. He means well. "Ask next time."

He takes your hand and kisses the back of it. You resist the urge to roll your eyes again. "It will be done."

He pays for the drinks — after asking permission — and you turn towards the back wall as you sip from the fizzy pink concoction Emily has given you. It's sweet as hell, with a strong kick. The Haley, indeed.

"I must visit the gentlemen's room," Elliott tells you, laying a hand gently on your back as he stands. "I shall return shortly."

"Knock yourself out."

He sweeps across the room towards the toilets. You rest your elbows on the bar and let the sigh out that you've been holding in, eyes turning to the heavens, letting your posture slump. He's a good guy. It's just hard to be around him.

You feel eyes on you and look back down, and to the right. That rude guy is looking at you out of the corner of his eyes. His expression is hard to read, half-hidden in profile, but there's the tip of a smirk.

"What?" you ask, a little loud, a little confrontational.

The smirk grows. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes, maintaining the hostile eye contact as you knock back the rest of your drink. "Fuck off," you tell him, before turning away and ordering another from Emily.

Elliott takes longer in the bathroom than any man you've ever met. You have a theory that he brushes his entire head of hair every time he's out of sight. Another pink drink is served to you and you tip back half of it, the ball of annoyance in your stomach tightening, distracting, refusing to be drowned.

The guy isn't looking at you anymore, smirk faded, drink depleted.

"He's good in bed," you find yourself telling him. Embarrassment immediately tinges through you from the overshare.

He looks at you, surprised, amused. "What? Elliott?"

"Yeah." You feel sharply defensive of him, even though you yourself find him almost unbearable.

The guy smirks again. God, that's annoying. "I doubt that."

"He makes love to me," you insist, a smirk sliding onto your own face. He does, it's true. It's all emotional, feels like being fucked by a poem.

"Sounds fun." 

"It is." You're struck by the random vulnerability of your words, retreating back inside yourself. "Anyway. Fuck off."

He just shrugs, then tips back the rest of his beer and order another.

Elliott returns from the bathroom in a pomegranate cloud, hair perfect and smooth. You have a few more drinks before tangling his leg with your own and whispering filthy things into his ear, making him flush. "You truly have your own brand of sonnet," he stammers, leaning away from you.

You take him back to the cabin, intending to action your words, to break this pattern of slow, passionate, meaningful sex. But when you hastily unlace his pants and your hand dives into his underwear, he steps backwards. "How about a song on the piano? Music can be the most divine foreplay."

You sigh, bone deep. "This isn't working out."

The next time you're at the saloon, it's a packed Friday night, seemingly everyone in town out to have a good time. Excellent. That was the plan. You're wearing your most humbly attractive outfit, demure enough to look the Mayor in the eye but one slight bend away from revealing an armful of cleavage, and you sit at the bar with a glass of whiskey and try to look hot.

That same guy is there, obviously. He never seems to leave. You're ignoring him. He's ignoring you. It works. At least you know he's there if you want someone to argue with. Whatever happens tonight, passion has to make its way out of you somehow.

Elliott's here, too. Nursing a wine in the corner. When his glass is empty, he approaches the bar and orders another, lingers awkwardly a good distance away from you as he waits. When he returns to his seat, you feel eyes on you again.

"What?" you ask, flat, frustrated, glaring at the guy in the corner.

There's a certain spark in his eyes, the usual glaze rubbed off for a moment. Amusement. "Nothing." He clears his throat. "Not that good, then."

You expect annoyance to bubble in you again but a laugh bursts it way out instead. "Guess not." You hesitate, lower your voice, leaning closer across the bar so he hears you. "Music can be foreplay."

He huffs a laugh from his nose, shakes his head. "Gross."

You stand, moving a few bar stools to the right, closing the distance between you until a few feet remain.

He looks sideways at you. Glares. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"We're not hanging out."

"We kind of are. We're having a conversation."

"No we're not. Fuck off and leave me alone."

"We're literally having a conversation right now."

He hunches over, turns away from you, doesn't reply. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just let him curl in on himself, to give him the peace he wants, but that implies that you care what he wants.

"Who's single in this town?" you ask him, scanning around the room. "Apart from that blacksmith guy. Bad vibes."

He stays silent, face like thunder.

"What about those guys?" you ask, eyes travelling to the corner of the room with the pool table, the tall blonde guy and the goth kid. "They always seem to be together. Is that a thing?"

No response.

"I'll buy you a beer," you offer.

He looks up slowly. Stares at you as he thinks it over. "Make it a whiskey."

"Emily. Two whiskeys."

When she serves the drinks you attempt to clink your glass to his but he cringes away. "Eurgh."

"Jeez, sorry."

He swallows it all in a few gulps, throat moving under the coating of dark, slightly greying stubble. Then he looks over to the pool table. "I think they're both single."

"Nice."

"They're kids."

"Ew, no they're not. Sebastian's at least 23."

"Yeah. Kids."

You snort. "Okay, grandpa." You run your hands through your hair, fluffing it, detangling it. "Do I look hot?"

"No," he says without looking at you.

"Thanks," you reply with sincerity. "I appreciate that. Wish me luck."

"No."

"Aw, you're sweet. Okay, bye." You leave cash on the bar as you slip out of the stool and approach the pool table.

Sebastian is not what you would call an emotional fuck. He's definitely not making love to you.

It's more... distracted. Feels like his mind is always on something else. You've got his dick in your mouth and he's staring at the ceiling like it's front page news. No matter how many tricks you pull out, he can't seem to get off.

"It's not you," he says, as you sit naked on the edge of his bed, his black bedsheets still unstained from your attempts. "It's not."

"I never said it was."

"Well... good."

"Do you know what it is?"

He shakes his head. "I dunno. It feels good. I guess there's just something wrong with me."

"Do you manage okay on your own?"

"On my own?"

"When you jerk off, Sebastian."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Well. What do you think about?"

He chews on his lip, flushing it a dark pink. He's kinda sexy, with his pale skin against that shock of box-dyed black hair. That's what makes it so frustrating. "I don't really know," he says finally.

You sigh, pulling your clothes on. "Wanna smoke some weed?"

"Fresh out."

"Fuck. Drink then?"

You order wine this time. Sebastian gets a rum and Coke, and you chat about your new Solarian character's build as you order more rounds and slowly become drunker. His smiles become more frequent, sloppier, and it's cute. You keep it light, keep your teasing to flirtation, not wanting him to stress about earlier's sexual frustrations. He relaxes visibly, and you move closer, wrapping a leg around his, looking up at him in what you hope is a coy way as he talks about something indecipherable.

"Anyway, as soon as I get the raspberry pi set up I should be able to play any retro game I want—"

"Do you wanna go to the bathroom?"

You hear a low laugh, scoffed, from the corner. You raise your middle finger behind Sebastian's back.

He looks confused. "What?"

"Do you. Wanna go. To the bathroom?"

"I don't need to."

"I think you do." You let your intent become crystal clear, leaning in to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth.

"Oh." He hesitates. "Okay."

"...You don't seem overly keen."

"No. Yeah." He nods. "Yeah. Let's go."

You follow Sebastian towards the bathroom, raising your middle finger again in corner guy's direction as you see him smirk in your periphery.

Whatever relaxation Sebastian achieved at the bar seems to have vanished, and he's tense under your touch as you push him against the locked door. He's hard, erection pushing against you through his jeans, but his lips move automatically against yours, measured and reciprocal. Your hands slide into each other's underwear, your blood pumping and skin hot with the buzz, and you stroke him as he rubs his fingers against your clit.

"Yeah," you breathe into his ear. "That's it. You make me so wet."

At your words, you feel his dick soften slightly. Immediately your ego is bruised and you pull away.

"Sorry," he says.

"It is me," you groan.

"It's not," he says quickly. "I've always had issues. With everyone." Then he thinks. "Well not..."

"What?"

He hesitates. "I'm not supposed to say."

"What, Sebastian?" Your frustration is clear, voice coming out harsh.

"Not with Sam," he blurts, and immediately looks guilty. "Fuck. I'm not — fuck. Don't tell anyone."

"You guys...?"

"It was one time."

"And you got off?"

He looks down. "Yeah."

You roll your eyes so hard they may as well fall out of your head. "Oh my god. You're fucking gay, Sebastian."

His face screws up in denial. "No..."

"Are you serious? You have issues with literally every girl but no issues with Sam? Uh, yeah, you're fucking gay, idiot."

He looks wounded. You take a deep breath. "Sorry. Sorry for yelling."

"It's okay." He zips up his pants, brow furrowed, hair spilling over his forehead. "I... I'm gonna go. I need to process this."

"Okay." You feel like an asshole, yelling his sexuality at him in a restroom. "If you wanna like... talk. You can talk to me."

He pulls his hood over his head, doesn't look you in the eye. "Sure. See you around."

You order an entire bottle of wine and sit two stools down from that fucking guy.

"I'm hot, right?" you ask him, pouring yourself a huge glass.

"Fuck off," he says.

"Yeah, I know." You sigh. "I'm not the issue. It's the men in this fucking town."

"What happened with Gerard Way?"

"Not gonna happen, that's what I'll say."

He grunts in a kind of condolence. "There's always his buddy."

"I fear it's the same issue." The saloon is almost empty. Even Pam has gone home, the clock past 11. It's just you and this guy and Gus cleaning glasses in the back room.

You scoot up one stool closer to him.

"Oh my god," he groans. "Stop."

"You started it," you protest. "Fucking judgmental asshole."

"I literally just looked at you."

"Yeah, like a judgmental asshole." You drink in silence for a while, finishing your glass of wine, and another, thoughts clouding with haze and doubt and endless frustration. "I just wanna get fucked," you say eventually. "Is that so much to ask? Huh? I thought that's what men wanted. Like, that's an oversimplification or whatever, blah blah blah, but come on. Why is it so fucking hard?"

You look at him with that last line, the question not rhetorical, gesturing with your wine as it sloshes about.

He thinks about it. You watch him raise his beer to his lips, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares at the bar. "There's safety in being gentle," he says slowly. "Most people like being safe."

He doesn't meet your eye but you stare at him, something suddenly turning in your gut, tightening, blood pumping. You haven't looked at him much, ever, preferring to spar verbally and peripherally. His hair is dark brown, almost black, but speckled grey, with stubble littered across his cheeks and down his neck. His eyebrows are thick, unkempt, the little hairs trailing off towards his hairline. The dark streaks under his eyes disguise dark lashes, those lashes some men have that make you envious. But his eyes are light. Maybe grey, maybe green, it's hard to tell. They look up at you and a thrill runs through you, hits you right between the legs.

"Stop fucking looking at me," he says.

You look away. "Sorry." You pour the last of the bottle into your glass. "What's your name?"

"Shane," he says.

You wait a few moments. "You don't wanna know mine?"

"I know your name."

For some reason that makes you feel kind of nervous, blood rushing into your cheeks. You finish off your wine and stand. "I'm going home." You grip onto the bar as you wobble on your feet. "Woah. I'm drunk."

"Are you..." He starts, then stops.

You stare, arms folded across your chest, expectant.

"Are you gonna get home okay?" he asks eventually, reluctantly.

"Fuck off," you say, smiling, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

The interaction sticks in your head despite the hangover. You're walking through the square the next day and spot that tall doctor guy coming out of the clinic, and you strike up a conversation, walking next to him as he circles the town on his break. He stutters a little but you press forwards, touching his arm, asking for his number. He puts it in your phone under Dr Harvey. It's fun to make him blush, and easy, but you're thinking about those words. Most people like to be safe.

He's not wrong. You've been safe your whole life. The most daring thing you've ever done is break off your engagement and move here, to the middle of nowhere, with hopes of actually fucking feeling something for once. Nothing yet but frustration.

You text Harvey back and forth for a while in the evening. The conversation flows well when he's not tripping over his words. He seems soft, sweet, anxious, but you never know. Sometimes people like that are demons in the sack.

You ask if he wants to go to the saloon and he declines, says he has to get up early the next morning, but offers the evening following. You accept.

Turns out Dr Harvey's kind of a lightweight. Could have seen that coming. You thought getting a few drinks in him might help him loosen up but he's pink in the face, won't stop telling you how pretty you are. It was nice the first couple times but now it's getting mildly annoying. To be fair, you look great in that dress.

"I know," you tell him after the fifteenth time. "Now tell me some weird medical stories."

"You're so pretty," he slurs, smiling at you.

You look past him at Shane, who is obviously smirking. "He literally had three beers." He doesn't reply, just keeps that shit-eating smirk, sipping what must be his fifth or sixth beer.

"You smell good," Harvey tells you.

"Let's get you home," you sigh, getting to your feet.

You walk him to the clinic, supporting his weight, and he babbles apologies. "I was nervous," he says. "I should have stopped at one, I know I can't handle it."

"It's okay," you tell him as you plop him on his bed. "We can try again."

"We can?" He's looking up at you like a puppy dog.

"Yeah. I like the moustache."

He giggles, and it makes you smile. "Thanks," he says. "I grew it myself."

"Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight, beautiful."

You flip the light off as you leave. It's only 9 o'clock, so you head back to the saloon, sliding into the stool directly next to Shane.

"Why," he groans.

"Just shut up and be my friend, dickhead." You order two beers and give him one. "I put him to bed."

"Hot."

"I'm gonna have to move. I have to." You put your head in your hands. "I'm gonna get a reputation."

"For what?"

"I dunno. Sleeping around, or trying to."

"Who gives a shit?" He casts his eyes briefly around the room. "Small town. Everyone's got a reputation."

"Yeah? What's yours?"

"Being an asshole."

"That tracks."

"And a drunk."

"That too."

You lift your arms up over your head and backwards, stretching your shoulders. You swear you see him look at your body out of the corner of his eye before you hunch over the bar again. It makes you tingle slightly, makes you aware of yourself. You stare at something random in the distance and let him look, let him get a good eyeful of you, like you had of him a couple nights ago. After a few moments he turns away slightly and sips his beer.

"I can do it," he says.

You look sideways at him. He's facing forwards, lifts his bottle to his lips. You shift on the stool, turn towards him. "Huh?"

"You know what I mean."

"No I don't," you lie. "You have to tell me."

He rolls his eyes, then meets yours. Despite his cool, there's a pink tinge to his cheeks, though it could be the booze. "If you just want someone to fuck you. I can do it."

"I thought you weren't attracted to me?" you tease, trying to keep your own cool despite your rapidly increasing pulse.

"I never said that."

"You said I wasn't hot."

"I was being an asshole."

"Apology accepted."

"I'm not sorry."

You narrow your eyes at him. He narrows his back. There's tension now. You look back and forth between his eyes, suddenly becoming conscious of where your knee is brushing his thigh. Heat surges through you, but also nerves. You're confident, but only with the upper hand. Only when you know where you stand. Shane feels like uncharted territory. It's a little thrilling but a little terrifying too.

You know you should say something. Respond to his proposition. But you're frozen.

Most people like to be safe. Maybe you're most people, too.

He breaks eye contact, looks back at his drink as he finishes it. "Never mind," he says.

"What?" There's a twinge of panic to your voice that makes you flinch.

"Never mind. Offer revoked."

"How come?"

He shrugs. "You hesitated."

"Did not."

"You don't know what you want."

"Do too!" It's petulant, like you're stamping your foot on the ground as you say it. Embarrassment rises in you and you finish your beer and stand. "Fuck you," you say to him, and leave.

Harvey cooks you dinner the next night.

It's a little burnt but still good. He tells you he's out of practise, doesn't get a lot of time for this kind of thing, being a doctor and all. You compliment the food and wave away his apologies for the night before. "It was kind of endearing," you tell him. Not entirely true but not entirely false either, but it seems to put him at ease.

You both stick to water and the dinner goes well. He tells you the weird medical stories you were after and you giggle, even though he doesn't seem to think they're that funny even as he's telling them. He's quite handsome. His moustache is thick and well kept, his eyes warm, crinkling up at the sides when he smiles and laughs, which he does often. You could imagine falling for a guy like this, if you let yourself. Which you're not planning on.

When dinner is over and the plates are cleared, you move to the couch. He's stiff, sitting with his hands in his lap, facing forwards, so you hitch a knee up, getting as close to his side as you can, elbow over the back of the sofa as you run your fingers through his chocolatey hair.

"Thank you for dinner," you murmur.

He gulps. "You're welcome. Pierre told me the mushrooms were foraged from the wild. It's a good time of year for mushrooms." He's not looking at you, slowly growing pinker.

"Why are you nervous?" you ask, still stroking his hair.

He looks down at his hands. "Sorry. It's been a long time. I get in my head."

You smile, leaning closer to his ear, the hint of a five o'clock shadow brushing against your cheek. "Let's get you out of it," you say, and start kissing his neck.

He groans, low and reluctant, coming from deep in his chest. It fuels you, turns you on, and you keep going, darting your tongue out to lick his skin, sucking gently as you push your body into his. His breath is ragged, hand reaching out to grip your shirt in his fist.

"Is that good?" you whisper.

"Yeah," comes his hoarse reply.

You lean back, climb across his lap until you're straddling him. Sitting up, you look at him, his flushed face, mussed up hair, expression like a deer in headlights. You take off his glasses gently and lay them on the sofa beside you, and pitch your hips forwards. His guttural moan is your reward, cock straining against his slacks. You reach down for the zipper.

His hand catches your wrist. "Stop."

You look up at him. He looks sad. "You okay?" you ask.

"I..." He can't meet your eye. "I can't. I'm sorry."

You climb off him carefully, hand him back his glasses. Disappointment is pumping through you but there's a gentle concern there, too. "What's up?"

"I'm not ready. I lost... I lost someone." He takes another deep breath, emotional. "I'm not ready. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." You pat his hand awkwardly. "I was only gonna use you for your body, anyway."

He huffs a small laugh. "Well, that's... comforting." He shakes his head, puts his glasses back on and looks at you. "You don't have to go."

"It's fine." You stand, already forming a plan in your mind. "I need a drink, anyway."

He's there, of course.

You sit at the bar, leaving a stool between you. "Gimme the Haley," you tell Emily. "Two, actually."

"Someone's in for a fun night," she says with a wink as she hands them to you, before walking off to serve someone else.

You sit in silence, drinking one glass of the fizzy pink concoction, then the other. He’s on the beer next to you, an empty plate of pepper poppers and a handful of bottles scattered around him like debris.

When you’re done with both your drinks, heat swelling in you, nerves tamped down for now, you turn to him. "I know what I want."

A smirk slides onto his face and he slowly turns, spinning on the stool, elbow resting on the bar. "Mm?"

"Yeah."

He waits a few moments. "And?"

"And what?"

"What is it?"

You flush. "Don’t make me say it."

He rolls his eyes, starts to turn away again.

"Fine." You scoot closer, moving stools. Your knees knock against his, bare skin touching. He’s wearing cargo shorts. God. You’re really about to embarrass yourself for a guy wearing cargo shorts.

You lean in closer, hair slipping over your shoulder and onto his. He smells like beer and hot sauce, his hoodie a little ripe. "I want you to fuck me."

His smirk is almost proud, gloating. Condescending prick. "Can you be more specific?" he asks, casual.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there’s lots of different ways to have sex, you see."

You shove him. "Fuck off."

He just raises his eyebrows so you sigh. It feels like an exercise in humiliation, in power, testing how much you want him.

"Okay. I want you to fuck me. Not make love to me. Fuck me. I…" You shake your head. "I don’t know why. That’s for me to examine in therapy at a later date. But I want to be… taken." You can’t meet his eye. "There. Is that sufficient?"

His gaze is half-lidded. You’re pretty sure he’s looking down your top. "Do you want to go to the bathroom?"

Your breath hitches as you meet his eye. "Right now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He tips back the rest of his beer, and you watch his throat, watch him smear the back of his hand across his mouth. He’s kind of a slob. It shouldn’t be so hot.

"Come on," he says, and stands, walking off. You take a deep breath and follow him into the restroom.

It’s a small room, about eight feet squared, with dull fluorescent lighting. Standing opposite Shane, you realise you’ve never seen him upright before. You’re about the same height. You open your mouth to comment on it but suddenly his hands are on your waist, body against yours as he pushes you back against the sink.

"Fuck," you gasp, out of sheer surprise. The sink juts into you painfully as he ruts his hips against yours, grabbing your ass and pulling you against him as his erection grows. His movements are frantic, grip tight on your skin.

With both hands on your hips he flips you around so you’re bending forwards against the sink, and starts unbuckling his belt with one hand. The other slides between your legs under your dress, the nice dress you picked for your date with Harvey, and his fingers slip past your underwear as he pushes them inside you. You choke out a moan — they slide inside easily, wet from the moment you sat down at the bar.

He laughs. Low and filthy. "God. You’re desperate."

Annoyance fires in you but is forgotten when he curls his fingers towards himself, deliciously hard, pushing into the soft muscle as he pulls out his dick. He strokes himself a few times, brushing the tip against your ass, glazing you slightly in pre-cum. Then he pulls his fingers from you and kicks your legs open wider, pulling aside your underwear to line himself up with your entrance.

"Condom," you blurt.

He moves your hair so he can press his face to your ear. "I’m tested," he breathes. Then he bends you over the sink and pushes his cock inside you raw.

Any objections you had die in your throat, dissolving into the long moan that forces its way out of you, loud and dirty and ragged but quickly cut off by his hand covering your mouth. "Ssh." He moves his dick back and forth slightly, teasing deep inside, and you whimper against his hand as your walls tighten around him. "You're gonna be quiet for me. Okay?"

You nod.

He takes his hand off your mouth and moves it to your throat, squeezing oh-so-gently at the sides of your neck. "Say it."

"Okay," you whisper.

"Good girl." You can hear the smirk in it.

He pulls back with his hips and starts slamming into you, one hand still on your throat, the other on your ass, thumb hooked under your ass cheek, spreading you wider. It's hard, fast, raw in more ways than one, his cock hard and throbbing as it carves you open, hands strong and assertive as they hold you still. Pleasure fumbles through you, your mouth open in a silent moan, hands bracing yourself against the wall.

"God," you can't help but groan. Your whole body pulses with the heat of it, the sheer relief of finally getting what you want, and getting it good.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you." The words come out harsh and a little mocking. He pushes you harder into the sink, moves the hand on your throat into your hair to grab a fistful and squeeze while pushing your head down. Pain shoots across your scalp. "You like it rough. You need it rough, you little whore."

The word would have you swinging in any other context but he's right. You asked him for it. Practically begged for it. The vulgarity of it, it feels honest. This is what you've been craving. To be consumed.

His breath is loud and fast behind you, panting as he thrusts into you relentlessly, and he doesn't break the rhythm as he pulls back his hand to slap your ass, hard. You choke out a cry at the pain and he squeezes your hair harder, bringing tears to your eyes. "Shut the fuck up." He spanks you again, your body overstimulated and swollen with sensation. It feels so fucking good, his dick getting you close, the pain heightening it all. You take one hand off the wall and attempt to slide it down towards your clit, almost there if only you could just —

He grabs your hand and pins it against the wall. You whine in protest but he ignores you, leaning back a little, using both hands to spread your reddening ass cheeks to fuck you as deep as possible. The sound of it is graphic — the slap of skin on skin as his hips hit your ass, the indecent squelch of your pussy sucking him in, his laboured breath and your own swallowed moans. You squeeze your walls around him. "Fuck," he curses under his breath. You commit the sound to memory, the small vulnerability of it, the tiny admission that he likes it, too.

He leans over your back to murmur in your ear. "You want my cum?"

You nod frantically. "Yeah."

His breath plays on your ear, hot and loud. You can hear every hitch, every gasp, as his dick swells inside you. "Beg for it. Dirty little slut. Beg for my cum."

"Please — God, please. Give it to me. I want it. Please."

His grip on your ass tightens, hard enough to bruise, and he pounds into you once, twice more, then he's cumming inside you, moaning quietly into your ear, still thrusting in and out of you but softer now, slower, dick twitching as he rides it out. You moan softly too, at the thought of his cum inside you, the risk of it, the filth, the shame. He breathes heavily against you for a few moments, before sliding out unceremoniously. His cum immediately starts dripping down your leg.

You turn, catch him zipping himself up without bothering to clean up. You're speechless, just staring, can't think of anything to say as he does up his belt.

Your eyes meet. His face is flushed, pupils a little blown, but other than that you'd never know anything had happened. His expression is the same slightly hostile, slightly distant one that he always seems to have.

"You should probably get some Plan B or something," he says. Then he turns to leave.

"Wait," you say. He stops. Annoyance peeks through. "You're not gonna finish me off?"

"Fuck off." He unlocks the door and slips out, leaving it open.

You rush to close it, locking it behind him, sliding down into a squat against it. Blood rushes in your ears. Your pussy throbs and aches, your ass burns. Finally. You fucking feel something.

His cum is still leaking out of you. You reach down and coat your fingers in it, basking in it, before bringing your fingers to your clit. You rub yourself in small circles, slick with his cum, playing back the encounter in your head, feeling his breath on your ear, his possessive hands on your ass. It doesn't take long to get yourself off.

Chapter Text

You do have a life outside of sex.

It feels easier to concentrate on the tasks in front of you, the milking of the cows, the shearing of the sheep. The fog cloud of horniness has lifted, the never-ending craving has subsided. But there's a different kind of distraction in its place. The memory. The conflicting feelings.

It should piss you off. It should make you mad. Just cos he's tested doesn't mean he can just fuck you raw like that without permission. Doesn't mean he can just cum inside you. But even as you think these things, your heartbeat starts up between your legs. You should be mad, but you're not, because you liked it. He seemed to know where your limits were, just how far he could push you. And he pushed you.

Most people like to be safe. Shane definitely doesn't.

You stock up your backpack with goods — milk and cheese and cloth — and set off towards Pierre's to get some instant cash, that you then use to buy weed from Sebastian. You're coming back down the mountain and through town when you see Shane. He's walking out of Jojamart, hands in his pockets. You watch him for a while, curious as to what he looks like when he thinks no one is watching. Shoulders hunched over, scowling, looking like he hates the world. Maybe he does.

"Hey," you call. He looks over at you, slows a little. Then he looks away and keeps walking.

"Hey!" you yell, and run over to him, standing in his way, a little out of breath.

He glares at you. "What? What do you want?"

"Don't fucking ignore me!"

"Why not?"

"It's rude."

"I'm rude. I'm a rude person."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"If you don't like people being rude to you, you should stop talking to me." He tries to walk around you, heading to the saloon, but you block his way again. "Fuck off, I need a drink."

"You..." You trail off, the aggression slowly bleeding out of you. There's no real reason you accosted him, other than spite. Well, and the fact that you can't stop thinking about him.

He folds his arms across his chest, eyes boring into you with cold annoyance. "I?"

"You're an asshole."

"Noted. Can I go?"

You step aside. He walks past you and into the saloon.

Your heartbeat pounds. You feel kind of foolish. Why just run up to him? Like he's gonna be pleased to see you? That's not what this is. If that's what you want, he's right, you should stop talking to him.

"Hey," comes a soft voice. You look towards it. That hot jock guy is leaning over the fence that pens in his dog, concern on his face. "You okay?"

You walk over to him, lean against the fence opposite. "Yeah. How much of that did you hear?"

"Uh..." His cheeks tinge pink. "I can lie, if it'll be less embarrassing."

"It was all of it, wasn't it?"

"Kinda."

You shrug. "My fault for yelling in a public place."

"That guy's such a dick," he says, shaking his head. Alex, you think his name is.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

His eyes are on his dog so you stare at him. Rich brown hair, tan, shoulders of a linebacker. You move around the fence to stand next to him, and he turns to face you. "Alex, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm—"

He holds up a hand. It's the size of your head. "I remember your name."

You cock an eyebrow. He looks smug. "Well. Isn't that charming. You wanna get a drink, Alex?"

"I don't drink."

"How come?"

He tightens. "Sorry," you say, "personal question, you don't have to answer that." You check the time on your phone. Half 5. "What about dinner? You like steak?"

His eyes light up.

It goes well. You twirl your hair around your finger and laugh at his mildly sexist jokes, all the while wondering what kind of body a guy who works out so much is hiding. He plays some sport, says he's going to go pro with so much conviction that you almost believe him. When you excuse yourself to pee you turn up the thermostat slightly and when you return he's got his jacket off, arms packed with hard muscle. Delightful.

You clear up the dishes from dinner and sit next to him on the sofa, and before you can even start to put the moves on he's leaning forwards to kiss you. It's a little sloppy and unpractised but it feels good anyway, the graze of his soft lips, the clumsy swipes of his tongue. He pushes his body into yours and lays on top of you, and you wrap your legs around his hips and gasp into his mouth as you dry hump, grinding against each other, his erection grazing your clit through your clothes.

You fumble with his belt, sliding everything down and pulling out his cock. It's thick, pinkish red and swollen, and he groans as you stroke him, a bassy sound. You slip another hand between your bodies to touch yourself and you make out, Alex thrusting his hips forward, fucking your hand, humming moans into your mouth.

You hike up your dress with one hand and his eyes widen at your lack of underwear. "Wanna fuck me?" you ask.

His dick twitches in your hand. He grins. "Hell yeah."

You open your legs and go to line him up but he stiffens, pulls back a little. "Uh. Shouldn't we use a condom?"

"Oh, right." You slide out from under him and walk across the living room, fetching one from a drawer. "Let's go in the bedroom," you suggest, and he follows you in.

You pull his clothes off of him and step back to look at his body. "Fucking hell." He's objectively the hottest guy you've ever seen in real life. Must be around six four, with biceps you could bounce a quarter off of and abs, actual abs. You spin him around and he laughs and lets you, and you groan. "God, you've got a perfect ass, did you know that?"

Alex looks smug as he turns back to you. "Yeah, kinda." It works for him, the arrogance, the confidence. Makes you feel like he's out of your league, like you're lucky to even be here. You pull off your dress and climb naked onto the bed and he slides the condom on, strokes himself casually as he kisses down your chest and sucks gently at your nipple. You moan, wetness pooling, hips bucking.

"Fuck me." It's impatient and a little irritated but he just smiles.

"How do you wanna do it?"

Again, you can't get the memory out of your head. "From behind."

"Okay."

You climb onto all fours and Alex settles himself behind you, warm hands gentle on your waist, caressing your back. "Woah," he says suddenly, a little concerned.

"What?"

"Did you fall on your ass?" His fingertip traces over the sore spots. "You've got bruises."

You push your ass towards him, hoping to drive his finger into the bruise, but he pulls it back. "Yeah, something like that."

"Well, I'll be gentle."

"Don't," you say immediately, firmly.

Alex doesn't respond, guiding his dick between your legs to rub at your entrance briefly before sliding inside. "Baby," he moans, and the term of endearment stirs something in you, something in your chest. You swallow, mouth dry, and push back against him.

He starts to thrust into you, shallow, steady, then a little deeper. It feels good, his dick stretching you open, filling you up, but it's tame, it's only good. He's having the time of his life, moaning and panting and calling you baby and it's hot but. Yeah.

"Harder," you say. His hands on your waist tighten slightly and he puts a sliver of extra power behind his hips.

"Harder."

"Are... are you sure?" His voice is full of concern again.

You grunt in frustration, fists balling in the bedsheets. "What good are all those muscles if you're not gonna use them? Fuck me, Alex."

You feel his hesitation as he slows down, readjusting his hands on your waist. He strokes his thumbs against your skin gently, then gets a good grip, a firm grip. He starts to speed up again. More. Harder. Faster. He builds it up and then he's pounding into you hard, jerking you back towards him, slamming into the same glorious spot deep inside you over and over and over.

"Alex," you moan, eyes screwing shut, stars dancing behind them. "God, yeah, that's it."

He doesn't respond. You notice you can't hear any sounds from him anymore, no moans, no baby. Only his breath, quiet and even. Worry enters the melting pot of feeling, but quickly gets superseded by your sheer desire, the pleasure, the craving.

"Spank me."

His hips stutter, grip on you loosening as he slows. Stops. Pulls out.

You flip round to look at him. His brow is furrowed, looking down at the bedsheets.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." Then he sighs. "No." He's kneeling, sits back on his heels. "I don't... I don't like it like that. You know. Rough."

"...Oh."

He looks guilty, and embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He shrugs, and meets your eye, and you get that same twinge in your chest, the feeling like your heart's skipped a beat. "I like you, you know? I don't wanna..." He winces. "Hit you."

Shame creeps up your back. "There's nothing wrong with wanting that."

"Oh! No, no." His face crumples. "I didn't mean to... You can want what you want. But like, so can I, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." You deflate, laying on your back, still entirely horny but sad, too. Disappointed. "We can still..." You shrug at him but you both know your heart's not in it.

He stands, slides off the condom, dick still hard but gradually going down. You watch bitterly as he clothes himself, that beautiful body. The heat of desire still burns in you, stubborn, vengeful. You don't bother dressing, flipping over onto your stomach and stretching, trying to figure out your next move.

"Oh," Alex says softly. You follow his eyes and he's looking at your ass again. "Hands. Right?"

You nod. He pulls on his shirt and sits on the bed next to you, running his fingers over the marks again. He lines up the pads of his fingertips with each of the five bruises on one side. "Small hands," he muses.

"I think yours are just massive."

"Maybe." He looks at you, eyes so green, so suddenly gentle, and tucks some of your hair behind your ear. "Be careful, okay?"

You feel your heart break just a little bit. Who knew there was a sweet boy underneath all that machismo. "Okay."

He rests a hand under your chin and kisses you softly, achingly, before standing up and walking out of the room. You hear your front door click closed.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You really need therapy. The closest you can get to the perfect human man and you go and fuck it up by being... what? Kinky? Self-hating? Selfish? All of the above?

Either way, you're uncomfortably wet, body still throbbing with arousal. You pull out your phone.

hey

who's this

jesus
i am back now
you have sinned

fuck off
how did you get this number

from god obviously
jk from emily

what do you want

are u busy

im shitfaced so kind of yeah

oh ok
do u wanna come over though

why

for sex

maybe

maybe?
??
??????
hellllooooooo
shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaane

No reply. You give up after a while, turning off the porch light, putting your pyjamas on and taking out your contacts. Annoyance curls in your stomach as you get into bed, thinking about him leaving you hanging. Fucking asshole.

Then as you stare up at the ceiling in the darkness, you think about Alex. His sweet smile. Harvey and his crinkly eyes. Elliott's beautiful words, Sebastian's nerdy laugh. There's no real point to it. You just like thinking about it.

A loud knock at the door wakes you from the edge of sleep. You almost think you dreamed it but then it comes again. And again. And again. It's pitch black so you turn on your phone flashlight and put on your glasses, padding barefoot to the door. "Alright," you yell, and the knocking stops.

You open the door. It's Shane, obviously. Red, glazed eyes. Swaying back and forth. Stinking like a brewery. "Well that took fucking forever."

You start to shut the door in his face but he sticks out an arm and stops it, slips inside the house. You groan. "I was almost asleep."

"Boohoo." His words are slightly slurred, just a little rounded and mildly incomprehensible. He looks around your living room. "Is this where you live?"

"Duh."

"You like black, huh?"

You turn on the light and you both squint. He takes another look around. "Oh. Hah."

"You're a fucking idiot."

He shrugs. "Come on then."

"What?"

Shane takes a step towards you. "Sex."

You check the time on your phone. "That was like two hours ago."

He shrugs again, slips off his shoes, kicks them haphazardly toward the door. Stumbles. Catches the back of the sofa.

"You're trashed."

"Mm." He moves in closer. You take a step back but he closes the distance between you, backing you against the wall, putting out his arms either side of you, blocking you in. His hips push into yours, breath on your face. "You told me to come over. You can't take it back."

You feel him hardening against you and your eyes slide shut for a brief moment. "I can do what I want," you mumble, but it's weak.

"No you can't. You don't know what you want." He leans forwards, as if to kiss you, and you lean in to meet him, but then he steps backwards and looks around the room.

"What?" you ask, but he ignores you, goes over to your kitchen table and puts a hand on it, pushes down, puts his weight on it. Then he starts moving your stuff out of the way, clearing the surface. He looks at you and points at it. "What?" you ask again, exasperated.

"Get on."

"Are you serious?"

Shane's face hardens. "Take off your clothes. And get on the table." His arm is still out, pointing at it.

You stare at him, a stand-off. He stares back, stern and unflinching. You can't deny. The firm tone. The demand. It's sexy.

You don't look away as you remove your clothes. A huge, holey t-shirt with Junimos on it, and some baggy PJ shorts. Not the sexiest of clothing but it doesn't seem to make a difference as you slip them off and drop them in a pile next to you. Shane jerks his head towards the table and you walk over, leaning back against it and lifting yourself up onto it.

"There's a good girl." The hard expression is gone, replaced by something a little more teasing, smirking, his voice playful. "Was that so hard?"

You just roll your eyes. You reach forwards for his belt but he slaps your hand away. "Ow."

"Stay there," he says, and wanders out of your line of sight. You turn, and he's rifling through your fridge.

"Hey!" you call, to no effect. He pulls out a couple of beers, cracks one open, walks back over. Holds the other out to you.

You take it wordlessly, glaring at him, and you both drink in silence for a while. Then he burps.

"Dude."

He ignores you, crushes the can in his hand and throws it into the sink before dropping to his knees. You can't help but notice that his face is inches from your pussy. He puts his hands on your knees and spreads your legs wider.

"What are you doing?"

"Ssh." His breath plays over you as he grabs your ankles and settles your feet on his shoulders. He looks down at where you're dripping wet. Smirks. Looks up at you. "You make it too easy," he says.

"The fuck does that—" Your words die in your throat as he runs his thumb up your slit. Soft. Slow. He meets your eye as he puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks on it. Dark hair spills down over his forehead. Your mouth goes dry and you swallow, lick your lips, try to look unaffected.

"Mm. Not bad." He does it again, touching you with his thumb, but this time he lifts it to your mouth. "Try it."

You can see your chest heaving below you, arousal churning through you. You lean forward and suck his thumb into your mouth. The corner of his mouth quirks up with approval, pupils so wide his eyes look almost black. "Good," he says. You continue to suck at his thumb, enjoying it, the small intimacy. "Okay. You're gonna be loud for me. Understood?"

You nod.

"Say it."

You pull your mouth off him. "Yes."

He spreads open your labia with his fingers, almost casually, then nods at your beer, abandoned next to you. "Drink."

You pick it up and take a long sip, and almost choke when Shane buries his face in your pussy. You swallow the beer and gasp, moan, clutching the edge of the table as he — there's no better word for it than devours you. The sounds are filthy as he licks, slurps, sucks, like you're the first meal he's had in weeks, like you're his last meal before he dies. He wanted you to be loud but really he left you no choice because you're moaning just to cope, just to keep up with the strength of the stimulation. You look down at him and his eyes are closed, brow furrowed, eyebrows knit together, holding onto your thighs with that same bruising grip, face pushed up against you so hard you wonder how he can breathe.

You slide a hand into his hair, expecting him to slap you away again. But he doesn’t. You make a fist, tugging at his hair, the strands a little less coarse than you would have expected.

Then you feel it. His moan. It vibrates against you, adding another sensation to the ever-growing pile, coiling heat deep in your core.

"Shane." You say his name like a curse word as your eyes turn to the heavens, legs starting to shake. "Fuck. Shane."

You tug on his hair again and that same vibration ripples through you, his mouth everywhere at once, and then you’re moaning, wailing as the orgasm hits you, gripping tight onto his hair and the table, hips bucking, ab muscles bracing as you curl in on yourself. He holds you still, eats you out with the same messy intensity, the same insatiable desire, moans rumbling against you as you cum on his face.

The pleasure starts to wane, leaving you sensitive, and his mouth quickly becomes too much. "Slow down," you breathe, sweat across your skin, starting to fill with the warmth of afterglow. He doesn't seem to hear you. "Slow down," you say again, louder. He definitely heard that. But he ignores you.

You look at him. It's a mess down there, your cum smeared on his face, but he laps you up still, tongue soft but firm and persistent, diving inside you, rubbing his stubble against you like sandpaper. It's a sight that will be burned into your memory forever but you're finished now and it's more painful than it is pleasurable.

"Shane. Shane." He doesn't stop. You try to scoot backwards away from him but his grip is too strong, cupping your ass and hips and holding your labia apart with his thumbs. The overstimulation is unbearable, and your mind goes blank as you try to figure out what to do. You consider kicking him in the head.

Then one of his hands moves. A thumb slides inside you, then retreats, glides down towards your asshole. Your breath hitches as he rubs it gently, mouth easing off you only slightly. His eyes open, out of focus, and swivel until they find yours. He watches you as he pushes the tip of his wet thumb inside your ass.

"God," you sigh. It’s been years since someone touched you like that. You forgot how much you missed it. He rocks his thumb back and forth inside you, slowly pushing further, and you break eye contact as you lay flat on your back on the table, bracing your feet against his shoulders, lifting your hips to give him better access. The dirtiness of it, it floods you with a new wave of arousal. Suddenly his mouth on you isn’t such a bad thing anymore.

He takes his hand off your ass and swaps his thumb for a finger, gets it dripping wet and slides it right in up to the second knuckle, and you shout out in what is indiscernible to you as pleasure or pain. He starts fucking his finger in and out of you, pulling out about halfway before pushing back in, and you feel him go a little deeper every time, push you further and further, until his finger is inside you up to the join of his hand, mouth still ravaging your pussy. You lean up a little, glancing down at him, and are surprised to see him still staring at you.

He digs his fingernails in where he’s gripping your ass and suddenly you’re cumming again, almost screaming, writhing on the table with your head flung back and your spine arched. Again he holds you — you try to wriggle out of his grip at the sheer intensity but you can’t, tears forming in your eyes and dripping down your cheeks, sobbing his name over and over and over as he fucks your asshole and starts sucking on your clit. Your ears ring and you lose track of what it is you’re saying, babbling, knuckles white on the edge of the table, not a single thought in your head.

His mouth moves to your entrance and his tongue dives inside you, lapping, drinking you, catching the cum as it leaks out of you and bringing it into his mouth like a dog drinking water. It feels like the longest orgasm of your life, though it’s hard to tell what’s the orgasm and what’s overstimulation — it mixes together into absolute pure feeling, heady, intoxicating pleasure. You are alive.

Eventually the orgasm fades, and it once again becomes too much. "Stop," you rasp, but again he doesn’t, still fucking his finger into you, licking the inside of your pussy like a candy wrapper.

You brace your feet against his shoulders and shove him away. He falls backwards onto his ass as you catch your breath. "Fuck," he mutters, then grabs the table and pulls himself to his feet. Smirks. "If you wanted me to stop you should have just said."

"Fuck you," you spit, but it’s hard to put that much venom into it when you’re flat on your back, every muscle in your body relaxed, entirely and undeniably satisfied.

His eyes rake over you, and he licks his lips, the glisten of you still all over his face. You wonder what he’s thinking about. Why he seems to have had a craving for the taste of you.

Then he sways slightly on the spot. Grabs onto the table. Pales. "Where’s your bathroom?"

"Down the hall. Left."

He walks towards it without another word. The door clicks shut, then you hear muffled retching for far too long of a time. You try not to feel offended — it was almost definitely the alcohol.

Shane stumbles out into the hall after a few minutes as you’re rising slowly from the table, body aching. You pick up your pyjamas and slip them back on as he opens your fridge and pulls out another beer.

"For real?"

He puts his middle finger up as he chugs at the can.

"Do you do this every night?"

He gasps as he finishes it, crushing the can and dropping it on the floor. "When I can afford it."

You shake your head to yourself. "You need help, dude."

His face darkens. He points a finger at you. "Don’t."

"But you—"

"Don't." He’s serious, jaw set, voice hard. "I don’t give a fuck what you say to me. Call me an asshole or a fucking drunk. Whatever. But you start with the intervention shit and this is done. Understand?"

You just stare at him. His eyes are bloodshot where they weren’t before. He can’t be older than early 30s but he looks older. This has clearly been a problem for a while. You nod gently.

"Do you understand?"

"I understand."

He lowers his finger. Slowly, he relaxes. "Okay."

There's an awkward moment as silent air sits between you. You keep staring at him, watch as his eyes glaze over again. There's something about his face that's so fascinating.

You think about the boundary he's set, think back on your experiences together. You start with the intervention shit and this is done. So this is a... thing? That he wants to keep going? It's been hard to quantify it so far. Only two encounters. You hesitate to ask what you are because that feels antithetical. So instead you say, "If you're gonna set a boundary, so am I."

He nods absentmindedly, eyes on the far wall. "Mm."

"I want a safe word."

"Sure." Pause. He looks at you. "So what is it?"

"Oh." You didn't think about it. "Uh. I don't know." What's it supposed to be? Something unsexy? "Fuckin'... Pierre."

He snorts. Actually snorts. "Fuck that guy."

"Fuck that guy."

You smile at each other, a real smile, at a shared joke, a common interest. It almost feels normal for a moment and you get a blip of that same feeling, the one in your chest. Not as strong. But a trace.

He holds the smile for approximately two seconds before dropping it and moving towards your front door. "Bye." He starts putting his shoes back on but struggles, laces still done up. You watch, unsure whether you're allowed to offer help, whether that would count as an intervention of sorts. It's kind of pathetic. How he struggles to undo the double knots on his shoes, pulling uselessly at the laces, face entirely slack except for his concentrated brow. It's so human, cracks his dark veneer for a brief moment.

"Why don't you just sleep here?" you find yourself saying.

He stops and looks at you. "Because I don't want to."

You roll your eyes. "I'm not asking you to fucking spoon with me. You can crash on the couch if you want, is all. Makes no difference to me."

He looks at your couch, and back at you. And at the couch again. And back at you. "Why..." He trails off. You autocomplete the sentence in your mind. Why would you want that? Why would you offer that to me, who has only been abrasive to you? Why would I do that when instead I could fumble my way home in the dark, certain of my autonomy?

You just shrug as a response to all of these hypothetical questions. "Look, crash on the couch or don't. Whatever. But the offer's there. I'm back to square one with no one to fuck me if you die."

He looks between you and the couch a few more times. You watch him think, the processes slowed by alcohol, the light barely on behind his eyes. Eventually, he drops the shoe he's holding and mumbles, "Okay." He unzips the threadbare blue hoodie that he always wears, that you've never seen him without. Your pulse picks up slightly as he slides it off and drops it on the floor. You don’t let your eyes linger, self-conscious about him noticing. He just takes a few steps forwards and crawls onto the couch, laying down with his feet hanging off the edge.

You stand there. His back rises and falls steadily. Either he passed out immediately or he’s close to it, so you let yourself look at him, properly, thoroughly.

He's wearing what looks to be a jersey for the local gridball team, old and faded, the name of the player long since peeled off. His arms aren't anything to write home about, not compared to Alex, but there’s a masculine definition there, the presence of muscle, with a thorough covering of dark hair and a faint tan line at his wrist. His legs are the same, slightly more tanned. His socks both have holes in them and don't match. The word that comes to mind is 'rumpled'.

You're staring. It’s so captivating for some reason. Maybe because he's so resistant, always pushes you away. To be able to let your eyes linger on the details feels like being inside a shell that didn’t allow you in. Like being privy to a secret, like spying.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears and you get an idea. A weird idea. An intrusive thought, almost. Your conscious mind says no. Tells you not to. That it would be a violation. But... it's not like he hasn't crossed some lines.

Slowly, you pull your phone out of your pocket. You walk closer to him. He doesn't stir, seems out cold. You open your camera app. It's unclear why the idea is so appealing but you're smiling as you do it, would be getting turned on if you hadn't just cum so hard. You take photos. The bare skin of his legs, arms. His hands. Up close of his hair, the dark rich brown and the flecks of grey. The previously unseen shirt. The slice of visible skin between where it ends and his shorts begin.

He's facing away from you where he lays. You round the sofa and look down at him. A small portion of his face is visible, buried under hair, and your gaze lingers on his features, the dark lashes against pale skin, the scruff that litters his cheeks and circles parted lips. You take a picture, realise after you've done it that you were holding your breath.

It feels weird suddenly, out of character for you. You pour a glass of water and leave it beside the sofa before turning off the lights and getting back into bed.

You're exhausted. Sleep should come easily. But of course it doesn't. He's in your house.

You open your phone and look at the photos. Scrolling through slowly, zooming in on the minute details as far as the app will let you. It's a little obsessive. The idea of worrying about your behaviour occurs to you but you're enjoying it too much for that right now. You look at the pictures until you fall asleep.

Chapter Text

He's gone the next morning when you wake up, the glass of water unmoved, untouched. The strange pile of objects and the empty space on your kitchen table are the only evidence that any of it happened at all.

You get on with your day, shower, dress, start work. It feels nice to put your concentration on something, be productive. Your muscles strain as you work the cheese press and you think about Alex but you push on, too busy for thoughts like that.

The fall sun beats down on you and you stop to take a break, washing your face and having a quick lunch. You're back outside heading over to the cheese press when a voice calls, "Hey!"

It's unfamiliar, bright, cheerful. You look towards it. It's the blonde guy. Sam? The one who's friends with Sebastian. Who fucked him. He's beaming at you, a huge smile, clutching a stack of something in his hand and walking across the farm towards you.

"Hi," you say. His steps are long, all limbs, and he's soon right in front of you, looking down at you with that smile like sunshine. You have to squint a little.

"Hey! Long time no see! How're you doing? The farm looks great!" He seems distracted, glancing around the farm. He's cute. Very boyish, though he's definitely in his twenties. His blonde hair looks like it's been gelled or moussed or something, stylishly tousled and teased. "Wow! Cows!"

He looks back at you and his smile is infectious. You're smiling too as you say, "Yep. Cows." You nod at what he's holding. "What's all that?"

"Oh! I forgot." He hands you a flyer from the stack. "My band is playing a show tonight!"

You glance at it. "The Pelicans? Are you serious?"

"I know, right? So cool!" He continues grinning. "So you'll be there?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to be there?"

"Of course! I just invited you!"

It's hard to read past that simple smile, whether there’s intention there. You fold the flyer and pocket it, then pull out your phone to add it to your calendar. "Sure." A zoomed in photo of Shane's hair appears on your screen when you unlock your phone. You quickly swipe away.

Sam doesn't seem to have noticed, smiling away. "Oh, great! God, I'm nervous. It's our first gig."

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Oh, it'll be incredible! We're an amazing band. I'm just nervous."

The positivity kind of takes you by surprise. Again, you find yourself smiling. He's got these grey eyes, and you wouldn’t think that grey could be bright but here they are. "Well. Good luck."

"Thanks!" He starts walking away. "We're all catching the bus at 7. You'd better be there!" He points at you with a kind of playfulness. You point back. He laughs, shakes his head, and disappears from view.

You put your hands on your hips, looking around the empty farm. There's something about that guy. Sam. You feel lighter. Like gravity has eased up for a moment.

You pull out the flyer from your pocket. The Pit, Zuzu City. 8pm.

The bus stop is busy when you arrive just before 7. Almost everyone from the town is there. Emily, Penny, Linus. All of your exes. Shane.

Sam's standing with Sebastian and Abigail. He can't seem to stop running his hand through his hair, and Abby keeps slapping it down. "You'll mess it up," she tells him in a harsh whisper as you get closer.

You keep your distance, figuring they're busy and you're not exactly close to any of them, but Sam spots you and calls your name. "Hey! You came!"

"Yeah," you say as you sidle over. "Well, I promised."

"You know Abby and Seb, right?"

"Sure. Hey Abby. Hey Seb."

Sebastian nods at you, doesn't meet your eye. "I'm gonna start loading everything onto the bus," he says, and disappears. Abby rolls her eyes at Sam, at Sebastian's expense, and goes to help.

Sam sticks out his bottom lip. "I think he's still bummed you dumped him," he says quietly to you, and you nod gently, processing the disinformation. Huh. So Sebastian and him aren't... huh. So Sam is still... huh.

You lean against the bus, looking up at him. "He's a good guy. I just like my men a little more... enthusiastic. You know?"

"Oh, Seb can be enthusiastic! You should see him play Solarian."

You have, but you don't mention that. You just laugh and brush your hair over your shoulder, moving ever so slightly closer. "Do you have plans tonight? After the show?"

"Hmm." He looks up as he thinks. "I feel like I do but I can't remember what they are."

"Well, do you wanna—"

"Abby!" he yells.

"What?"

"What are we doing after the show?"

"Having some drinks!"

"Oh yeah! Thanks!" He beams at you. "We were gonna stay at The Pit for a few. You can join us if you want!"

You nod. Sam seems to be a little more oblivious than the others. Even Harvey. It's hard to interpret him, whether there's anything there. But you're intrigued. You wanna see how it plays out. "Sure. Maybe I'll see you then."

"Great! I'm gonna help them load. See you soon!" He claps you lightly on the shoulder and disappears off to help the others. You stare after him as a few people start filing onto the bus.

Shane joins the queue, hands in his pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Hey," you say. He scowls and gets on the bus. You get on after him, follow him to his seat and sit down next to him.

"Fuck off," he says.

"This is the only empty seat."

"There are literally dozens."

"How come you're going to this? Doesn't seem like your kind of thing."

He starts to pull some ancient earbuds from his pocket, untangling the long string. "I like Sam."

That's the last thing you expected him to say. "That guy? You seem like you'd punch that guy."

He plugs the earbuds into his equally ancient phone and scrolls through a playlist. "I like him. He invited me."

"Fair enough. Wanna play I-Spy?"

He puts an earbud in. "Goodbye."

"I Spy with my little eye..."

Music starts blaring from the earbuds. He puts the other one in and closes his eyes, pulls up his hood, rests his head against the window. You don't recognise the song. Something bassy.

Everyone seems to be on the bus now, and Pam shuts the door and peels out onto the road. It's a long drive, about an hour. You realise you didn't bring any entertainment. Just some beer shoved into your backpack to avoid paying the extortionate Zuzu City prices.

You open your notes app and type: i have beer in my bag i'll give u one if u share ur music w me

You tap Shane on the shoulder and show it to him. He glares at you, then at your phone, then at you again. Then he rolls his eyes and takes out one earbud and holds it out. You take a beer from your bag, crack it silently, and trade. He sips, still leaning against the window, and you crack your own beer as you put in the earbud.

The music is... funky. Killer bass line, no lyrics, just layers of instruments. You settle into your seat and close your eyes, let the music fill your thoughts. The next track comes on. It's more of an electronic vibe but with a similar prominent bass line. You start to tap your foot without realising it. It's good music. You're not quite sure what you were expecting but it wasn't this. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to like music at all. All you've learned about him so far are things he hates.

You let the music entertain you for the rest of the journey, not bothering him anymore except to take his empty can once he's finished. You look out the window at the fields, slowly drying up and becoming desert, before buildings start to appear, sparse at first and then denser. Zuzu is a nice city. But it makes you think of the places and people you left behind and you can't help but tense up. You take a deep breath in through your nose and close your eyes again and the music helps to distract you.

When the bus arrives outside The Pit, you hand Shane back his earbud and he takes it without a word. Pam announces that she'll be back to pick everyone up at 10, and you all file out. There's a line outside the door, a bouncer checking IDs.

You join the back of the queue behind Shane. Abby, Sebastian and Sam go straight to the bouncer, then Abby huffs and Sebastian looks annoyed, and they join the line behind you. "He said we have to queue like everyone else," she grumbles. "We're on in like 20 minutes!"

"Bullshit," Sebastian agrees.

Sam doesn't say anything. Abby frowns at him. "You okay Sam? This is usually the part where you'd be like, aw guys it's okay! Everything is great!" She mimics the energy of his voice perfectly and Sebastian smirks.

"I'm nervous," Sam says. He shifts on his feet, restless, like he's uncomfortable with the feeling. "I've never played to a crowd before."

"Dude, it'll be fine," Abby says as she stretches out her arms. "Remember what you were saying earlier? That we're amazing? That we're gonna be a rockin' success?"

Sam just shrugs, eyes wide. "Yeah. I dunno. Yeah."

You reach into your backpack and pull out a beer. "Here." You hand it to him. "That'll help."

He looks down at it. "Why do you have beer in your backpack?"

"That's not important. Drink it."

He hesitates, then cracks it. You hear a sigh and then Shane turns around, takes the beer from Sam, sips it. "You don't need that," he says to Sam, wiping his mouth. "You're gonna do fine."

"But what if I—"

"Sam."

Sam looks at him with wide eyes. "Yeah?"

Shane's serious, practically stern. "You've been practising for months. You're gonna do fine." He drinks some more, then claps a hand on Sam's shoulder and gestures with the can. "You got this."

Sam visibly relaxes, shrinking a few inches. "God. Okay. Yeah. You're right. Thanks." He smiles at Shane. "Turned into a real Morris there for a sec." Shane smiles back. You feel like you're watching a scene from a parallel universe. Then Shane burps and turns back around and you're back to reality.

"You guys know each other?" you ask Sam.

"Shane? Oh yeah. We work together."

"Where do you work?"

"Jojamart."

"Oh. Cool."

You look away, tuning out the conversation as you process. Shane works at fucking Jojamart? You hadn't thought about what it is he could do for work. Assumed he was unemployed, or maybe some kind of manual labour. But Jojamart? At least it explains why he's always leaving the place with no shopping bags. At least it explains why he hates the world so much.

Sam and Abby chat about the setlist, and you pull out your ID as you near the front of the queue. Shane does the same, probably well-versed at entering bars by now, though anyone who would think he's under 21 needs their eyes checked. You peer over his shoulder at it, hoping to catch a birth year. 19... is that an 8 or a 9? You do the math in your head. He's 33.

Then you look at the little picture. It almost makes you gasp. He looks so young. Smiling away, clean shaven, bright eyed. The license looks beat up, so it's an old photo — you squint at the date of issue and it's eight years ago. So he would have been 25. What happened between then and now? Just time?

The same weird urge as last night overtakes you and you find yourself pulling out your phone almost instinctively. You open the camera and take a picture of his ID over his shoulder.

He glances sideways at you and you pull back, try to hide it. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

He frowns, but then he's at the front of the queue. The bouncer doesn't even ID him, just waves him in. Your ID is checked, and the guy might be trying to flirt with you, but you're too tense to reciprocate, so you get waved in too.

The Pit is dark and sticky. A small stage, a bar along one wall. Punk music vibrates through the floor as a band finishes off their set, their hair dyed green and styled into mohawks. You're just entering the dance floor, at the bottom of the long staircase, when Shane's cornering you, forcing you back against the wall. Bodies are packed relatively tight so it doesn't stand out, doesn't make a scene. Your eyes are still adjusting to the dark, but you can make out his features as his eyes drill into yours.

"Delete that," he says.

"Delete what?"

"Don't. Just delete it."

"I'll do it later."

"Do it now."

"Why should I?" It comes out defensive. You want to keep the picture. You like it.

You feel him sigh more than you hear it, breath on your face, smelling of beer. His head droops slightly, dark hair falling forwards. "Just. Please delete it." His voice is softer. Sincere.

"Okay. Fine."

You pull out your phone and go to the photo where it's still open. You show him as you hit delete, and then confirm.

The picture slides away. It's then replaced by the last photo you took. The photo of his sleeping face.

You both stare at it for a split second before you whip your phone away, locking it, shoving it into your pocket. Blood rushes to your face and you look at him. He looks genuinely surprised, brow furrowed, eyes wide as they turn to you. He takes in your blush, what must be an expression of pure horror.

You expect him to tell you to delete that photo, too. But he doesn't. Just smirks, and turns towards the bar, and walks away.

You watch the space in the crowd he disappeared into, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. Fuck. That might be the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. You pull out your last two beers from your backpack and chug them both in quick succession before ordering a double whiskey from the bar.

Sam's band is about finished setting up as you lean against the bar with your drink. He's front and centre, with a microphone and guitar, while Abby's on one side with drums and Sebastian's on the other with a couple of keyboards. Sam still looks a little freaked but he's got a determination to his eyes that you recognise. You knock back the rest of your drink, feeling the warmth start to burn through you, feeling the embarrassment start to fade as you wade into the middle of the crowd to get a better look.

Sam clears his throat and approaches the mic. "Hi. I'm Sam. Uh, we're The Pelicans. This one's called Private Property."

Abby knocks her sticks together and the music starts all at once, hitting you viscerally, so loud at such a short distance. You realise that Sam's guitar is actually a bass. It's a funky bass line. It sounds like the kind of music Shane was listening to earlier.

And it's good. You like it. The crowd seems to like it too, starting to dance, cheering. Sam's grinning, looking around the room, feeding off the energy. And then he approaches the mic and starts to sing.

Jesus. You didn't know he could sing. And boy, can he sing. His voice is deep and rich but he's got range, slipping seamlessly into falsetto. A little raspy, a little country, with a creamy vibrato that you can feel through the speakers. It immediately gives you a crush on him. It probably gives half the people in the room a crush on him.

You start to dance a little, just swaying from side to side, your hips and shoulders and head in time with the music. It's electric — the music, the crowd, the bass line, the warmth in your blood. Everyone you came with seems to have disappeared but you can't take your eyes off Sam.

Hands circle your waist. You start to turn, ready to shove some guy the fuck away from you, but they hold you firm, and you recognise the feeling of the body against yours. Shane presses himself up against you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder. "Don't stop dancing." His voice so close to your ear sends a shiver through you. You start moving again. He loosens his grip, hands moving with you as you sway your hips. Is he actually dancing with you? Probably not. You grind back against him, rubbing your ass on his crotch. He's a little hard, and you can feel his cock twitch against you as it starts to grow.

God, that's hot. He's hard for you right here on the dance floor. You start thinking about where and when you're next gonna do it. The bathroom? Outside in the alley? In a dark corner? He's gonna take you and you're gonna let him, he's gonna make you feel alive and you're gonna love it.

The song changes, blending seamlessly from one to the next. In the instrumentals, Sam announces that it's called Unknown (Across the Sea). It's a little angry, a little pop-punk, Sam's smooth voice becoming harsher. People around you dance and you push back against Shane, reaching back to grab at his ass. You get a good handful before he pushes you off. Worth it.

He presses his cheek to your head, lips at your ear again. "That was a very bad thing you did."

You struggle to remember what he's referring to. Then it clicks. You keep dancing, apprehensive.

"Very bad," he breathes, and you feel his chest rumble against your back, hands tightening as they run from your waist to your hips and back again. He's rock hard against your ass, bodies rubbing together. "I've been trying to think of how to punish you. Make you suck my cock in the bathroom. Fuck you in the alleyway where anyone could see."

One of his hands creeps under your shirt and he pulls down the cup of your bra to squeeze your breast. You hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder, and he presses his lips right to your ear. "But you'd probably like that, wouldn't you. You little slut."

You nod desperately, trying to turn around to face him again, but his grip prevents you. He gropes your breast with one hand while the other begins to explore your body, running along your stomach, down your waist, your hips, and between your bodies to grab at your ass. You're wearing a skirt — his hand slides between your thighs from behind and pulls aside your underwear.

"Let's go somewhere," you say, conscious of the crowd, however dark the room may be.

"No," he says, and slides his fingers inside you. You choke off a moan and try to keep your face straight as he pushes deep into you, curling his fingers back towards himself while pinching at your nipple. The pleasure glides through you, body warm and aching, grateful for his touch. Your eyes close and you grind back against him.

"So fucking desperate," he murmurs as he touches you. "So easy to get you wet for me." He moves his fingers to your clit and starts rubbing it in gentle circles, sliding his thumb inside your entrance. You melt, leaning back against him, and he's solid behind you, taking the weight.

The song changes again. This one's called Through the Window. It's slower, more sensual and stripped back. Sam's voice is liquid as he sings about a romantic encounter in the night. The crowd mellows, sways, listens. Things are quiet.

Shane starts picking up his pace, moving his wet fingers faster against your clit. "Stop," you whisper. "You're gonna make me moan."

He ignores you, moves his hand to your other breast and continues touching you faster, making you sweat. You grit your teeth in an effort to stay silent. The thing with the photo earlier was embarrassing but moaning during a quiet romantic song would make you move away from this part of the country forever. And yet the thought of saying the safe word never crosses your mind.

Shane catches your ear in his teeth, biting a little harder than gentle. "Such a dirty girl," he says, voice low, tight with desire. "You don't care where you get it, do you. I'm gonna make you cum in front of all these people and you're gonna let me."

Your jaw is still set, staring up at the band, trying to move your body naturally to the music while you get closer and closer, while his breath tingles on your ear and his fingertips play with your nipple. You're soaking now, clit throbbing under his touch, swollen, hard, desperate, but you resist the edge, begging internally for the song to change, for something louder, something to muffle the sounds you're destined to make.

The song reaches the bridge, starts to build, beat picking up. Sam sings his heart out about his conflicted feelings, the fear of leading someone on, but the ecstasy of the one night, the memory that will last forever. It gets louder and louder and people start to move again, and the soft whines you can't hold in get lost in the crowd.

The chorus comes back with a crash of the drums and Shane's arm tightens around you as people dance. It feels protective, possessive, like you're in your own private world and he won't abide interruption. You lean your head back onto his shoulder and the stubble of his cheek brushes your ear, and then you're moaning, loud and desperate and unaware of yourself as the orgasm floods your senses, body pulsing, knees weak, eyes squeezed shut. The only important things to you in the world in that moment are the pleasure, and the sound of his breathing in your ear, shallow and fast.

"That's my good girl," he murmurs, nose brushing your face, almost nuzzling you. "That's my dirty girl."

You open your eyes briefly, still gasping, and take in the crowd around you, completely unaware and unaffected. They're dancing and cheering for the band, and you look up at Sam, in the middle of a bass solo. You're cumming in public, surrounded by people. Shane's right, it's dirty, but he's right, you're desperate. You like it. Shame and pleasure are intertwined inside you.

You lean back against him heavily as you start to come down, static dancing in your vision. His hand slides away from your breast, but his fingers dance lightly in the soaking mess between your legs. The firm pressure on your ass tells you that he's still hard.

"Why did you take those pictures of me?" he asks quietly, barely audible as the song changes again. You don't catch the name.

You swallow, search your brain for the answer you know doesn't exist, because you've asked yourself the same thing. "I don't know." He doesn't respond, so you add, "I just wanted to."

He doesn't move for a few moments. Then he pulls his hand away from you, and you feel him walking away.

You spin around and catch his arm. It feels good to see his face after so long, his light eyes and dark brows and uneven stubble, lit up only briefly as the stage lights flit across the crowd. He frowns at you, tries to yank his arm away.

"What about you?" you ask, leaning closer.

"What?"

You slide a hand onto his crotch where he's still hard. "What about you?"

He just stares at you. Then he tries to yank his arm back again. You hold tight, leaning closer so you can speak right into his ear. "Please, Shane. I want you to cum in my mouth."

He stiffens, both his body and his dick. There's a moment of hesitation before he says, "Beg for it."

"Please. Please, I'm desperate." You didn't realise you were but you are, and the words spill out of you, body filled with so much heat you might set alight. "I wanna know what you taste like. I want your dick in my mouth. I wanna suck you dry, I want you to fuck my face, I wanna make you cum and swallow it like a good girl for you." His dick twitches under your hand and you rub him through his shorts. "Please. I want it. Let me be your good girl. Your little whore. Let me make you cum."

You push your luck and start kissing his neck. It's the first kiss of any kind that's passed between you. His skin is warm and soft, stubble harsh and scratchy as you slide sloppy kisses up and down his neck. It's unclear whether he likes it, body tense and rigid, but he's still hard, and you feel him swallow under your lips.

"Fine," he says. Then he pulls back from you and walks away into the crowd.

You take it as your cue to follow, desperate to keep your eyes on him as you push through the bodies, the lights too low, the music too loud. Someone splashes a drink on you and you swear at them but don't linger. You think you see Shane pushing open the door to the outside, and follow him out into the night.

There's a small queue still outside the door when you emerge, and night has fallen, the stars twinkling behind wispy clouds. The bouncer offers you a stamp to get back in and you present the back of your hand, watching Shane turn the corner into an alleyway. A shiver travels up your back at the cold evening air, the prospect of a back alley late at night. But you follow.

He's leaning against the wall. It's dark. Not overly private. But the average person would walk past without a glance, the streetlights only reaching so far. You walk over to him, slow, apprehensive steps. It's what you want, what you're desperate for, but now there are goosebumps on your skin and the doubts are creeping in.

You stand opposite. He's not moving, just looking at you. You reach out for his belt but he slaps your hand away. So you just look back at him and wait.

"Why did you take those pictures of me?" he asks you again.

You sigh. "I told you. I don't know. I just wanted to."

"That's not good enough."

It's fair. It was a pretty weird thing to do. You've had more than a few drinks and you're frustrated so you end up just thinking out loud. "I don't know. I guess it's... I don't know. It doesn't feel like a sex thing. I think you're just so intimidating and it was the first chance I had to really look at you. And I liked it. I like looking at you."

His eyes are still on yours, narrowed slightly. "Why?"

You shrug, self-conscious. "I find it. Fascinating." You have to look away. "I stared at those pictures for like half an hour. I don't know. It was weird." You shrug a second time, words failing.

A few moments pass. His voice is sincere when he speaks again. "You can look at me."

Your eyes are glued to the floor but you slowly let them travel up the wall, up his body, to meet his. He's watching you with a neutral curiosity. The intimidation wanes, and you do look at him. Slightly chapped lips. The soft button of his nose. The dark blue-purple shadows under his eyes. You still can't figure out if they're grey or green.

The air between you starts to thicken. His eyes start to travel over your face in return and you wonder what he's thinking about, what he's noticing about you. Whether he likes to look at you, too.

You're struck by the desire to kiss him. It's not a desire you've had before. You don't act on it. Just observe it. Note it down to worry about later.

"Can I..." You trail off.

His gaze snaps up to yours. "Say it."

You lick your lips as you look at him. "Can I suck your dick?"

He nods.

You look down at the pavement at your feet. It's been raining so it's a little damp, kind of dirty, and your knees are bare. But it's not enough to stop you.

Standing for now, you reach out for his belt, start undoing it, and he doesn't slap you away, lets you unbuckle it and zip down his fly. His underwear is dark grey, boxer briefs, tented by his erection. You pull them down and take out his dick. It's uncut, average length, maybe a little more. You wrap your hand around it and it feels thick, a nice full grip-worth, blazing with heat. He's leaking pre-cum, and you stroke him a few times before looking up into his eyes. That same neutral curiosity is on his face, but you can see the lust, see it growing every second. You coat your fingers in his pre-cum and bring them to your mouth, sucking on them. It's sweet, and you groan, closing your eyes briefly. His cock twitches in your hand. You look at him once more before dropping down to your knees.

The pavement is sharp and cold but you couldn't care less, face to face with his dick. You lick up the shaft once, before pulling back his foreskin, wrapping your lips around the head, and starting to suck his cock.

"Fuck," Shane mutters under his breath above you, so quietly you almost miss it, like it was never meant to come out at all. His dick feels so good in your mouth, hot, wet, leaking. You can feel the blood pulsing through it, feel his heartbeat. You put your all into it, taking him as far as you can stand, stroking the rest of him with your hand. He runs his fingers into your hair, and it feels like a caress for a moment before he takes a fistful. He doesn't push you, just rests his hand in your hair like a reminder, and his voice is a rasp when he speaks. "Such a good fucking girl."

You moan at the compliment, and his hips twitch towards you. "Yeah. Like that." You moan again and he does too, softly, an intoxicating sound, vulnerable. The grip on your hair squeezes painfully, and he starts pushing you a little, moving your head, rutting his hips gently towards you. He builds it up slowly, carefully, feeling out your limits, going faster, harder, pushing his dick into your mouth, pulling your head towards him, until you stop moving altogether and let him just fuck your face. You moan continuously between urgent breaths, because it's everything you thought it would be — Shane's hand tight in your hair, gorgeous cock in your mouth, making desperate noises above you.

"You like that, huh?" he asks, and you hum an mm-hmm that presumably he can feel. "You like how my cock tastes?" Mm-hmm. "Dirty fucking slut." Mm-hmm. He makes a grunted, throaty sort of sound, pushing even further into your mouth. "Filthy fucking bitch."

God. You hate that word. He's the only person in the entire world you would let call you that word. He's close, you can tell, hips frantic, dick swollen. "You want my cum, don't you?" Mm-hmm. His voice is rough, breathy, and so is his moan as you suck harder, pushing through the ache in your jaw. "You're gonna swallow like a good little whore." Mm-hmm. "You're — god, fuck—"

He cums into your mouth with a low groan. It almost sounds like frustration, like annoyance, but then he takes a deep ragged breath and lets out a soft whine, higher pitched and raw. His cum is hot, hitting the back of your mouth, salty and bitter. You look up at him as he finishes, and his eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks tinged pink, head pushing back against the wall, mouth open and gasping. A bit of hair is stuck to his forehead, plastered with sweat. It's the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen.

You keep your mouth on him and he looks down at you, breathing heavy, eyes a little out of focus. You meet them with your own, pull back. Swallow. Open your mouth wide.

And then he brushes your hair back from your face. A caress. You lean into it, turn your face into the rough skin of his palm. "Good girl," he says, and you smile.

Shane zips himself up and starts to walk away before you're even on your feet. Of course he's not gonna help you up. That would be too generous. By the time you emerge from the alleyway he's nowhere to be seen.

You lean back against the wall next to the club, letting the cool night air dry your sweat, looking up at the night sky. A plane passes by, a blinking light. The moon is still the moon.

On the dance floor. He called you his good girl. And then. He caressed you. And you. You wanted to kiss him. You begged to suck his dick. You nuzzled into his touch.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You push it to the back of your mind, to the outer reaches, and walk back inside the club.

You don't see him for the rest of the night. He must have caught a different bus or a cab.

Sam's band isn't on stage when you arrive back on the dance floor, replaced by a singer-songwriter type. You head to the bar for another whiskey and they're there — Abigail, Sebastian, Sam, they're chatting and laughing and clinking their drinks together at the far end of the bar. You wait for your drink and join them.

"Hey!" Sam's face lights up when he sees you. "We did it!"

His joy is contagious and you grin as you accept his high-five. "You did it! Fuck, you guys were so good. Abby, those drums."

She mimes hitting drums, smug smile on her tipsy face.

"Seb, those synths were out of this world."

He just shrugs, but you notice the tip of a smile.

"And Sam! Jesus! I didn't know you could sing like that!"

Sam beams, throws an arm around your shoulders. "I know! I was great!" You laugh, sliding your arm around his waist. He raises his almost empty beer for another cheers but leaves his arm around you. You don't move it.

"I'm going for a smoke," Sebastian says, pushing away from the bar.

"Roll me one!" Abby shouts, chasing after him.

Sam laughs, shakes his head. "She must be drunk. She only ever smokes when she's drunk." He smiles down at you, exuding happiness. "Thank you so much for coming. It means a lot to me."

"That's okay. Half the town showed up."

"Yeah, but they've known me since I was a baby. You? You've met me like, twice."

You shrug. "Nothin' else to do."

He shakes your shoulders playfully. "Take the thank you!"

"Alright! You're welcome." Again, he makes you smile, takes forefront in your mind. "Let me buy you a drink."

You get a couple beers from the bar and settle onto stools, leaning your elbows on the counter and diving deep into conversation. He tells you about the gig, how he couldn't get his amp working at the last minute but then he did, how he almost lost his nerve at the last minute but then he didn't. "Thank god for Shane and his pep talk."

"That guy is so..." You don't know how to finish that sentence. "Enigmatic."

Sam snorts. "That's one way to put it! Yeah, he's a little closed off. Good guy though."

"You think?"

"He's always nice to me. Well." He thinks about it. "Not nice. And not always. He hated me for months. But I wore him down. Now, I would say, he tolerates me."

"He told me he likes you. Earlier. On the bus."

Sam grins. "Oh, fuck yeah!" He covers his mouth and giggles. "Sorry."

"What?"

"I said the F word."

You frown at him, and you both end up laughing. "How drunk are you?" you ask him.

"Pass."

"You can't pass!"

"No comment."

You look towards the exit. "Sebastian's been gone a while."

Sam sighs, smile sliding from his face. "Yeah." He pauses. "Can you keep a secret?"

"He already told me," you say, assuming the topic from the sheepish way he looks at you. "What happened between you."

"Oh." Pause. "Specifically..."

"That you slept together."

"Ah. Yeah." He pouts. "Things have been kinda weird since then."

"Are you interested in him?"

"Like, to date?" he asks. You nod. He rests his head on his palm, looking out towards the stage. "You know our song Through the Window?"

"The romantic sounding one?"

"Yeah. It's about him. You know. This one night means more to you / But I'd wonder forever if I let you go / Back through the window?"

You ponder the lyrics. "So he likes you more than you like him?"

"Basically." He starts to smile again, creeping back onto his face like it's hard to resist. "Glad the message comes across."

"They're really good songs, Sam. You're really talented."

"Thanks. I can't take all the credit, though. I mean, I did write them, and arrange the music, but Abby and Seb are important too. We wouldn't be a band if it was just me."

He's blushing slightly. You take the opportunity of a quiet moment, lean closer to him. He smells like Old Spice and dry sweat, eyes widening. "You looked so good up there," you say, and lean in to kiss him.

He lets you. His lips are smooth and soft, full, his face clean-shaven, the brush of a five o'clock shadow. He doesn't kiss you back. After a few seconds he leans away. "Uh."

You look at him, wait for him to say something.

"Uh," he says again. Flushes deeper pink. Scratches the back of his head. "Sorry. I'm not... I don't..." He looks at you like he wants you to interrupt him but you just wait for him to finish a sentence. "It's..." He just sighs, shrugs. "Sorry."

"You're not interested?"

He groans. "What does that word even mean? Interested? I'm interested in everyone."

"Okay, how about... do you find me attractive?"

He shifts on the bar stool. "I mean... yeah. You're really pretty."

"But you don't want to make out."

"It's more that... I don't feel anything either way."

You flinch. "Ouch."

"Sorry," he blurts, guilt clouding his features. "Oh god." He puts his face in his hands. "All I ever do is hurt people. I should become a monk."

"Are you asexual?"

His hands slide up his face and into his hair. "I don't think so. I've had sex, and it was fun, you know?" He takes a quick sip of beer, making sure to set it back down on a coaster. "It's more. I dunno. I know how I feel. And if I don't feel it, I can't get past that. Like, girls have been coming up to me since the show trying to give me their numbers and I just... don't want them." He shakes his head. "They don't even know me. They just think I'm hot."

"Maybe you need to feel closer to someone to feel attraction," you say, before ordering another beer, cos you just signed up to be this guy's therapist, apparently. "That's a thing."

"It is?"

"Yeah."

His brow wrinkles, a cute, dopey kind of confusion. "Huh. Okay." It's such an endearing expression, so curious, that your attraction to him takes over again and you switch tactics.

"So I guess the real question is... do you want to get to know me?"

His frown releases and he smiles. "Okay! Sure!"

You exchange numbers, then Abby and Seb come back in and order more drinks. You don't want to crash their celebration, don't want to make Sebastian feel weird, so you say your goodbyes, make your excuses, and head out to catch the bus home.

Leaning your head against the glass, you watch the desert slowly turn back into farmland as the evening's events replay in your head.

Sam. He wants to take it slow, get to know you. Shane. The exact opposite.

It's not the worst situation to be in. Someone to fuck you and someone to hold your hand.

The drive feels three times longer without Shane's music in your ear.

Chapter Text

The next morning there's a letter in your mailbox from the mayor. Something called the Stardew Valley Fair, next Tuesday. You plant a few extra things, using the good fertiliser, for use in your grange display.

The week passes quickly. You don't hear from Shane, don't see him, except catching him walking out of Jojamart and into the saloon. You text Sam off and on, talking about your lives, getting to know each other. He tells you about his little brother, and his band, and his skateboard, and you tell him about the farm, your animals, your grange plans. It's still quite surface level but it's nice to go slow for once, nice to feel like he's interested in your life.

You ask him out on Monday.

do you wanna come round my house tomorrow
like as a date
no pressure just like to talk and eat dinner yk

Sure! That sounds fun!
How's 7?

ok cool
maybe we can cook

I don't know how to cook :(

lol i can teach u

:) :)

You get everything ready for your grange display and then tidy your house, prepping for a guest. The space on your kitchen table is still there. Your mind wanders as you put everything back. It's been a week now. You're starting to crave him again.

You pull out your phone and text Shane.

wuu2

You don't get a reply.

The Fair is bright and busy, booths on every corner, dozens of new faces. There's games and rides and a clown, and a big wooden box set aside for your display. You fill it and it looks pretty pathetic next to the others, but, you're new.

As Lewis does his judging, you wander around. Townspeople have set out displays of their crafts. Clint has blacksmith pieces, handcrafted swords and tools. Robin has her woodworking on display. Those two guys from the mountains have a caged skeleton, for some reason.

You turn the corner and see Marnie's display, some chickens and their eggs, with buckets of grain for visitors to toss their way. You start to walk over but then you stop in your tracks.

Shane is there. Holding hands with someone. A child.

You just stare at him. The little girl feeds grain to the chickens and he squats down, smiles at her, says something while reaching out and petting a chicken on its head. It lets him. It seems to like it. The little girl giggles and Shane grins.

Grins. At a child's laughter. This? From the guy who fucked your face in an alleyway? Who pulled your hair, slapped your ass, called you a whore?

It feels like an intrusion, to see him smile like that. Like it's only for certain people and you're not one of them. You take a step backwards to walk away but bump into someone.

"Oh! Just the person I was looking for." Lewis hands you a ribbon. "Third place! Congratulations!"

"Third?" You wrinkle your nose. "That's second from last."

"Don't feel bad! You had some tough competition. Like Marnie here." He gestures to Marnie's chickens and you glance over instinctually, catch Shane's eye but quickly look away. "She been on top— that is to say, first place, for the last few years. Maybe you'll get her next year, eh?" He elbows you and winks, and walks away.

You roll your eyes at his retreating figure, and look back towards Shane, but he's turned away from you, feeding what looks like fresh corn to the chickens. They peck it out of his hand and he pets them gently. The urge to take a picture rises in you, but you decide to leave him be, instead going to clear out your grange display.

You're home by 2. You shower and wash your hair in prep for your date, then just kind of bum around, doing a few odds and ends on the farm. You try to put Shane out of your mind but you can't quite manage it. Who was that little girl? His daughter? His sister? There's a depth to his life that you've never asked about, never needed to know.

He wouldn't answer you anyway. How is it Sam put it? He's closed off. Seeing him today felt like peering through the keyhole in a locked door.

At around 6:30 you get a text from Shane.

tonight?

You lick your lips. He's never initiated before. But his timing is terrible.

can't got plans

cancel them

no

will you be home

yeah why

might just come by anyway

wtf don't fucking do that
shane

He doesn't reply. Your messages aren't even marked as read. Fuck. Why did you tell him you'd be home? What if he just fucking shows up when Sam is here and makes a scene?

God. Your palms start to sweat. It's 6:45 now and Sam's due at 7. 

pierre
that's the safe word
please don't just show up to my house

Shane doesn't reply, but he does open the messages. You relax slightly, but only slightly. You've never had to use the safe word before. You can't help but feel like there's a chance he could ignore it.

Sam knocks on the door a little after 7, shows you the note he wrote on his hand with the reminder to show up. You make pasta, teaching him how to bring water to a boil. He really is clueless in the kitchen, asking how to peel an onion, how to hold a knife. You show him how, laying your hand over his. It's romantic for a brief moment before you both start crying from the onion.

His lack of domestic skill would be a turn off if he weren't so eager to learn, wasn't such a good listener. As soon as you've demonstrated anything he's taking over the task, insisting that you sit down, he's got this — until the next time he needs a lesson and the process starts over again. By the time the meal is finished he's gushing about how fun everything was, how good of a teacher you are, and your face is sore from smiling.

You sit down at the table to eat and he talks about his day at the Fair, how he racked up so many points with the slingshot. You're mostly listening but now that the cooking's over, you keep worrying about Shane. You locked the door when Sam arrived. If Shane starts knocking, you can always tell Sam you have a stalker or something, that he should just ignore it.

But... there's a small part of you that wants him to show up anyway. To see what would happen. To have to pick one or the other. Sam, wholesome but sexless, or Shane, filthy but emotionless. Two sides of yourself at war. In an ideal world you'd have both, and that's what you've got right now, but it feels short-lived. Like Sam will reject you like Alex did, too respectful, too pure. You'll have to choose eventually.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, grey eyes concerned as they catch yours.

"Yeah. Sorry. Distracted."

"I get that." He smiles. You smile back. "I know I'm talking about boring stuff. I just find it kinda hard to open up."

"Me too." You sigh, push around your pasta on the plate. "It's a lot easier to just... not."

"Yeah."

There's a silence. Then you say, "How about I share something personal, and then you do? And we can see how we feel about it?"

"Okay." He nods once, determined. "Let's do it."

"Alright." You breathe in deep through your nose, and out through your mouth. "I broke off my engagement to move here."

Sam raises his eyebrows, but it's not judgmental. "How come?"

"Lots of reasons. We were just... going through the motions, you know? I just couldn't remember the last time I felt anything."

"Yeah." He nods. "I get that. Sorry."

"It was for the best."

"Still. Must've been hard. Sorry you had to go through that." His bottom lip juts upwards, sympathetic.

"Thanks." You smile at him. "Your turn."

"Okay." Sam looks down at his plate, scoops the dregs of red sauce into a pile in the centre. "My dad's coming back from war soon."

"That's good."

He shrugs. "I dunno. He's been gone for three years. I don't know if I remember what he looks like. And he... sent my mom a letter. I found it in her room. He said he's gonna be different, that he's seen some stuff." He frowns, and it changes his face, makes him look older. "I'm so used to life without him around. I kind of feel like I want him to stay gone." He looks up at you with those vulnerable eyes. "Is that bad?"

"No," you say softly. You reach out for his hand and he lets you take it. "I don't think that's bad. I think that's human. We all get feelings and thoughts we can't control but it doesn't mean you're a bad person. If it did, you wouldn't be so worried about it."

His frown softens. He squeezes your hand. "Thanks. That's... It's nice to talk to someone about it. I feel like no one listens to me. They just expect me to be happy all the time and when I'm not, they get uncomfortable."

"Hey, I'm comfortable with some sadness. Bring it on."

He smiles at you, closed-mouthed and soft. Fond.

"Don't smile cos you feel like you have to," you say.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm just smiling."

You smile back.

He helps you clear the dishes and then you offer to walk him home, figuring you don't wanna push it, wanna quit while you're ahead. He accepts, and you're out in the windy fall air, the sky a peaceful orange, sun just dipping below the horizon. He offers his hand and you take it, walking south through the farm and past the forest. It's simple in such a charming way, holding hands at sunset with a boy you think is cute. You keep sneaking glances at him, his blonde mess of hair, his grey eyes and wide smile.

When you get to his house, you stop at the bottom of the steps. He stands in front of you, chewing his lip. "I think I want to kiss you," he says. "But... I don't want to end up hurting you."

"Hurt me," you say, stepping closer. "I can take it."

You go on your tiptoes and press your lips to his, gently. He kisses you back, careful, testing, then he brings his hands to your face and kisses you a little harder. You wrap your arms around his waist, pulling your bodies together. It's chaste, no tongue, no bumping of hips or grabbing of asses. You savour his lips on yours, how tenderly he holds your face, how warm his body is against the chill. You can feel him smiling as he kisses you.

He pulls back after a little while and presses a kiss to your forehead, and then just looks at you, smiling wide. You smile back. "Do you feel something yet?" you ask him, teasing.

He laughs. "I think so. Yeah."

You say goodnight and wait on the step until he shuts the door behind him, then walk home in a daze. The memory of his lips lingers on yours.

How many years? How many years has it been since you felt so light? Since life felt so simple? A decade, at least.

You hum to yourself as you jog up the steps to your house and unlock the door. You swing it shut and pull a bottle of wine from your fridge, pouring a glass.

Suddenly your front door opens and you jump, spilling some wine.

"You should lock this," Shane says, closing it behind him.

"Fuck you. You scared the shit out of me."

He walks over, looks at the wine. "You got beer?"

"No."

"Whiskey?"

"No."

"Ugh." He takes your glass of wine and wanders off. You roll your eyes and grab another glass, and look at him. You can't help but see him differently after today. After seeing that smile, that gentle touch as he pet the chickens and held a child's hand.

"You wanna sit on the deck?" you ask. "Sunset's real nice." It's something you never would have asked before. But, he likes chickens. Maybe he likes sunsets too.

He just shrugs and opens the front door. You grab the wine and meet him out there, both sitting on the edge of the deck, feet dangling in the grass. You drink in silence for a long while, filling both of your glasses back up, and emptying them again.

Your eyes drift over to the side of his face. He turns and catches you looking, but you don't look away. He holds your eye for a while, then turns back to the sky. "You can ask me one question."

"Huh?"

"Just one."

You take a long sip of wine. He must know that your curiosity is killing you.

Okay, one question. What do you wanna know? Oh, thousands of things. Why did he look so happy in his ID photo? Why does he look so sad now? Who was that little girl? Where does he live? Why does he work at Jojamart? Why does he drink so much every day of his life? Why did he caress you? Why did he call you his girl? More than anything, you want to ask how he feels about you, whether it's just fucked up sex, or he's taking what he wants, or he's trying to give you what he thinks you want, or he cares about you. But you don't ask that. Because that would be implying too much.

Eventually you ask, "Do you have a family?" Because you're more than a little worried that that was his daughter and he has a secret wife or girlfriend or something.

His jaw tightens at the question. "That's broad."

"That's the question."

He swishes the wine around in his glass, then finishes it and pours another glass, finishing the bottle. "Not really," he says, eyes on the horizon. "Marnie is my aunt. Jas is my goddaughter." That must be the little girl. You don't say anything in case he keeps talking. You want him to keep talking. "I had..." he starts, but shakes his head, sits up a little. "There's your answer."

No wife, no girlfriend. But no parents, no siblings. And as far as you can tell, no friends, either.

"You can ask me a question too. If you want."

He glances at you and quirks an eyebrow. "Mm. Maybe I'll keep that in the bank."

He tips back the last of his wine, stands, moves in front of you and pushes your knees apart. The deck is the perfect height to where your hips bump together.

You lean back, putting your hands on the deck, looking up at him, biting your lip at what he might do next.

"I saw you with Sam." His voice is casual, face neutral, like he couldn't care less.

"When?"

"Kissing."

"Stalker."

He just shrugs. It's meant to be a kind of joke but you remember how the second you arrived home, there he was.

"This isn't... It's not like we're exclusive."

He nods, looking down at your body, tips of his fingers trailing up the outside of your thigh. Arousal starts to tingle through you. "He doesn't seem like your type," he muses.

"He's not. I'm trying something new."

Shane smirks, fingers trailing down your thigh and back up again. "How's that working out?"

"Good. It's nice. He's nice."

"Sounds fun." It's the same thing he said about Elliott, and you feel yourself get defensive again, but you push it away.

"Are you jealous?"

He huffs a small laugh through his nose. "That's the wrong word for it. I guess I'm... disappointed."

The word makes your chest squeeze. "In me?"

He nods. His hand reaches the top of your thigh again but he pushes it up further, sliding up your skirt, hooking his fingers under the band of your underwear. He doesn't move them, just brushes the skin underneath lightly, making you shiver.

"Why are you disappointed?" you ask, voice coming out breathy as your heartbeat starts to pound.

"That you'd try to change. That you still won't just admit what you are. What we both know you are."

He teases you, pulling up the band of your underwear, making the fabric brush against your pussy slightly, the barest hint of stimulation. God, he was right. It is easy for him to get you wet.

You don't bother asking what it is that you are. You already know.

"Touch me," you whisper.

He looks you in the eye as he pulls back his hand and undoes his belt. You hear the zipper, the rustle of fabric. He lifts your skirt and rubs his dick against you through your underwear and you moan. His smirk deepens. "Beg for it."

"Please." He's running the head of his dick up and down you and all you want in the world is for it to slide inside. "I want it so bad. I'm so wet for you, Shane, I'm ready for it. I want your cock inside me."

"More," he says, pushing himself a little harder against you.

You swallow, sweat starting to form under your hair, on your chest. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to take me. No one gives it to me like you do, no one gets me off like you do. You're so fucking sexy, I can't stop thinking about you. Please."

He pulls aside your underwear and rubs himself against your entrance, only slightly. "More."

You let the dirtiest thoughts out of your mouth, chest heaving, desperate for him. "I get myself off thinking about you, the things you do to me, I think about it late at night and I touch myself and I say your name. Please, Shane, I wanna feel your cum inside me again. I want it leaking out of me. I don't care if it's dirty or it's wrong. I want it. I want it so fucking badly. Please."

His smile turns dark, his eyes narrow. He rubs himself against your clit. "What are you?"

Your body aches with arousal, his dick slippery against you, nipples hard and throbbing under your clothes. "Your little whore," you breathe.

He nods. "What else?"

"Your dirty slut."

He pushes his cock inside you only slightly, only the tip, just enough to open you. "And?"

His eyes bore into yours. It feels like a confession when you whisper, "Your good girl."

His head tilts down slightly. It feels like approval. Then he slams his cock into you up to the root and you cry out, clutch the back of his hoodie, mouth hanging open. His hand goes to your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck gently. "That's fucking right," he mutters, and starts pounding into you hard, fast, rough, one hand on your neck and the other hooked under your knee, pulling up your leg, changing the angle to get even deeper inside you. You whine, whimper, desperate sounds, sounds you can't control, coming from deep within you as your body is racked with sensation. His cock feels so fucking good, so thick and hard inside you, slamming into the same spot deep inside that sends pleasure from head to toe.

He pushes you until you're flat on your back on the deck, hooking your leg into his elbow, angling your thigh towards your body until it burns. He takes his hand off your throat to pull down your top, and you help, immediately pulling your bra down too until your breasts are exposed to the night air, nipples hard, bouncing as he fucks you. His eyes rake over you, dark with lust. "So fucking beautiful," he breathes, and your mouth goes dry.

You grip onto the edge of the deck as Shane pulls your knees onto his shoulders, gripping hard at your waist, snapping his hips over and over and over, drawing moan after moan from you. He's gasping, swearing, sweating, reaching up to push his hair out of his face in a gesture that you find hopelessly attractive.

"Touch yourself for me," he says.

You frown for a brief moment, remembering how he moved your hand away from your clit in the saloon bathroom. But you don't need to be told twice. You take one hand off the deck and touch yourself, eyes squeezing shut, moans growing louder, orgasm already within arm's reach. "Fuck, Shane."

"Yeah. Say it again." His voice is tight, like he's struggling to maintain control.

"Shane." Your legs start to shake.

"That's it. Cum for me like a good girl. Say my name and cum on my cock."

Your back arches, fingers working fast on your soaking clit, and you moan his name as you orgasm, so loud the whole town must be able to hear. "Fuck," he moans as you tighten around him. "Yeah, that's it. Cum hard for me, you little slut."

He fucks you hard and deep as you spasm around him, hands forming new bruises on your waist, cock twitching inside you as he nears completion. "You want my cum?"

"Oh god, Shane, fill me up, fill me up so good." You reach up and push his hair away from his face and look right into his eyes as his grip on you becomes almost unbearable. He finishes with a shout, face screwing up with the intensity, mouth open and panting, sweat dripping down from his scalp. He rocks back and forth inside you, grip loosening, breathing hard and fast, and you collapse backwards, limp on the deck. Spent.

He catches his breath for a moment before sliding out. Cum starts to leak out of you and he looks down at it, watches it. Then he pulls out his phone and takes a picture.

"Hey," you protest.

"Now we're even," he says. Smiles. And walks away.

You lay there for who knows how long, staring up at the night sky. Chest uncovered, knees up, cum dripping down you. Satisfied in a way that runs bone deep. If earlier you felt lighter, now you feel heavy. Grounded. Relaxed. Like you could collapse onto your bed and sleep for a thousand years.

You straighten your clothes and slowly get to your feet. You turn off the lights, brush your teeth. When you collapse onto the bed, you don’t sleep for a thousand years, but you give it your best try.

Chapter Text

It’s raining the next morning when you wake, the cold light of day. You stretch out. God, you haven’t slept that well in ages. You didn’t even dream.

When you stand up, the previous night hits you. His cum is dried on your leg. You wince, not in disgust, because secretly, you think it’s a little hot. But in shame.

You shower, rinsing it off, getting cleaned up, and under the hot water, you think.

What are you doing with Sam? Trying to change? Getting your emotional needs filled? Pretending to be someone you’re not?

You do like him. You want to see him again. But you liked Alex. And Harvey. And Sebastian. And Elliott. You even kind of like Shane.

Honesty seems to be a big thing with Sam. There's no way you can be honest with him about… this. He’s innocent, cheerful. Seemingly kinda inexperienced. He’d run a mile. But you can’t lie to him either, lead him on until the point where it inevitably has to end.

What was it Shane said? You still won't just admit what you are. What we both know you are.

What's the point in trying anything else? Pretending? What's the point in any of it when you know what you are?

You put it all off for now, turning off the water. There's chores to be done.

Sam texts you around 1 asking you out for the following day. You accept. If you're going to make any kind of decision, may as well do some recon first. Hey, got any kinks? Perfect second date conversation.

Do you wanna go to the saloon?? We could play pool!!
I'm really bad at it

mmm is there anything else to do other than the saloon

No not really haha
We could just go on a walk?? In the forest!

oh that sounds cute let's do that
maybe like 2?

It's a date :) :) :)

You smile as you text him, imagine him smiling on the other end. Fuck.

Later on in the evening, after the sunset and a few glasses of wine, you text Shane.

hi
wuu2

You don't get a reply.

Sam shows up at 2:10 the next day with a picnic basket and a huge smile. "I brought lunch! Well. My mom made it. But I brought it!"

You head south out of the farm, his warm hand in yours. The trees are brown and orange, leaves just starting to fall, crunchy under your feet. You're tucked into your jacket against the chill.

You walk a circle around the forest, chatting about surface level stuff at first, getting warmed up, and then you ask him about his parents, and he starts to open up again. His mom, the pressure she's under, the way she puts on a brave face even when Sam would prefer to see her break down. His dad, his long absences and sad letters and infrequent phone calls.

"My mom tries to give us a good childhood," he says, kicking his feet in some leaves, "but she treats me like a kid. She literally made me a packed lunch." He holds up the picnic basket. "I'm not a kid. You know?"

"You'd better not be. I made out with you." He laughs and you squeeze his hand. "But yeah, I know. Sounds tough."

You set up the picnic under the shade of a huge tree. It's delicious — sandwiches, fresh fruit, little fairy cakes. You eat for a while, not talking. It's your turn to share, you just don't know how.

Eventually you clear your throat. Sam looks up at you, icing on his face.

"I wanna talk to you about something."

"Okay!" He puts down the cake and sits up straight, giving you his full attention. God. He's so cute.

"I..." His eyes are so big and bright and kind. You can't tell him about your weird sex stuff. You just can't. "Where do you see this going?"

"Hm." He puts his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. "I don't know. I guess... Forwards? Wait. That came out dumb." He laughs, rearranges his long legs on the picnic blanket. "Okay. I like you. I wanna keep hanging out with you. I wanna follow my instincts, you know? See where it takes us." He shrugs. "Sorry. That doesn't seem helpful."

"It's okay."

"Where do you see it going?"

You hesitate. The only way you can see is the inevitable end. "I'm not looking for anything serious."

He shrugs again, smiles. "Okay."

"Or... exclusive."

"Oh." He doesn't look upset, but his smile fades a little. "Like. Seeing other people?"

"Yeah."

"Are you seeing other people?"

"Kinda." You resist the urge to apologise.

"I guess that makes sense. It's new." He fidgets with the wrapper of his cupcake. "I don't meet many people I like that much. But that's a me thing."

You take his hand, lean closer, look into his eyes. "I like you too."

His smile returns, huge, incandescent. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Nice."

His eyes shine as he looks at you, full of optimism and hope and affection. You lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away, but he doesn't, leaning in too, his lips meeting yours. It feels more natural this time, no hesitation.

You push towards him, bumping your bodies together, and test him with a little tongue — he responds with his own, mouth tasting sweet, like sugar. You moan softly, something so irresistible about the idea of breaking down his barriers, going further and further each time. He seems so wholesome. But here he is, sliding his tongue against yours.

You rearrange yourself without breaking the kiss, so that you can lay down and pull him down next to you. You lie side by side on the blanket, making out, and you lift a leg over him, pushing your hips together, seeking some kind of friction, hoping to find him hard.

He pulls back. "Uh."

"What?"

"We're kind of in public."

"Do you wanna go back to mine?"

He smiles softly, but you can tell it's a no. "Maybe another time."

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to push you." It's a lie. You were.

"It's okay. I'm in charge of my own boundaries. You know?"

"...Yeah. I guess you're right."

He gets to his feet and helps you to yours, and packs away the picnic. "Now I'll walk you home!" he announces, grinning, and any weirdness is instantly gone.

As you're walking to the farm, you see a figure headed in your direction. It's Shane, walking towards the forest. He's got a couple full Jojamart bags, looks somehow even more like shit than usual. He spots you and Sam and immediately tries to divert course away from you but it's too late.

"Hey!" Sam calls, waving. "Shane!" He doesn't respond. Sam jogs over to him. You follow, but keep a distance.

Shane stops, looks at Sam, weary. "Hi."

"Hey! Good to see you! Aren't you meant to be at work today?"

"Sick day."

"Aw man! You should be in bed! I love being sick. More time to play video games!"

His endless positivity seems to just make Shane tired. He nods a few times and then starts walking towards the woods again.

"Oh... okay!" Sam calls after him. "Get well soon, buddy!" You stand next to Sam and take his hand as you both watch Shane disappear into the trees. "I thought he liked me?"

"I think he's just like that."

Sam walks you to your door and you kiss again for a little while, his hands gentle on your waist, and then you say goodbye, his fingers holding onto yours as he walks away, only letting go at the last possible second. You watch him walk down the path for a second and then you call out, "Sam?"

He turns. "Yeah?"

"What do you think Shane was doing walking into the woods?"

He frowns. "I don't know. That was weird. I'll ask him when I see him."

"Okay. Bye."

You go inside the house when he's out of sight. There's a lot to process about the date — the future, the boundaries, the lack of honesty on your part. But now you're just thinking about Shane. Worrying.

It was weird. Walking into the woods at 4 o'clock on a work day. He didn't look sick. He just looked tired.

You text him.

hi
u busy

He doesn't reply. You forget about it for a while. He doesn't usually text you anyway unless it's late.

The sun begins to set and you still don't have a reply. You text again.

helloooooo
earth to shane

Nothing. Not even delivered, let alone read.

You can't help but worry. You shouldn't. You're not dating. You're not friends. You don't even know where he lives. But it's also kind of annoying. What's the point of being his good girl if he doesn't reply to your fucking texts?

At 8 you decide to take a walk around the woods. Just because you want to. Not because you think you'll run into him. You pull on your boots and bring a flashlight just because it's dark. Not to make it easier to spot him.

You head into the woods in the same direction he was going earlier. It's so different in the dark, silent except for the occasional owl or stubborn cricket. The trees feel taller, more imposing, as you circle the woods, the same path you and Sam took earlier, and emerge back where you started, finding nothing. You start over again, taking different routes, going deeper. You're at risk of getting lost but at least you have your phone to guide you if you do.

What is it you're expecting to find? It's not something you've given much thought. Maybe he's delirious with a fever and he's trying to build a shelter out of sticks. Maybe he bought some fireworks and tried to set them off and blew himself up. Either way, you find yourself searching deeper and deeper into the forest.

Then. There's a light up ahead. It's faint, but it's there — south, near the cliff's edge. You approach it, flashlight out.

Details come into focus. Joja bags. Beer cans. A dim, almost dead electric lantern. And there, behind a tree. Sitting with his legs crossed in his lap, staring down into the cavern, the drop, the receding darkness. Shane.

He turns around as you approach, squints, covers his eyes. "Ah."

"Sorry." You turn off the flashlight, eyes adjusting to the dark. "Hi."

He just looks at you. You look back, the empty beers, the handle of whiskey in his grip, the haggard exhaustion on his drunken face.

"You look bad," you say.

"Fuck off. Leave me alone." He turns away from you again.

You walk closer, unsure of what's compelling you. He sighs. "What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice is heavy, slurred. Annoyed.

"You didn't text me back." Pause. "I was worried."

"Don't start with the int—"

"It's not intervention shit," you snap, bristling, stepping closer again. "I'm not gonna tell you to go to rehab or something, I was just worried, and seeing as you're literally sitting on the edge of a cliff, I think that was fair enough."

"Please." Shane puts his head in his hands, back still turned to you. "Please, please leave me alone."

You consider it. You could leave him alone. You might. It's what he wants. Leave him drunk and alone on the edge of a cliff, potentially to never see him again. No one would blame you.

But, you're not going to do that. One, because it's irresponsible. He's obviously in danger, could topple over or jump any second. Two, because if he dies, there's no one to fuck you. Three, because no matter how much you deny it, it really seems like you care about him at least a little bit.

So you sit down next to him. You leave a little space between you, about a foot. Shane doesn't look at you, doesn't flinch. Just sighs, reaches over and grabs a beer, and passes it to you. You take it, crack it. Drink from it as he sips whiskey from the bottle.

"I wanna use my question," he says, looking down into the cavern again, hair falling onto his forehead. "The one in the bank."

"...Okay."

"Why were you worried about me?"

You take a deep breath. You admitted it to yourself, you may as well admit it to him too. "Cos I care about you. A little bit."

A few moments pass, then he shakes his head slowly. "That's not what this is."

"I know. I'm not happy about it either."

He glances at you, but you don't turn quick enough to catch his eye before he's staring over the edge again. "What is there to care about?"

"...I'm sure you have lots of good qualities."

"I have, exclusively, been fucking terrible to you."

"Yeah, well, that's a me issue. I'll take that up with my therapist when I get one." You take a long drink of beer, collecting your thoughts. "Look, I guess I feel like you understand me in some weird, psychosexual way. It's nice not to feel like an absolute freak for wanting to be like, spanked, you know?"

He nods. "Yeah, I get it." He looks down over the cliff's edge and you look at it too, the steep drop, the murky darkness below. "The urge to self-destruct. The call of the void."

"Well, I wouldn't put it so fucking dramatically but yeah, I guess." It does bring you a kind of peace, staring down into the abyss. Safe on land, but one wrong move...

Shane looks at you. You look back. "You're like me," he says.

You frown. He's clearly wasted, eyes red, but they focus on yours. "What does that mean?"

"Everyone in this town is so fucking normal. Happiness seems to come so easily to them. But you're like me." He smirks, just a tiny bit. "Fucked up."

You open your mouth to argue but no valid arguments come to mind. Everything he's seen of you, every time you've interacted or texted or fucked, confirms his theory.

"There's more to me," you end up saying.

He shrugs. "There's more to me too. Doesn't mean it's not true."

Defensiveness rises in you. "Why did you come out here?"

He turns away, sips his whiskey. Doesn't respond.

"Come on," you say. "Give me one more question."

"I came out here for a bit of fucking peace and quiet."

"I don't believe that. You said there's more to you."

"You're not entitled to that."

"You said we're the same. Prove it. There's only one reason I would come out here and sit like this."

He looks at you again. There's something it does to you. Makes you feel seen. "And what's that?"

"You'll tell me if I get it right?"

"Sure."

You look out at the cavern, feeling his eyes still on you. "To feel control." You take a deep breath. "To get so close to the void and have the power to back away. To indulge that feeling deep inside that just wants you to jump. And to get to leave it behind like you don't need it."

You turn back to Shane and there's an expression on his face you don't recognise. It's hard to interpret in the dark, with his drunken features, but you know you got it right before he even says it.

He clears his throat. "Yeah. You got it."

It doesn't make you feel good. You just proved his point. That you're the same. Hopeless and sad and self-destructive.

"I think I have to break up with Sam," you say. He nods gently. "I'm just gonna ruin him."

"You might not."

"Maybe. But probably."

"Yeah."

The thought fills you with an overwhelming sadness. It's the right thing to do. You want to corrupt him, push him, make him more like you. The beauty of Sam is that he's not like you.

You finish your beer and toss it aside. Shane passes you the whiskey and you take a few sips, then a few more. God. You came here to talk him down. Now you're right on the edge with him.

You pass him back the bottle. Fuck it. Might as well commit.

You undo your boots and slide them off. Then you unzip your fly and start pulling down your jeans. He frowns at you as you drop them in a pile. "What are you..." He trails off as you climb into his lap, straddling, and start unbuckling his belt. His hands run up your thighs to rest on your hips as you pull out his dick, stroke him a few times until he's hard. You pull your underwear to the side and lift yourself up to take him inside you.

You both gasp as you sink down onto his cock. It feels almost like a sigh of relief. The decision made, the path chosen.

You want him. You want the pleasure, the pain. You want to lean into that self-destruction. At least it won't be so lonely anymore.

You fuck him as hard as you can, thighs burning, knees scratching on the cliff face, breath coming hard and ragged, addicted to the sound of him moaning under you, his eyes screwed shut, clutching at your hips like a lifeline. You run your hand into his hair and grab it in your fist, pulling it as you fuck him, tipping his head back so his mouth is centimetres from yours. You breathe into it, feeling his own breath on your face, and it's intimate, probably the closest your faces have ever been.

His dick twitches, swells inside you, close already. He hasn't said a word, hasn't called you anything, just moans, loud and filthy and just for you. His fingers dig into your hips, pressing into the same bruises from when he fucked you on the deck.

"I'm gonna cum," he breathes.

You pull his hair harder and push your foreheads together and say, "Look at me."

His eyes open and he cums, long, low moans as you squeeze yourself around him. You watch as his pupils blow, gaze struggling to stay on yours, eyes fighting to stay open as he rides the pleasure. But he manages to look at you the whole time, hands tight on your hips, your fist in his hair.

You slow, stop. Sit there with him inside you for a moment, even as the cum starts to trickle out. You can't take your eyes off each other.

"Fuck," he just says.

"Fuck," you say back.

Maybe you're not so different after all.

Chapter Text

The breakup does not go well.

It's not Sam's fault. He's understanding, nodding, smiling. Trying to put on a brave face. Failing.

It's you. You like him. When he says, "I thought things were going well," with his big eyes, you tear up. Have to swallow it, push it down.

"It's for the best," you say, leaning against the counter in his kitchen as his shoulders droop at the table.

"How come? Not that I don't believe you."

"It's..." You have to look away from him, those puppy dog eyes. "I'm not good for you."

"Okay." He goes to say something, but doesn't.

"What?"

"I just... I don't feel like you're giving me the whole truth."

You sigh. "That's part of it. I want to give you the whole truth. You deserve it. But my whole truth... it's not good. You won't like it. And if you do, then... I don't want to drag you down."

He nods slowly. "I get it. You're trying to do what's best for me."

"Yeah." You remember his issues with being seen, being an adult, his overprotective parents. "I'm... I think you're a great guy. I really like you. I do. I just think you can do better."

"Okay." He smiles at you, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really." He stands up, starts walking towards the front door, and you take that as your cue to leave. "Thanks for telling me."

"No problem." He opens the door and you step out onto the stoop, linger. "See you around?"

"Yeah." He smiles again. "Bye." His focus is already elsewhere as he closes the door.

You stand there staring at it. Feeling out of sync with reality, slightly in disbelief that that just happened. You like him. You broke up with him.

It's for the best, you remind yourself. You liked Alex, and the others. They couldn't fuck you like you needed. It feels slightly unfair that Sam never got the chance. But better to end it now than to lead him on, to sleep with him and then dump him for it not being good enough.

Still, you walk home with an itchy feeling in your brain, like something's not quite right. Like you've lost something and can't remember where you put it.

That night, you go to the saloon with Shane.

Something has changed between you, something minute and subtle, yet something crucial and immense. You admitted you cared. You broke up with Sam. You made your choice. You fucked him. It's hard to spell out why things are different but when you text him asking if you can join him at the saloon, he replies within five minutes and says okay.

You sit next to each other, in the cosy dark corner by the fire, and drink beer in silence. Life continues on around you, Emily chatting and laughing with patrons, Robin and her husband dancing. And you sit there with Shane, hunched over your beer, shutting it all out.

"How often do you do this?" you ask him eventually.

He shrugs. "Pretty much every night. Sometimes I have to make the drinks last longer. One time I was really broke and I nursed one beer for six hours."

"Why not just buy some cans and drink at home?"

"None of your business."

"Really?" You look at him incredulously. He just stares back, stone-faced. "Is there anyone in your entire life that you're not closed off to?"

"No."

"And you're happy living like that."

He orders another couple of beers and ignores you. You give up, lapsing back into silence, drinking until Emily's clocked off and Gus is emptying the till.

That's when Shane turns to you and says, "I made a decision a while ago to stop trying to be happy. I would try and I would fail and each time it would be harder than the last. Harder to try, harder to fail. So I stopped. I live my life the way I live my life. I don't expect anything to change. I don't want anything to change. I have accepted a certain amount of suffering. So don't try to make it better. Because in my experience, you will just make it worse."

The words come out with such simplicity, like there's a logic to them, like he's explaining the rules of some game. You want to argue, want to debate, want to convince him out of it and change him to be more like you. But you know that's pointless. He's made his choice. And he should be able to do that. Everyone is so uncomfortable with unhappiness. Maybe that's why some people find it so alluring.

He looks tired as he waits for your reply. You think back to the ID photo, the picture of him from years ago. It makes you sad. But you understand.

"Okay," you say. Then you pause. "Where do I fit into all of that?"

"Well, I told you to fuck off a thousand times, and that didn't work. I thought having sex with you might get you off my back."

"Oh, yeah. No other motivation there."

Shane shrugs, finishes his drink. "We all got needs." He gets to his feet, goes to leave.

"Hang on," you say. He stops. "You don't wanna..."

"Not right now. I'll text you." He raises a hand to Gus in both thanks and goodbye as he walks out the door.

The text comes the next day at around 1pm.

come to jojamart

lol ok
let me finish planting these seeds

no
has to be now

ugh
ok

You put the seeds back in the bag and clean yourself up quickly, taking off your gloves, wiping the sweat from your face. There's nothing that can be done in the short timeframe about your dirty clothes, so you just head to Jojamart.

You walk horizontally across the store, scanning all the aisles, but you don't see him. You pull out your phone.

im here

there's a door in the back left corner
go through it

You go to the far left corner of the store. There's a door marked 'staff'.

it's for staff

He doesn't reply. You grumble, looking around yourself for witnesses, before walking through it.

You're in a dingy corridor. Dull, beaten carpet, fluorescent lights, motivational yet vaguely union-busting posters on the walls.

i went in the door
this place is so depressing

third door on the right

You walk up the corridor until you find the door he means. The sign reads, 'break room'. You push it open.

It's a classic shitty break room. Couches that look like they were hauled in from a kerb, broken vending machine, tiny kitchen, table with not enough chairs. No windows. Designed to break the human spirit.

Shane's laying on a sofa, head on one of its arms, feet on the other, legs crossed at the ankles, phone in hand. "About fucking time," he says. "My break's over in six minutes." He stands, slipping his phone in his pocket, and you roll your eyes, leaning back against the table.

"Well if you gave me some goddamn warning— Wait, what the fuck are you wearing?"

He stands in front of you, starts undoing his pants. It must be his uniform, the entire outfit a pastel blue, and when you reach out to grab his ass, the cotton feels scratchy and cheap. He pulls out his dick, starts stroking himself. "Take your pants off," he says.

"You don't wanna... lock the door?"

"No. Take your pants off."

You slowly start to unzip your jeans, thinking about the unlocked door, the potential invasion. He's starting to get hard now, cock rising, stiffening, and you get distracted, fingers paused at your waistband. He grunts in frustration, grabs your hips and turns you around so you're facing the table with him at your back, then he pulls down your jeans and underwear both at once, spreads open your labia with his thumbs, and pushes his dick inside you.

"Fuck, Shane." It comes out more annoyed than aroused, but there's arousal in the annoyance, there's a frustration in being treated like an object but it's a frustration that keeps you engaged, keeps you on your toes, keeps you coming back for more.

You've got your hair in a ponytail — he wraps it around his hand a few times before grabbing at its base to push your head down towards the table, arching your back. He starts to fuck you slowly, but hard, snapping his hips forwards against your ass, driving his cock into you. "My boss is a real hard-ass," he says. "If I'm not back in five minutes, he's gonna come looking for me, and then we're in trouble." He grabs your ass with one hand, squeezes, then pulls his hand back and spanks you hard. You stifle a groan. "So you better make me cum quick."

"I hate you," you say, bracing your forearms against the table, pushing your body back against him. You squeeze your walls and he curses, grip tightening in your hair. "Come on then." Your voice comes out rougher than you expected, thick with desire. "Give it to me."

"Can you be more specific?" He's still moving slow, despite the time pressure.

You groan. "God. Fuck me. Fuck me as hard as you can."

"Oh yeah?" He starts to speed up, grabbing your waist tightly with one hand. "You want me to fuck you hard, you little whore?"

"Yeah," you breathe, arms already aching as you brace yourself against the force that's only just starting to build. "I wanna feel it tomorrow. I want it to hurt. I can take it, I want it. I need it."

Shane squeezes your hair again, tight, then lets it go to grip your hips with both hands. Suddenly he stops, stills inside you. He shifts, rearranges, then you hear a low thud and glance to your right to see his dirty sneaker on the table next to you, one leg propped up. It's immediately clear to you why that's beneficial when he starts up again — suddenly pounding into you impossibly hard, making you cry out and grip the edge of the table. He drags your hips back towards him at the same time as pushing himself into you and the friction, the force of it, it's bone deep, it's dizzying.

"God, that's good," you tell him between moans. You don't ask whether anyone can overhear you. There's no point. You wouldn't be able to stop if you tried. He slaps your ass again in the same spot and you almost sob.

He laughs, breathy. "Such a bad girl. Dirty girl. You like it when I slap you around, huh?"

You manage to make a moan sound vaguely like uh-huh. White-hot pain blooms as he spanks you once more and you picture the mark it left, picture his handprint pale against flushed skin. Picture his dark eyes checking his work, gleaming with satisfaction at having branded you, however temporary. Whether the image is realistic or some small fantasy you'll never know, but it turns you on either way.

Shane takes one hand off your hip and puts it flat between your shoulder blades, then he puts weight on you, forcing your forearms out from under you, pushing your head down onto the table. He keeps his hand there, pinning you down, holding you in place. "Two minutes," he says, then tuts, just once. "Seems like I'm doing all the work."

You want to retort that yeah, it's kind of hard to do anything when you're literally pinned down, but instead you start wondering about what else you can do, what tools are at your disposal. Your voice, pretty much. He's into dirty talk, always chatting away as he fucks you, making you beg for it.

Something pops into your head and you decide to go with it. Nothing to lose.

"Are you gonna cum in me raw again?"

"Mm."

You lick your lips, squeeze his cock. "You gonna put a baby in me?"

His hips stutter for a moment. "...What?"

"Come on," you murmur, talking over your shoulder, though you can't see him behind you. "You know you want to. It's so dirty, so fucking dirty, but you wanna cum deep, deep inside me. Don't you?"

He doesn't respond, but you can feel his cock twitching, throbbing, so you keep going.

"I wanna feel it hot and wet inside me. I know I shouldn't want it but I do, I want it bad. I'm a filthy slut for your fucking cum. Come on, Shane, please. Knock me up. Bury your seed in me."

He moans softly, rhythm growing erratic, and you squeeze your walls around him again and say, "Put a fucking baby in me," and then he's cumming, gasping, rutting into you hard and deep and then staying there, cock pulsing, emptying himself as far inside you as he can. "Yeah," you praise, "that's it, that's it. That's good." He's finished now so there's no need to keep the dirty talk going but you can't help it, kind of like the idea yourself.

You feel his dick twitch a few more times and then start to soften. But he doesn't pull out right away, leaves it another few moments, lifts his hand from your back first and releases your hip before sliding out of you. Cum drips down your leg as you ease yourself up and turn to him. The look on his face makes you smirk — surprised and confused and worried and turned on all at the same time.

"What..." He zips himself up. "Where did that come from?"

Your smirk deepens. "Don't worry. I'm on birth control. Just thought it would be hot."

Shane pushes back his hair, and your gaze flits to it against your will. "Well. My break ends in 20 seconds so, good job." He smooths down his uniform, eyes unfocused, making no effort to get back to work.

"What?" you ask. He looks slightly shell-shocked.

"It's..." He laughs a little, shakes his head. "You just like. Unlocked a new kink for me."

You laugh too, raising your eyebrows. "Wow. You're welcome, I guess."

"Mm. Okay, I gotta go." He walks towards the door, looks at you and smiles as he pulls it open and disappears behind it. "See you later."

"Bye."

The door closes and you're left standing cream-pied in a Jojamart break room, pussy already aching from the rough, submissive, semi-public, breeding-kinked sex, with the only thought in your head being about Shane's goddamn motherfucking smile.

You take the long route home from Jojamart, south, across the river. The brisk air sharpens your senses, the grey sky soft enough to project your thoughts onto.

Why? Why can't you stop thinking about that smile? The tiny, fleeting one he gave you as he ducked out of the room. Of course he smiled. You just made him cum, gave him a new kink to google the shit out of when he gets home. You'd be smiling, too. Why does it make you feel... hot? Like you've got a fever, sweating and shivering.

You walk past Sam's house and stop, stare at it. He might be in there, he might not. You take a step towards it, thinking of knocking, but then you change course, step backwards. His mom might answer. Then what would you say?

You imagine telling Sam about what just happened. The way you and Shane talk to each other, the kinks, the force, the no-longer-unspoken subtext that you both fucking hate yourselves. The way it makes you feel — free. How would he react? How would he ever look at you the same?

You keep walking, through the forest, past the big tree where you had the picnic. Sam's smile pushes itself to the forefront of your mind and you find yourself smiling too, just thinking about it. God. You fucking miss him. For a moment there it really felt like everything was going to be okay.

But you'll get over it. It's like Shane said. You try to make things better, you just make them worse. Safest thing to do is to stop trying. Embrace the self-destruction.

Or, in the case of the two of you, let the self-destruction embrace you.

You don't see Shane again for about a week. You text him and he replies, but only to blow you off. Too drunk. Too tired. Elbow deep in a breeding subreddit. It gets to Sunday and you decide to just show up at his work tomorrow and see what happens. The inconsistency of him can be exhausting.

For today, you settle for fishing, so you pack up your backpack and set off south to the river. It's a miserable day, raining lightly, the sun hidden behind masses of grey clouds, throwing a shadow over everything. It feels like twilight even though it's 10:30 in the morning.

You walk down past Marnie's and Leah's and start to set your kit up by the edge of the river. There's a faint sound, some voices, arguing, but you try and ignore it, searching for some kind of peace. They get louder, and you sigh and start to untangle your earbuds. They start yelling, and you look over in concern towards Marnie's.

Suddenly the front door opens, slams shut. Shane comes storming out.

You look at each other in surprise. He's flushed, scowling, slammed the door so hard it must have scared away all the fish for miles. He stands there staring at you for a moment before stalking off towards town.

"Where are you going?" you call.

"Drink."

"Saloon's not open yet." He stops and looks at you. "It's not even 11 o'clock," you tell him.

He crumples a little, anger seeming to leak out of him, and he puts his face in his hands, drags them up through his hair to rest on the back of his head. Stares off at something in the distance, eyes glazed.

You disassemble your rod, put it back in your backpack. Walk over to him. "Come on," you say. "I just got a 12-pack."

For some reason you reach out for his hand. He yanks it away from you. You just start walking up towards your house. After a few moments, he follows.

The rain thickens slightly as you near the house, and you run ahead, unlocking the door and holding it open for him. Shane doesn't speed up, walks at his usual slow pace through the rain like he can't even feel it. You close the door behind you when he's inside, peeling off your jacket and boots, and fetch a couple beers from the fridge.

He takes it from you, cracks it, downs the whole thing in about ten seconds. You just pull the 12-pack from the fridge and bring it over to the couch, patting the cushion next to you. He walks over and sits down, pulls out another beer, starts chugging that too.

You just watch him in silence until he's three beers deep and then you say, "Are you okay?"

He crushes the can, drops it in the pile on the floor with the others. "Fuck off." He pulls out a fourth from the pack.

"You said Marnie's your aunt, right? Do you live with her? Did you argue?"

He drinks, burps, wipes his hand across his mouth. "Fuck. Off."

"Hey, you wouldn't have beer if not for me."

He glares at you. "Why can't you just do the kind gesture? Huh? Why's it also have to be twenty fucking questions?" He finishes the fourth can and drops it. "I told you. Everything's fucking shit and it's not gonna change. The only thing I can do is try to numb myself so I don't think about it so much. Now." He pulls a fifth can. "If you'll excuse me."

You watch, feeling lost, as he downs his fifth beer in as many minutes. He reaches for another and your hand shoots out to catch his arm. He shakes you off, grabs beer number six.

You do the only thing that seems to make sense. You start to chug your own beer.

Shane watches you, suspicious, as you make your way through the first, having to pause halfway to gasp for air. You grab a second. Then a third. As you pull the fourth from the pack and crack it, he catches your arm. "You've made your point," he says, firm but surprisingly gentle. You shake him off, down the fourth, and the fifth. The world swims around you as you pull the final beer from the 12-pack, crack it, and tap it against the one he's holding, still untouched.

"Cheers," you say, voice coming out slurred.

He shakes his head. "Woman after my own heart," he mutters, and you both finish the last of the beer.

The pile of empty cans has reached its peak and there's nothing else to do. Your face flushes, sweat breaking out across your body, so you pull off your sweater, stomach sloshing as you move. You get your head caught in your sleeve trying to get it off. "Fuck." Then it's being lifted away from you, Shane helping, detangling you. You smile at him as you resurface from the fabric. "Thanks."

He just shrugs, stares dead-eyed at the floor.

"What's wrong?" you ask. It's basically a whisper, you're trying so hard not to spook him.

He shrugs again, shoulders heavy. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay. That's fine." You rearrange on the sofa, tucking your legs under your body, turning towards him. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

"No."

You roll your eyes. "That can't be true. What about food? I got a frozen pizza."

"Maybe later."

"Uh... Oh, I know. You played that game Prairie King?"

"No thanks."

Fuck. There must be something... Oh, duh.

You lift a knee over him, straddling his lap. "I bet I can make you feel better."

Shane frowns up at you from under his brow. "Get off."

"No." You slip your shirt over your head, unhooking your bra and pinging it across the room. "You get off.”

He opens his mouth to argue but your boobs in his face seem to distract him. Instead his hands come up to cup them from underneath, squeezing gently, feeling the weight of them. You brush his hair back from his face. "Come on," you breathe. "Let me make you feel better."

He sighs, breath making your nipples tingle. He rubs his thumb across one and you hum in pleasure, arching your back. You reach out and start to unbuckle his belt.

"Stop," he says. You stop. Shane closes his eyes, leans his head back against the sofa. "How many fucking times. You can't make it better. You'll just make it worse. Everything always gets worse."

"I'm not trying to make it better. I'm trying to make you feel better."

"It's the same principle."

"Fine. Don't see it like that, then. You numb yourself with booze so you don't think about it so much? Numb yourself with sex." You rub your hand gently against his crotch. "Same principle. But free. And much more distracting."

He looks at you, doubtful, but doesn't stop you touching him. His dick starts to stiffen and you keep going, press a little firmer as you palm him through his shorts. His frown fades, brow relaxing, hands slowly sliding up your thighs to your hips, then your waist, then your breasts again. You start to unbuckle his belt, and he drags his thumbs across both of your nipples at once, causing your body to twitch with the stimulation. He smirks a little, and you give him a chastising smile as you pull out his cock. "God," he breathes as you begin to stroke him.

Pre-cum starts leaking out and you catch it in your hand, spreading it out over his dick, lubing him with it. "So wet for me," you murmur in approval, bringing your hand to your mouth and licking it off your fingers. He watches you with hooded eyes, doesn't move as you climb off his lap and settle on the floor between his legs. "Can I take these off?" you ask, pulling at his shorts. He lifts his hips and you pull them down to his knees, sliding off his shoes and then his shorts and underwear.

When you look up at him again, his legs spread, half-naked, cock hard and wet for you, arousal surges through you strong and tight. "You're so fucking sexy."

He doesn't respond, just looks at you. Breathes steady through parted lips.

"Can you... Would you take your shirt off?" you ask him, a little shy. You've never seen him without a shirt on. Right now, having him totally naked in front of you is the hottest thing you can imagine, the only thing you want in the world.

But Shane hesitates. "You don't have to," you blurt, starting to blush. "I just. Want to see you."

His eyes search your face. For what, you don't know, but you let them. After a few moments he leans forward and pulls his hoodie and shirt off in one go.

You trail your hands up and down his thighs as you look at him. Thick dark hair spreads across his chest and down to circle his belly button, lines his forearms and legs too. He's pale, a little chubby, body soft and curved. You bite your lip as you take him in with your eyes, and then you get to his sides. From just above his right hip to his waist, there are horizontal scars. Some of them look decades old, white and flat. Some of them are pink and raised, though they all seem to be healed.

You lean back a little to take him all in. He's been staring at you this whole time, probably watching for your reaction, any sign of rejection. But how could you reject him when he lays himself bare to you like this? How could this numb either of you to anything, when you feel more looking at his naked body than you have in as long as you can remember, maybe ever?

You look up into his eyes, see the vulnerability there, see him fight the urge to retreat backwards into his shell. It happens almost against your will. You lean forwards to kiss him.

Shane's hand comes up to stop you. "Don't," he says, shaking his head. "You'll just make it worse."

A pang of feeling slams you in the chest. You swallow, smile at him gently, try to breathe through it like it never happened. "Okay." You wrap your hand around his dick, start stroking him again, and his head rests back on the sofa, eyes sliding shut. "Don't worry. Everything's fine. I'm your good girl, I'm gonna make you feel good."

You watch his chest rise and fall as you touch him, his hands making fists in the soft cushion of the sofa. You run your other hand up and down the inside of his thigh, then take his balls in your hand, massaging gently. His hips twitch up towards you and he starts to moan quietly. "That's it," you tell him. "Just let me take care of you."

Pre-cum starts to leak from him again and you catch it in your fingers, and get an idea, a craving. "Would you scoot forwards a little?" you ask. "Spread yourself for me?" He does it without hesitation, sliding down the sofa and grabbing his ass cheeks. "Thank you." You continue to stroke his cock as you reach down and slide your wet fingers against his hole.

His breath catches. "God."

You press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. "You look so gorgeous." He does, mouth open, hair pushed back, chest heaving as he sucks in deep breaths and moans with every exhale. You stare at him as you rub his hole and slowly start working your finger inside. His body is tense, feet pushing against the floor, back arched, and so you don't make much progress, the ring of muscle resisting you. "Relax," you murmur. "Relax, baby. I've got you." He relaxes somewhat, and your finger slides inside him shallowly. "Good," you praise. "Good. That's it."

You rock your finger back and forth inside him, pushing slightly further every time. His body goes limp, head lolled back against the sofa, moans coming out soft and whiny and high-pitched, more like whimpers between the breathy curses of fuck and god and ah. When you're deep enough inside him you start curling your finger back towards yourself, trying to remember the anatomy of it, searching for that perfect spot.

"A little deeper," he tells you. You push further. "Bit more." Further. You curl your finger. The sound that spills out of Shane is burned into your brain forever from the moment he makes it. Raw, desperate, vulnerable, he moans louder than you've ever heard him. Safe to say you found his prostate.

You stroke gently inside him as you move your hand faster on his cock, gripping firm, unable to take your eyes off him — the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his pink lips open and moaning, the bob of his Adam's apple under his stubble as he gasps for air. More than anything you want to take a picture, but you don't want to stop, break the spell, so you just try and memorise it all, staring at him, filing away every detail. "You're so gorgeous, baby," you tell him, unsure if he can even hear you through the noises he's making. "You're beautiful."

His cock twitches, dark pink and swollen, close to the edge, and you lean towards him, lick the head, your hair falling forwards. "I want you to cum in my mouth, baby. Can you do that?"

He nods. Then his hands come up, pull back your hair, gather it behind your head. He holds it out of your way with one hand, the other returning to grip the sofa.

"Oh, thank you, baby. Such a good boy." You press a kiss to his hip. "Let me make you cum."

You pull back his foreskin and suck him down as hard as you can, using your hand on the bottom half of his dick, stroking faster, firmer inside him. "Fuck," he moans, "oh god, don't fucking stop." His hips twitch upwards, driving his dick into your mouth, so you take him further, as far as you can handle, swallowing around him, humming, pulling out all the stops. Shane gasps and pants, hand tightening where it holds your hair, body tensing, and then he lets out a long, low moan from deep inside his chest as he finishes. You keep going as the cum hits your throat, and he takes a ragged lungful of air before moaning again. You start to ease off a little, going gentler, and his cock twitches in your mouth as he whines, a delicate sound, body going limp again, dick starting to soften.

You slow, stop. Look up at him. He's covered in sweat, eyes closed, mouth open and chest heaving as he catches his breath. You pull your mouth off him, slide your finger out. He winces and glances down at you, and you swallow, open your mouth. His hand releases your hair and strokes your head, just like he did in the alley outside the Pit. You nuzzle into it, kiss his palm. It feels warm, it feels right. It feels good.

"I'll be right back," you say, and get to your feet. You pull on your shirt from the floor and head into the bathroom to wash your hands. You take your time, figuring he might appreciate a minute to himself, and start to process everything as you stare at yourself in the mirror.

That was... different. It bordered on normal. You were loving, caring, gentle. And he let you be. God, did you... did you call him baby? The heat of the moment was so strong, the connection between you felt so tangible. It might have slipped out. Hopefully he didn't notice.

You dry your hands and look at yourself in the mirror again, tucking your hair behind your ears. You feel his hand on your head, the caress. You smile, and go back out to the living room.

Shane is dressed, sitting down to pull his shoes on, and looks up at you when you enter. The vulnerability is gone, replaced with his usual guarded scowl. It's disappointing, but not surprising. Something like that could only ever last for a moment.

"Hey," you say, leaning your hands onto the back of the sofa opposite. "You okay?"

He ignores you, pulling his second shoe on, and then he looks up at you. Stares at you, eyes narrowed, like he's figuring you out.

"What?" you ask.

"Baby?" He screws up his face as he says it, like it disgusts him.

You blush, looking down. Embarrassment starts to make you sweat, shame creeping across your skin. "Heat of the moment."

Shane shakes his head, stops, then shakes it again, and stands, pacing away then turning back around. "I'm done with this."

"What?!" It comes out panicked, more of a yelp than anything.

"I'm fucking done with this." His voice starts to raise as he speaks, gesturing wilder and wilder. "How many fucking times have I made it clear that I don't want to open up to you? I don't want to be your friend, I don't want to be your boyfriend. I don't want to be your baby."

You flinch. It hurts.

"I'm not some project for you to fix, I'm not gonna turn up at your door one day with a fucking boombox. I'm an asshole. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a disappointment. I'm going to drink myself to death and have a cheap shitty funeral and that's how I want it."

"But it doesn't have to be that way!" You're crying now, voice swollen with emotion, and Shane's yelling, gripping the back of the sofa with white knuckles and leaning over it towards you.

"That's how I want it! All I want is the fucking privacy to destroy my life in peace! I don't want you fucking opening me up, listening to my bullshit problems, my feelings, my trauma, telling me it's all gonna be okay, making me feel all fuzzy and warm only to break my heart. I've been there, I've done that. No more. I don't want it. I don't want your false fucking hope. I don't—" A little of the fire burns out of him as he crosses his arms across his chest, takes a deep, shaky breath. "I just don't."

You sniff, hard, face wet, lip trembling as you look at him. "But. I thought we were the same."

He shakes his head. "I guess not."

"We..." You swallow hard, trying to hold back the sobs. "I don't..." But what is there to say? You can't convince him. You see the potential, the path up ahead that he's closing the gate on, the one where you struggle violently towards happiness together, unconventional, compromised, but purposeful. It hurts to look away from that path at the one he's presenting instead. The one with the dead end.

"I'm sorry," you manage, and it comes out pathetic. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry. I won't... I'll be good. I won't push you. I promise. We can go back to how it was. Just, please." Tears spill down your face and you wipe your eyes with the bottom of your shirt. "Please don't end it."

His face is hard, jaw set, glaring at you from under his brow. "Why not?"

"Because..." You shift on your feet, wiping your nose. "Because I care about you. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to be alone. You understand me. You make me feel seen, you make me feel like I'm not the weirdest fucking person in the entire world. We're the same. Without you, I go back to being completely and utterly alone. I'd rather die than live like that again."

He softens ever so slightly at that. You think about your old life, the friends you had that didn't listen, your partner who wanted you to be one thing and lashed out when you weren't. You felt like an alien, an imposter, a different breed, a freak. But Shane's like you.

"We're not the same," he says. "You're young. You have a future. You have hope. Don't give that up for... me." He spits the word out like it's dirty.

"But I want to." It's pleading, your desperation clear. "Please. I want to."

"I won't let you." His expression is still hard, guarded, but his voice comes out softer. "We're not doing this anymore."

"I..." You can't think of anything else to say. You've told him how you feel. He knows.

He walks towards the door, reaches out for the handle. You picture the small smile as he ducked out the door at Jojamart, the way it filled you with hope, heat, life. It makes you start sobbing all over again.

There's pity in his eyes as he looks back at you. "You should call Sam," Shane says gently. "I think he's good for you." You just wipe your nose and stare at him. He starts to open the door.

"Wait," you say. He waits. You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist and bury your head into his shoulder.

He stiffens, but you hold firm, holding him as tight as you can, face pressed into his hoodie. It's not an attempt to get him to stay. It's a goodbye. And you think he gets that, because after a few moments he relaxes, rests his hands tentatively on your back. You adjust your head, pressing your face into the side of his neck, inhaling his smell of beer and overdue laundry, and he slowly starts to embrace you back, arms circling you, lightly at first but then firmer, holding you. He takes a deep breath and you feel it ragged against your chest as he lets it out, rests his chin on your shoulder.

"Let me know if you change your mind," you murmur quietly to him.

"Okay. But don't hold your breath."

"I won't. Just let me know. I'll always be here for you."

You rub a hand up and down his back, already dreading the moment where you'll have to let go. But he's in no rush, and you stand there in the embrace for a long time, to the point where your tears dry up and your breathing slows. It hurts, it burns, that it can't just be like this. He calms you down, he feels safe, he's warm and damaged and broken just like you. It feels right.

But it's not what he wants. He picked his poison. He chose his path. It's not that he doesn't care about you. You think he does. He must, if he's letting you go. Otherwise, he would just ruin you.

So. You have to let him go too.

You squeeze him tighter, press a quick kiss to the warm skin of his neck, and pull back. He pulls away too, and your eyes meet. You can't read his expression. It seems entirely blank.

"Bye, Shane," you say.

A moment passes where he just looks at you. "Bye," he says. Then he turns the handle and disappears behind the door, closing it behind him.

Instantly your body feels cold, missing the the heat of him. You stare at the door, straining to hear his footsteps as he walks away. They fade to silence and you start crying again, hard, leaning against the door as you sob. You slide down to the floor and put your face in your hands, let it all out, let yourself feel. It hurts. It burns. If you knew more about him, you'd say you were falling in love with him. But after all this, you don't even know his last name.

You tire yourself out with it, sobs turning to gasps and eventually long, deep breaths. You get up, blow your nose, and lay down on the sofa, pulling a blanket over your body. Tomorrow will be the day for thinking, planning, working out your next move. For now, you mourn the path that you lost. The one you'd still go down in a heartbeat if only he'd open the gate.

Chapter Text

The rest of that day you spend drinking room temperature wine and watching the cooking channel. You go to bed at 3am, vowing to wake up the next morning and start your life anew. Go for a run, dye your hair, clean out your closet.

You wake up with a hangover and waste that day too. This time you play Prairie King for 12 hours, order takeout from the saloon, eat an entire sharing platter of chicken wings.

On the third day, you feel okay. You get out of bed, stretch. Shower. Wash your hair and brush it out. Walk around the farm, doing the most urgent things. Topping up the silos. Harvesting some produce. Petting the cows.

You think about Sam. You've been thinking about him in fits and spurts over the last few days, but Shane would always overtake that train of thought. But now with a little distance, you can focus. You should call Sam, Shane had said. I think he's good for you.

But what would you say? Sorry for breaking up with you, just kidding, never mind? No. You'd have to be honest. That's the whole point of any of this.

You decide to dip your toe in. You text him. Maybe it's cowardly, but you're feeling like a coward.

hi

Hi! How are you doing??

oh idk how to answer that tbh haha sorry
how r u

I'm good!! Hope everything is ok?

eh thats beside the point
i wanted to talk to u

What about?

Your thumbs hesitate on the screen. You can't put it into a few words.

can we talk in person
you don't have to say yes
i probably don't deserve it tbh

Of course we can talk :) We're still friends right??

sure :)

:)

You arrange for him to come over to your house in a few hours, after band practise. You potter around the living room, tidying up slightly but mostly just trying to stay busy, not let the nerves overtake you. After a while you sit down on the couch and stop trying to avoid it and just think about it. What you're going to say.

Honesty. Things had been easy with Shane because you didn't have to say any of it out loud. He understood because he was the same. Worse, according to him. It was honest without any of the effort, any of the risk.

But Sam is different. You could bare your soul to Sam and he could reject you. He probably won't. But that might be worse, him trying his hardest to understand, never quite getting there. But you have to give him a chance. Things that are easy aren't always things that are right.

Sam shows up around 4, huge smile on his face, looking as pleased to see you as ever. He holds up a tupperware. "My mom made us brownies!"

You shake your head, smile creeping in. "Classic Jodi."

You crack the tupperware open on the kitchen table, sitting opposite each other, grabbing a brownie each. You moan a little as you bite into it. It's perfectly fudgey, chocolatey without being overly rich. "God, she's overbearing but she's a fucking good cook."

Sam laughs. "Yeah. Makes it hard to move out."

"I bet."

He fidgets, shifts in his chair. "So... you wanted to talk to me about something."

You swallow. "Yeah."

"...Do you wanna warm up first? I could tell you about band practise."

"That's alright, thanks."

"Are you sure? Abby suggested we play honky-tonky country music and Sebastian almost punched a wall."

"Let's come back to that." You smile at each other and it almost feels easy. "Look. I want to be honest with you. It's just really fucking hard. I don't even know where to start."

"Huh, okay." He fiddles with one of your coasters, readjust in his chair. "Well... why do you want to be honest all of a sudden? You broke up with me cos you didn't want that."

"It's..." You sigh, shove the rest of your brownie in your mouth, take a few moments to chew and swallow. "I thought you wouldn't like it. If I was honest. But it's... I don't need you to like it. I just need you to accept it, I guess. And if you don't then that's fine but I should give you the chance."

He nods, but doesn't say anything else, just looks at you with those big grey eyes and waits.

"I said I was seeing other people. I'm not anymore. It was..." You trail off as the hurt surfaces again. The brief moment of hope, the feeling that you were changing him, that everything was going to make sense. His tiny smile. You feel yourself tearing up, try to push it down. "It probably wasn't the best relationship for me. But I have this part of myself that's just. I don't know." You shrug and the tears threaten to spill over. "Fucked. Like, there's something wrong with me, Sam."

He shakes his head gently, slides out his hand to catch your own. "I don't believe that."

"Really. I just kind of hate myself in this deep way. And I don't..." You can't say it.

"What?" he asks, so softly, stroking your hand.

You look down at the table. "I don't enjoy sex unless it hurts in some way. Unless it feels wrong."

You brace yourself for his rejection. But he shrugs. "That seems pretty normal."

"...It does?"

"Yeah. I mean, I don't have the most experience but my mom's not tech savvy so I've had unrestricted internet access for a while. And that just seems like a kink."

You shake your head. "I don't think you understand. This other guy. He would slap my ass. Choke me. Give me bruises."

"Did you consent to all that stuff?"

"I mean. Yeah."

He shrugs again. "That seems normal. Pretty rough but just a preference. I don't think there's something wrong with you."

You blink, and the tears spill over, more out of surprise than anything. "You don't?"

"No." He laces your fingers together, squeezes your hand. "Look, we don't know each other super well. But, I like you. I think you're being too hard on yourself."

"I don't..." You want to believe him but it just feels incorrect. Like he doesn't understand, like he's naive or unintelligent or a liar, even though you don't think he's any of those things. Your lip trembles and emotion fills your chest, your next breath ragged and hoarse. Sam stands, rounds the table, pulls you to your feet, and hugs you.

The floodgates open and you're quickly sobbing against his chest, overwhelmed, confused, frustrated at yourself. It doesn't feel right, that you're just hard on yourself, that you're doing fine and there's nothing wrong with you. What felt true was Shane. Leaning into it. Looking into the abyss night after night. Accepting the darkest parts of yourself as fact and owning them.

But even Shane had said it. You're not like him. You have hope. You'd wanted the two of you to find some form of happiness together. He wanted to sit next to each other in silence at the saloon every night until he died.

Why not lean the other way this time? Why not lean into the hopeful part? Well, that's part of why you're crying. Because it's hard. Resignation to unhappiness is a relief. Trying to better yourself is work. Work that Shane tried, failed. But at least he tried.

God, you'd loved him in some small way. Whatever small part of the sum he'd shared with you, whatever sliver of his life he'd allowed you to see, you'd loved it. You still do.

But. It'll pass.

Sam pets your hair, rubs a soothing hand up and down your back, whispers ssh and it's okay. You hold him tight. Of course you were suspicious of him, didn't believe him. No one in your life has ever been so kind to you. So open-minded and patient. Shane's right. He's good for you.

Eventually you sniff, pull back, wipe your nose on your sleeve. "Sorry," you say, looking at Sam's chest. "I got you wet."

He looks down at his hoodie and laughs. "You can see where your face was!"

"Oh yeah." You smile at the two horizontal wet patches, the two smaller ones where your nose was. Then you smile at Sam. There's such kindness in his eyes, such affection.

"I really like you," you tell him.

"I really like you too," he says. He strokes your hair back. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'll be okay." You're still overwhelmed. Confused. But things feel manageable. Like one good night's sleep will get you halfway there.

"It's fine if you're not."

"I will be." You're still smiling at him. Can't seem to stop.

He smiles back. "Good. Okay. I think I should go."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You seem like you need some rest." He pauses, smile fading. "Wait. I don't wanna do what I think you need. What do you need? I can stay, I can go."

"Would you stay? It doesn't have to be as like a date. I just... like being around you."

He strokes your hair back again. "Sure." Then he boops the tip of your nose. You roll your eyes, and he laughs.

You spend the afternoon watching TV, his long arm slung around your shoulders, both of you under the scratchy blanket that's only really big enough for one. You lean your head on his chest and try to accept the alternate reality. That you could be deserving of some quiet peace. That a cute boy with a beautiful voice and endless positivity could find something to like in you. That he would open up to you, and you would accept him, and you would open up to him, and he would accept you right back.

It's only been one day. It could all fall apart. You don't know each other down to the bone yet, and there could always be a dealbreaker in there somewhere. But you have to try.

At around 6:30, Sam says he has to go, has to be home for dinner. You wrap an arm around him and squeeze. "No."

He huffs a laugh. "C'mon."

"Nuh-uh. You're mine." You look up at him, his grey eyes with the blonde lashes, the freckles across his nose. It's not clear who kisses who but you're kissing, his arm over your shoulder, yours around his waist. His lips are soft and gentle, a hand coming up to cup your face. You forgot how much you like kissing. It feels safe, Sam's body so warm against yours. You never kissed Shane. Not even once.

Sam pulls back from you, strokes back your hair. Smiles. "Let me go."

It feels more significant than it is when you say, "Okay."

He gets up and walks to the door, then turns back to you. Hesitates. Looks nervous all of a sudden, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

"What?"

He scratches the back of his head. "Uh. Well. There's this thing here. In Pelican Town. Like, the bouquets. Do you know about that?" You shake your head. "Well uh. If you want to declare your like... romantic interest in someone, you have to give them a bouquet. But they're kinda expensive. Honestly I feel like Pierre just made the whole thing up to sell flowers. They're pretty flowers, but I don't have like, a ton of money. So." He shrugs, looks at you.

"I'm not picking up what you're putting down. Sorry."

Sam smiles the cutest little sheepish smile. "Will you be my girlfriend?"

Fuck it. Might as well commit.

You nod, and he breaks out into a grin, literally punches the air. "Fuck yeah. That's awesome. Okay." He leans over the sofa to kiss you, briefly. "Okay. I have to go." He kisses you again. "I'm going." One more kiss, then he walks towards the door again. "Okay. See you soon."

"Bye."

"Bye." He's still grinning as he opens the door and disappears behind it.

You lay on your back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling, smile on your face. He's so fucking cute. You feel light again, like you're floating, like you're on the top of a mountain where the air is too thin.

The question lingers of... consummating the relationship. But there's time for that later. There's time for everything later.

After sunset, you're playing Prairie King and drinking wine and Sam texts you.

Hi

hi boyfriend

:) :) :) :)
Hi girlfriend
Okay I have a weird request

intriguing

So...
This is so awkward okay let me word it right

You pause the game and sit there staring at the '...' on the screen for a few minutes until the chunk of a message comes through.

You said you were into some like kinky stuff right?? So I was wondering if you would send me like a list of some things to Google. That sounds so weird but I wanna like, open my mind!! See what's out there!! And also obviously if you send me stuff that you like then... I can see if I wanna try it...
Sorry you don't have to
I'm being weird

hahaha no thats fine
kinda sweet tbh
and also kinda hot

;)

You send him a long list. Your thought process involves going back over your experiences with Shane in your mind, picking out key search terms. It feels wrong, thinking about Shane while you're messaging Sam. But it's exciting. Maybe you'll end up with the best of both worlds.

so do you wanna come over tomorrow for dinner
and maybe a sleepover
you can tell me about your fruitful research
or ... show me

Okay ;)
What time?

7?

Sounds good
See you soon ;)

lol enjoy your googling

I will ;)

You roll your eyes at the excessive winky faces, but you're smiling, too. You finish up the game of Prairie King and get ready for bed, and slide under the covers.

Thoughts wandering back over the conversation, you start thinking about Sam at this very moment. He's at home. Looking up the the things from your list, reading posts, watching porn. Thinking about you. Thinking about doing things to you. With you. He must be getting hard. How could he not?

Your hand wanders down inside your PJ shorts as you think about his dick straining inside his boxers, distracting, tempting. Maybe he relents, gets up and locks his door. Maybe he turns off his light, closes his curtains, puts his headphones on. Pulls out his dick and starts to touch himself. You’re wet at the thought, sliding your fingers in circles on your clit, thinking about him picturing each item on your list as he ticks them off. Stroking his cock silently, stifling any sound, watching some actress get fucked hard and imagining doing it to you.

Your thoughts take a turn and you imagine it too — his sweet kisses turning sloppy, his gentle touch becoming rough. The way his moans might sound. How his cum tastes. You touch yourself faster, back arching, imagining his hand on your throat as he pounds into you, soft eyes dark and full of desire. Is he a talker? Would he call you a dirty girl? Or would he just stare at you, breath loud and harsh, wordless save for the moans of your name?

You don’t know. But you want to. God, you want to.

You writhe in the sheets as you get close, and imagine him out there, fist wrapped tight around his cock, pumping, gasping, your face in his mind, your body in his fantasy. You climax as you think about his own orgasm, cum spurting out over his fist, jaw clenched tight, eyes squeezed shut so hard he sees stars.

You melt back into the bed as you finish, faint smile on your face. You won’t have to wait long to find out the answers to your questions. But they play through your mind for hours regardless.

The next day is full of chores and tasks. You put off your shower, working up a sweat, lugging buckets of milk back and forth across the grass, jarring mayonnaise for hours to the point where you must stink of it. None of it feels sexy even a little bit.

You knock off around 5 and spend an entire half an hour in the shower. Washing your hair, shaving, exfoliating, the 'I'm probably gonna get boned tonight' classic. You dress, style yourself, try not to doubt everything about your whole existence. At around 6:30, you have a glass of wine, just to relax a little, put you in the mood. You read back over your messages with Sam from last night and that helps too, and you start picturing his body again. Wondering. Does he have secret muscle? Secret softness? Or is he skinny? Does his chest have hair? Does his carpet match the drapes? Endless questions and only one way to find out.

At 6:45 you realise you said you would give him dinner but you were too busy thinking about sex. So you order takeout from the saloon.

Sam arrives a little late, breathy, apologetic as you open the door to him. "I don't know where the time goes sometimes!" he says, cheeks pink from his haste, and you let him in, reassure him. Gus knocks on the door about five seconds later with the food, and you crack the bag open on the kitchen table, sitting perpendicular at the corner, knees bumping together.

"So I dropped a watermelon, right, and Morris told me to just put it back on the shelf and I was like, dude it literally broke open on the floor..." He starts chatting as he eats, telling you about his day at work. You listen as best you can, figuring he's just getting warmed up, eating your spaghetti as classily as possible, while your eyes trail over his mouth as he talks, the way his jaw moves, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

"Oh, I asked Shane about that thing."

Your eyes snap up to his. "Huh?"

"You know when he was being weird and I said I'd ask him about it? I did. He said it was none of my effing business. But you know. He used different words." Sam shrugs. "He seemed normal, so."

You nod, chew, swallow. Chest tight. "Well alright then."

He looks at you, distracted from his pasta for the first time. Studies your expression. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you worried about him? Cos I'm kinda worried about him."

"No... it's..." You look down at the table. God. This is the last thing you should be discussing tonight, when you're supposed to be having sex. "Nothing."

Sam's face kind of crumples a little. Disappointment. "Oh. Okay."

"Fuck. I'm meant to be honest with you."

"You don't have to. You're allowed to have like, secrets."

You shake your head. It's too late now. If you don't tell him, the mood's dead anyway, cos he can't trust you. May as well lay it all on the table. "The other guy I was seeing. It was him."

"Shane?"

"Yeah."

"...Really?" It's doubtful, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah."

"Brown haired guy. 'Bout five nine."

"Yes, Sam."

"Sorry." He shakes his head, snaps out of it. "Sorry. I just... never would have guessed that."

"Why not?"

"From what you told me, you know. It being like, rough and all. I was picturing an Alex type. Big guy."

You shrug, can't help but smirk a little. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

Sam huffs a laugh, shakes his head again, shovels the last of his food into his mouth. "Yeah. True that."

You finish your plate too, and give them a rinse. The spaghetti sits heavy in your stomach. "You know," you say, leaning back against the sink. "Pasta might have been a bad call. I feel like I wanna take a nap now."

"Maybe we can go on a walk again?" he offers, seeming as full of energy as ever.

"Okay. That sounds nice."

You wander around the forest for a while as the last dregs of sunlight cling to the horizon, telling him about the farm, your grandpa, your old job. He tells you about working at Jojamart, how Morris keeps trying to scam them out of wages and only gives them 1 ply toilet roll. The conversation naturally turns back to Shane — apparently he hates Morris more than anyone — so you open up about it a little. It still stings, the loss. Still feels wrong to talk about it all in the past tense. But Sam's hand is warm in yours, listening with no hint of jealousy.

You don't tell him everything. That would take too long. You just tell him how you met at the bar, what little you know about him. It feels nice to get it off your chest. You didn't realise how much it felt like a secret.

When you get back to the house you feel lighter, the food digested, the weight off your shoulders. Sam slips off his shoes and jacket and sits on the sofa, and you pour two glasses of wine and join him. You cheers and you look at his arms as he drinks, bare in his t-shirt. Slender, lanky, a little tan with fine blonde hair. The wandering thoughts about his body flood back to you. Your gaze trails up to his and he smiles at you, soft and a little knowing.

"I wanted to say," he says, turning his body towards yours. "Thanks. For taking it slow."

You smile, shuffle a little closer to him. "It's been kind of nice, taking the time. I like getting to know you."

"I like getting to know you too."

"Plus it kinda builds the anticipation, doesn't it?" You give him a look somewhere between teasing and coy, taking another sip of wine.

He nods, keeps nodding for a little too long. "Yeah. Totally."

"So... did you wanna tell me about your research?" You keep your voice light and innocent, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa and carding your fingers through his hair.

His cheeks start to flush. "Okay."

"What was your research method?"

He fidgets in his lap. "Well, I had your list. Which was so helpful. So I googled some stuff which was informative but not very... practical? And I know it's not like, representative of real life but I looked at, uh. You know." He trails off like he wants you to finish for him. But you just wait patiently with a smirk. "You know. Uh. Porn."

"Interesting... Did you find that to be an effective strategy?" You trail your fingers down to his neck, brushing over the skin lightly.

He swallows, nods. "Yeah. Well, ah. Actually, I got distracted."

Your smirk deepens. "Distracted how?"

"Well. You know." He's a deep pink now, struggling to meet your eyes, but trying. "It was distracting. I got pretty turned on."

The fantasy from last night reappears in your mind, and your pulse picks up at the thought of it actually being true. You bite your lip and smile at Sam. "Yeah? Did you do anything about it?"

"I..." He ends up just nodding.

"Did you touch yourself?" He nods again. You slide a hand up his thigh, leaning forward to kiss his neck. "That's hot."

"...It is?"

"Yeah." You can hear his breath picking up as you slide kisses across his skin. "I like the thought of you getting yourself off."

"I was thinking about you," he breathes, and you moan a little, grip tightening on his leg. "Sorry," he blurts, and you lean back to look at him. Shame dances across his features, though he tries to hide it.

"Don't be sorry," you say, gently, rubbing his thigh in a soothing gesture, noticing the growing tent in his pants. "You're allowed to think about me. I want you to think about me." You lean forwards and kiss him for a while, tongues sliding against each other, wet and a little sloppy. He grips at your waist, and one of your legs slides into his lap, his hand wrapped around your calf. You pull back after a while and say, "I should tell you something too."

"Okay." He's breathless, pupils wide, mouth pink. Fuck. You remind yourself to take it slow. But it's hard — every touch from you, every word seems to cause a reaction like it's the first time he's ever felt good in his life.

"I touched myself last night too. Thinking about you." You say it as you graze your hand over his crotch, pushing down gently onto his erection. His eyes close briefly, mouth open. "Thinking about whether you were getting yourself off." His hips buck upwards into your touch, and the desperation of him is satisfying, fuels your desire. "Can I undo these?"

"Yeah," comes his immediate reply. You start undoing his fly and notice a change in the energy of the room, a shift. He doesn't say anything as you pull down his pants a little, and when you look back up at him, the nerves, the shame, they seem to have mostly melted away, replaced by a kind of focus as he stares at you. You don't break eye contact as you pull out his cock and start stroking it, get to watch his face go slack and his mouth open in a gasp. His dick is average girth but long, with a bit of a bend to it. His pubes are blonde. There's your answer to that question.

He doesn't moan, just gasps, breath hitching like he's struggling for it. One of his arms is still hooked around your waist and he pulls you closer to kiss you, then reaches out with his other hand, sliding it under your top to squeeze at a breast. You hum a little in encouragement, lips against his, and when he slides his fingers into your bra to play with your nipple, you moan, breaking off the kiss. Instantly he dives forward to start kissing at your neck instead, and your hand on his dick slows, distracted at the sensations. Then both of his hands slide onto your back and you're confused for a moment before he undoes your bra and starts pulling your shirt over your head. You help, smiling to yourself within the fabric, and you grin at each other when you're free. He looks more confident, now. Just had to get warmed up.

He looks down at your shirtless form and his breath catches in his chest briefly. "Woah," he says quietly, under his breath, almost to himself. All thoughts of taking it slow vanished, you reach out and tug at his shirt, and he looks reluctant to take his eyes off you as he lifts it over his head.

A few moments pass as you just look at each other. His body is slim, tight. Wide shoulders, narrow waist. Like a swimmer. Some definition at his biceps but mostly flat and a little angular. Lots of freckles, a few moles. A sparse coating of light chest hair leading down into a treasure trail. You run your hand down it, feel the fineness of the hair, the warmth of his skin, and then you take his dick in your hand once more. He gasps again, and then he takes you off guard when he leans forwards and wraps his lips around one of your nipples.

And that's when he groans. Starts sucking at it, working his tongue over it, enjoying it, dick twitching in your hand. Your hand tangles into his hair as you moan at the feeling, not just the concentrated pleasure of it but how eager he is, how keen, how suddenly shameless. He takes your breast with one hand to hold it to his mouth, groans still rumbling out of him, and his other hand slides under your skirt, tries to touch you. You're sitting with your thighs together so you readjust, climb into his lap, straddle him, continue to jerk him off as he mouths at your nipple.

His hand slips between your legs. He doesn't fuck around, immediately sliding his lithe fingers inside you and settling his thumb on your clit. "Fuck," you moan. His thumb moves in gentle circles as his fingers curl, and your hips twitch as the stimulation ripples through you. "Fuck, Sam."

You grip his dick harder but his hand comes away from your breast, takes your wrist, and moves it, stopping you from touching him. "Lemme concentrate," he mumbles, and you breathe a laugh, concede, wrapping the hand into his hair. He holds your breast again, ravishing your nipple with his tongue and lips and teeth, and starts moving faster between your legs, fingers burying deeper and curling harder, thumb still gentle on your clit but speeding up. You grip onto the back of the sofa, entirely helpless as the sweet pleasure envelops your senses, struggling just to stay upright.

"God." It comes out loud. Raw. "Sam."

His hand between your legs is soaked, your hips rutting down to meet his fingers, trying to help as he pushes deeper, long fingers curling forwards into the soft muscle inside you. His thumb slides down towards your pussy and he wets it more, and the sensation is doubled when he rubs your clit again, small, firm, fast circles, sucking and biting and licking at your nipple. Your core tightens as heat spreads across your skin.

"You're gonna make me cum," you breathe, and he groans, a sound you take as approval, and doesn't stop, keeping a steady rhythm all over your body. "Yeah, that's it baby, don't fucking stop." Your knuckles are white on the back of the sofa, body starting to tense, shake. Your head tips back and you moan as the orgasm hits you, eyes squeezing shut, coloured static filling your vision. His fingers are firm inside you, stretching you open and burying in deep, his thumb sweet and careful and firm on your clit, his mouth relentless on your breast, groans vibrating out of his mouth and onto your skin.

The moan turns to whimpers, whines, as you start to come down, helpless and a little pathetic as the heat courses through you and your body starts to go limp. Sam kisses up your chest towards your mouth, lips soft on yours, hand slowing between your legs. You kiss for a while, passionate and slow, wrapping your hand into his hair, humming the rest of your noises into his mouth as your afterglow starts to burn.

It feels... It feels like a lot. Kissing him softly and open-mouthed after an orgasm, his fingers still inside you. You've got no perspective, no hindsight on the emotion, but right now in the middle of it all, it just feels so warm. Like the warmest you could possibly be.

You pull back to catch your breath, closing your eyes, leaning your head back, taking deep lungfuls of air as sweat starts to dry on your skin. His hand rubs up and down your thigh, and when you look at him he's smiling, and of course, you're smiling too.

"Fuck, Sam. You kinda just took control, huh?" you tease.

A tinge of sheepishness mixes its way into his expression. "Sorry. I get carried away."

"No. I liked it."

"Yeah?"

"It was fucking sexy."

"Aw. Good." He finally pulls his hand away from you, pulls his fingers out. Looks at them. Then he puts them in his mouth, sliding them back out slowly, looking you in the eye, playful. You bite your lip. God. This could work.

You wrap your hand around his dick where it's half-hard between you, as he reaches down beside you. "What do you wanna do now?" you ask him, but he seems distracted, fiddling with something in his jeans pocket.

"I sent off a test," he says. "Should hear back in the next few days." He slides a condom out of its wrapper. "Hope you don't mind."

You stick out your bottom lip as he rolls it on. "Aw. Can't we just be naughty?"

He looks up at you, stroking himself slowly, and his expression is chastising. Teasing, playful, but firm. It's hot. "Nope." He grabs your ass and pulls you up onto your knees, lines his dick up with you. Plants his feet on the floor and pushes up with his hips. His cock slides inside you and you whine, sensitive and swollen. A nervous feeling flutters in your chest. Here we go. The ultimate test.

He hums low, eyes closing as he thrusts into you a few times, slow, fingers tightening slightly on your skin, and it feels indulgent on his part, like his entire focus is on his dick, like you’ve ceased to exist slightly. But the slow pace feels like nothing to you. You clear your throat and his eyes snap open.

"Sorry," he says, that sheepish tinge returning. "It’s distracting. You feel amazing." He doesn't stop though, still gently sliding in and out of you. "Okay. Uh. You want it rough, right?"

It sounds kind of awkward coming out of his mouth. "Yeah."

"Even now? After you just came?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. No rest for the wicked."

You roll your eyes and he laughs, then pats you on your hip, signalling for you to get off. You do, climbing onto the sofa beside him. "Where's your bedroom?" he asks, and you lead him to it. He has to hold his pants by the waistband.

You get inside and shut the door and he drops them, pulls off his boxers, stands naked in front of you. "Hi."

You slide off your skirt and underwear. "Hi." He's still got the condom on, dick pointing up and a little to the left. You take it in your hand, kissing at his neck and shoulders.

"So in my research," he says, weirdly serious for the time and place, "it seems like it's mostly from behind. Does that sound okay?"

"It's up to you," you murmur as you kiss him, his skin a little salty. "Get carried away."

"Okay." Pause. "But like, I got carried away before and you cleared your throat."

You realise your mistake then. Asking him to fuck you hard and rough but also follow his impulses. Those are not the same thing.

You try to come up with the answer as you buy time kissing at his neck. Should you tell him to just follow your instructions, get what you want but worry the whole time about his enjoyment? Or tell him to do what he wants with you even if it's boring?

You hesitate for a little too long and he says, "It's okay. I just gotta switch gears. I got into it last night, watching the porn."

There's an idea. "What did you watch?"

"Uh... a bunch of stuff. Like..." He swallows under your lips. "Sorry, I'm not good at like, saying it out loud. It makes me cringe."

"I can do it." You kiss his ear, biting at the lobe, and push his body back against the wall, pressing your breasts to his chest as you stroke his dick. "Just nod. Did you watch... doggy style?" He nods. "Any choking?" Nod. "Spanking?" Nod. "Anything more hardcore? BDSM?" Nod. "Bad boy," you breathe in his ear, and he gasps, hand coming up to grab your ass and pull you towards him. "Did you watch the whole list?" Nod. "Did you think about doing any of it with me?" Nod. "Anything in particular?" Hesitation. Then a nod. "Can you tell me what it is?" More hesitation. You pull back to look at him and he's biting his lip, a bit pink in the face, but his eyes burn as he looks at you.

"Can you show me what it is?"

He starts to smile slowly. Then he nods.

You step backwards, tingling in anticipation at what could be coming next, relishing in the way he's looking at you, like he's breaking some kind of rule. His hand goes to his dick and he pulls off the condom.

"Oh," you say, smiling back at him. "Interesting."

He moves towards you, takes your face in his hands and kisses you, the soft, sweet kisses you're used to. Then his hands slide down your neck and onto your shoulders, and gently, he pushes you down.

You oblige, sinking down to your knees, looking up at him. You lick the head of his cock and his eyes close as he gasps, leaning a hand against the wall behind him for support. "One request," you say, nuzzling your face against his crotch.

"Okay."

"I really, really like the dirty talk. So I want you to practise a little."

"...Okay."

"I can give you some pointers."

"Sure." He's breathless, distracted as your nose trails up and down his shaft.

"So... you could call me a dirty girl. A dirty slut. A dirty whore. A dirty anything, really." You aim your kisses up towards his hips, hand stroking him slowly. "Filthy is a good word too. Bad girl. Good girl. Tell me how I make you feel, how much you like it. Tell me all the things you wanna do to me. You wanna cum in my mouth? Tell me that. You wanna cum on my face? Tell me." You suck on the head for a few seconds and he moans. "Whatever comes to mind. No wrong answers. I promise it's not as cringe as you think it is. Just takes practise."

"Okay," he breathes, hips twitching towards you. "I'll try. Now can you..."

You look up at him. Wait.

"Can you..." He licks his lips. Swallows. You can see his chest rise and fall. "Can you suck me off?"

You smile, and wrap your hand around the base of his dick before taking it in your mouth. He groans, a thin sound like it's forced its way out of him. He just tastes like the condom now but you try to get a taste of him anyway, swirling your tongue over his slit, catching a hint of a sweet flavour. "God," he gasps, entirely limp, presumably distracted, so you reach out for his hand and place it on your head. "Oh, right." He sifts his fingers into your hair, grips it. Tight.

His hips start to move towards you. Gently, tentatively. You hum in approval, stroking at his thigh. "That's... ah. That's so good." You keep mostly still, let him go at his own pace, gradually building up to a gentle thrust into your mouth. "God. Fuck." Hearing him swear is sexy in itself, he does it so rarely.

"I'm... I'm gonna go harder now." You hum again, keep sucking at him. "Yeah?" You hum, mm-hmm. "You want me to go harder?" Mm-hmm. "That's so hot." He starts to pick up his speed, pushing a little faster and firmer into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he pulls at your head. "You're so hot. You're a bad girl." Mm-hmm. It sounds clumsy coming out of his mouth but the effort is there, and he's just getting warmed up. "Bad, bad girl," he breathes, cut off slightly by a moan. "Dirty girl." More pre-cum leaks out of him and it's sweet but a little salty, a little bitter.

"Harder?" His voice is strained, low. You hum. Mm-hmm. Your scalp starts to ache as he grips your hair hard. "God, that's good. You're, you're such a good girl." That one kind of makes your chest ache but you push it down and hum again. Mm-hmm. His dick pushes further into your mouth as his hips rut forwards. Tears form in your eyes. His moans are so captivating, slightly self-conscious in how they cut themselves off but swollen with feeling.

"Feels so wrong," he tells you. "Using you like this. Feels dirty. Like, like I shouldn't be doing it." He pauses to gasp. "But I was thinking about it when I jerked off. Imagining it was your mouth on me." That makes you moan around him, hand reaching up to grab at his ass. That's fucking hot. You're acting out his fantasy.

His dick is longer than Shane's and it uses all your concentration to take him, to stay relaxed enough. His moans are messy, desperate, the dirty talk forgotten for now, until he comes out with, "I wanna cum in that beautiful mouth," and you almost choke. Fuck. That's poetry.

His cock twitches, and you brace yourself for his orgasm. He moans, "Baby, fuck, I..." And then it seems to catch him by surprise, cumming with a pained sound, panting as his cum spurts into your throat. "God, baby," he moans, "god, baby." Over and over he says it, stroking back your hair even as he's cumming, thrusts becoming soft and gentle and shallow into your mouth.

You rub your hand up and down his leg as he softens, and when he's done you pull back. Meet his eye. Swallow, and open your mouth. "Oh my god," he groans, closing his eyes and shaking his head, leaning heavily back against the wall. "Baby. Oh my god."

You laugh. He holds out a hand, helps you to your feet, wraps his arms around you as he gets his breath back. You press your head to his chest, soft hair tickling your ear, and hear his heartbeat pounding, hear his breath gradually slow. He strokes your hair and you run your hands up and down his back.

He kisses the top of your head. "How did I do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, at being rough. At the dirty talk."

"You did good.”

"You can be honest."

"No, I am. There’s room for improvement. But you did good."

He huffs a small laugh, kisses your head again. "If you say so."

Of course he won't accept it. But you meant it. He did good.

It's late now and Sam's got permission to sleep over, so you get under the covers in your bed, wrapping your bodies around each other, heads on the pillow, staring as you talk.

He tells you about Sebastian. How they'd snuck into Sam's bedroom one night just to hang out but then Sebastian had kissed him, apologised, and tried to leave. But Sam had stopped him. Liked the kiss. Wanted more. They'd had sex and the next morning Sam had told Sebastian he had fun and he didn't regret it but he thought they were better off as friends. Sebastian had agreed but Sam had seen the small heartbreak there in his friend's expression. And nothing has been the same since.

"Poor Sebastian," you say, stroking Sam's hair back. It's stiff and a little crunchy under your touch.

"Yeah." He shrugs a shoulder. "And there's been stuff like that in the past... People like me more than I like them and I just. Don't want to hurt anyone."

"There was nothing you could've done."

"I shouldn't have slept with him. That probably made it worse."

"You didn't know he would take it so hard."

"I guess. I can be kind of dumb sometimes, though. I probably should have noticed how he felt about me."

"You're too hard on yourself."

"Says you," he teases, and you smirk. He nudges you with his body. "Your turn."

"For what?"

"Sharing."

"What do you wanna know?"

He bites his lip, lets it go slowly. "You don't have to tell me."

"...Okay."

"What happened with Shane?"

You try not to let it affect you but you can feel the smile slip, can't help but look away. He doesn't say anything, just waits. You take a few deep breaths. "It was casual. Very casual. But I got too attached. He... well, he didn't break up with me, cos we were never together. But he ended things."

You look back at Sam and shrug. His grey eyes are big and sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks. I..." You take another deep breath and let it all out in a huff. "I cared about him. You know? I still do. And I think he cared about me."

"Yeah."

"But I don't even know anything about him."

"Me neither."

"All he wants is to be left alone to rot." You shake your head. "...What do you do with a guy like that?"

Sam shakes his head too. "I don't know." He finds your hand under the covers and squeezes it. "Thanks for telling me."

"It's okay." You turn off the light and tuck your head into his chest and you fall asleep like that, bundled together.

Well, he does. You're up for hours. Brain whirring. Sifting through your memories, replaying them.

Sam did good earlier. For a first attempt. You had to coach him, guide him, which wasn't the sexiest thing but he did his research, he tried. With time he'll get better. Things will flow. He just needs practise.

When he called you a good girl it felt like a knife in your chest. You might have to tell him not to call you that. It might be ruined forever. But, it was good. It wasn't particularly natural. It wasn't effortless. You had to try.

Yeah. It was good.

But you've had great.

Chapter Text

On Friday, Sam asks if you want to go to the saloon with him and his friends. You think about it for a few moments before accepting. There are like, three things to do in this town, one of which is a walk. You can't just avoid the saloon forever.

It's been a week now since Shane 'broke up' with you and the wound is healing slower than you would like. Slower than it should be for such a casual thing. Especially when you've got the world's best rebound as your boyfriend. Sam is incredibly sweet, texting you every day that he misses you or saw something that made him think of you. It feels good for you. You really like him. Really, genuinely.

The wound will heal in time. Right? It has to.

The saloon is busy on a Friday night, everyone blowing off steam from the week. Pierre nurses a beer and looks over his books, Elliott's found a new friend in Leah, Willy and Clint sit in silence at the same table. Even the Mayor's out, stuffed into a tight booth with Marnie.

And Shane's there. Obviously. He's part of the furniture at this point.

Sam opens the door for you as you enter and you walk up to the bar together. "What do you want?" he asks you, pulling out his wallet as Emily approaches to serve you. "I just got paid!"

"Double whiskey." You pull out your own wallet. "I'll get it. I like the good stuff."

"Aw, okay." He orders a beer and checks his phone. "Seb says they'll be a few minutes."

"No worries. You can go rack up the balls, I'll bring the drinks over."

"Okay!" Sam leans down to kiss you, smiles, and walks off towards the pool table.

You glance over at Shane as you wait for the drinks. It's pointless to try to avoid looking at him. You know you're going to eventually, so you just do, but you try to make it quick. Elbow on the bar, jaw in his palm, staring dead-eyed straight ahead. Occasionally moving to take a long sip of beer. It's getting colder now, winter on the approach, and you notice a blue knitted beanie sitting on the bar next to him, his hair a little messed up, presumably from where he's pulled it off.

You can't stop looking. It burns. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Emily puts the drinks down in front of you and you pay, join Sam at the pool table. You wonder if Shane even noticed you were there.

Abby and Sebastian arrive and you twirl a pool cue in your hand. "Who wants first game?"

Sebastian glares at you. "Me and Sam always play."

"...Always?"

"Yeah."

"Abby doesn't play?"

"No."

You look at Abby. "Do you want to play?"

She shrugs. "It's fun to watch Sebastian whoop Sam's ass."

"Hey!" Sam protests, pouting. "He does not whoop my ass." Sebastian just smirks.

"Can I play winner?" you ask.

Sebastian rolls his eyes hard. "But that's just gonna be me."

"Come on. If Sam sucks so bad you must not have had a challenge in a while. All you know is that you suck slightly less than Sam."

He narrows his eyes at you, but after a moment he says, "Fine."

You sit on the couch with Abby to watch the first game, you sipping your whiskey, her sipping her red wine. You chat about the band while you watch the boys play. She was right. It is fun. Sam breaks but doesn't get any in. Sebastian's good, pots four balls in a row while Sam watches with a dumbfounded expression. When it's his turn he pots the white. "Fuck!" Sam swears, and immediately follows it with, "Sorry, sorry." Sebastian looks at him, smirks, with this incredible fondness in his eyes.

You lean over to Abby. "So Sebastian's in love with Sam, right?"

"Oh yeah," she says, nodding. "Big time."

"Do you think he knows?"

"Sam or Sebastian?"

"Sebastian."

"Probably not. For all the time he spends alone he's not got great introspection skills."

"Tell me about it. I had to be the one to tell him he was gay."

"Oh, that was you? Well done. He actually accepted it this time." Abby grins, leans closer. "Few years ago we made out when we were drunk and he puked immediately. Immediately. I had a hunch before that but that just confirmed it for me. I tried to tell him then but he just got all defensive."

"Wow. Sounds rough for your ego all round."

She shrugs, leans away again. "Nah. I didn't let it get me down."

Sebastian rounds the table, potting one ball after another. Sam crosses his arms, sulks, while Sebastian goes for the black ball. He strikes it and it sinks into the pocket.

Sebastian blows the end of the cue like a gun. "Now that's what I call whooping ass."

"You got lucky," Sam grumbles.

"You want a rematch?"

"Hey!" you interrupt, standing. "You said I could play winner!"

Sam hands you his cue. "Here. Take it. It's cursed."

"No curse," Sebastian calls as he racks up the balls. "Just pure skill."

"You break," you tell Sebastian, and he lines up his shot as Sam leans down to kiss you. It feels good, your body receptive and warm with the alcohol, and you pull him in by the waist, make it last a little longer.

"Fuck," you hear, and pull back from Sam. Sebastian's failed to pot any balls.

"The curse is broken!" Sam cries, shaking you gently as he punches the air.

You smile up at him, then go to take your shot. You meet Sebastian's eye as you walk past him, and understanding passes between you. "Don't make me use my powers for evil," you mutter as you line it up.

"Piss off," he says.

You pot three balls. He pots two. You pot two. He pots three. Abby and Sam watch intently, silently, Sam gripping onto the arm of the sofa as you and Sebastian glare at each other, moving around the table.

You pot two. Just the black now. You miss and it's Sebastian's turn. He pots two and misses the black also.

"Neck and neck," you muse, looking teasingly at Sebastian, who's still glaring at you. "Would hate to see the king lose his throne." He doesn't reply. Just glares. "I'm gonna get another drink," you say brightly, and wander off to the bar.

You order another whiskey from Emily, get Sam another beer. Cast a quick glance at Shane.

He's not there.

You literally do a double take. It's the first time you've ever seen that stool empty. His hat is gone too.

Emily gives you the drinks. "Where did Shane go?" you ask her.

"I don't know. He didn't say. Weird, huh?" She frowns. "The energy of this place feels different without him."

"Yeah. I wonder where he went."

"I think sometimes he hangs out on that pier by his house. The one on the lake." She shrugs, starts clearing his empty glasses. "Not often though. Just sometimes."

You nod, thank her, and take the drinks over. Sam smiles and kisses you when you hand him the beer. You take a big sip of whiskey, just standing there.

"It's your turn," Sebastian says, impatient.

"Oh. Sorry." You approach the table, try to get back into the same headspace.

Why did he leave? Was it because of you? Because you were with Sam? Or was it just a coincidence? Are you reading too much into it?

What does any of it matter anyway? You're not together. You're not even friends. You're nothing.

You line up your shot, shoot. Miss.

Sam cries out, pained. Sebastian smirks. He leans down, shoots. Pots the black.

You glare at him with the force of a thousand suns as he blows the end of the cue. "Whooping," he says, pausing for effect. "Ass."

"Rematch!" Sam cries, jumping to his feet and appearing at your side. "You got lucky!"

You shake your head, feeling a little dizzy. "No. He won fair and square."

"But you almost had him!"

"I can whoop his ass next week." You hand the cue to Sam and knock back the rest of your drink. "I'm gonna get some fresh air."

"Hey. You feeling okay?" Sam's all concern, putting the back of his hand to your forehead.

You smile up at him. "Fine. Just hot."

"Okay. I'll miss you." He tucks your hair behind your ear and you kiss briefly. God. You like him. You really do.

The cool air of the outside is welcome, your skin hot, flushed. You stand there aimlessly, not even sure why you came out here. Just needed space.

You wander off a little, still getting used to the layout of the town. The sound of the river is nice so you walk alongside it for a while, watching the stars, the moon. It's a beautiful night sky. You're glad you moved here. No matter how much hurt this place has brought you, at least you feel something.

...Why did he leave the bar? Emily made it seem like it was incredibly rare. It's only about nine o'clock, nowhere close to closing time. He'd seemed out of it when you looked at him, focus entirely inward. But his eyes were open. Did he see you? Did he leave to get away from you? What would it mean if he did?

You stop short suddenly. Your feet have carried you to Cindersap Forest, and you're fifty or so feet from the pier.

Fuck. He wants you to leave him alone. He rejected you. He dumped you. He doesn't want you.

But... he never said that. He let you go for your own good, for the sake of his sick dream to burn out or fade away. Not because he didn't want you. Not because he didn't care.

You move a little closer and squint. There's a figure sitting on the tip of the pier. You can't make it out very well but it looks like him. Indecision chokes you. You told Sam you would just be a minute. You walk closer. It's definitely him, pack of beer by his side.

You pull out your phone. Open your messages with Shane.

can i join you

You send it, a little relieved he hasn't blocked you, and wait a few moments. He takes a long swig of beer and pulls his phone out.

Looks up. Looks around. Looks right at you.

You stand there frozen in the darkness, about thirty feet away. He just stares at you. You stare back. It's too far to make out any kind of expression, too dark. Just his head pointed towards you.

Minutes pass. It could be hours for all you know. Most likely it's seconds, since you're holding your breath the entire time. Eventually, he turns away. Looks out across the lake. Puts his phone back in his pocket. You're about to leave when he pulls another beer from the pack and just places it on the deck next to him.

You approach, feet carrying you forwards again, almost against your will. You text Sam.

sorry i wasn't feeling well but didn't wanna make a big deal
fresh air didn't help so i went home but might be back later if i feel better
have fun xx

Ohhhh babyyyyyy I hope you feel better!!
Are u sure you don't want me to come over xx

nooo its ok you have fun xx

Okay baby get well soon <3 <3 xxxxxx

You lock your phone and put it away as you walk onto the pier, the wood creaking under your step. You've never been on here before and it doesn't feel entirely stable. That's probably why Shane likes it.

You pick up the beer he left out and sit in its place, feet dangling a few inches from the water. "Do you have whiskey?" you ask him.

"No," he says.

"Ugh." You crack the can, drinking continuously as you look out over the lake. It's like a painting, the moon reflected on the water, dappled strokes of a white paintbrush. You finish the beer and can't hold in a burp. Pull out another from the pack.

"Why are you out here?" you ask him.

"Gets too loud in the saloon sometimes."

You glance at him. He's got the beanie on, hair sticking out the bottom a little. He's wearing pants, too, just some generic blue jeans, swinging his legs over the water. You look at his face. It burns. This was a bad idea.

He looks back at you. You let him. His greyish-green eyes seem to study you, searching your face. Trying to figure you out. He swallows before he says, "Why won't you leave me alone?" It's not hostile. He says it sort of gently. It's a real question.

Embarrassed, you look away, see him still watching you out of your peripheral. "Sorry." He just shrugs and looks away too, out across the lake.

You watch the water move and think about it for a while. Then you say, "Closure. Otherwise I'm always gonna wonder. Then I'll leave you alone."

"How do you get closure?"

"I just want one conversation." It comes out a little desperate and you're staring at him again. "One real conversation where you're honest with me, where I can be honest with you. No walls, no shells. Just give me like, half an hour."

You let him think it over. You love him. But you don't know him. It's easier to love an idea than a person, all the harsh edges rounded by possibility. Everything hanging in the potential. If you learned more about him there are two ways it could go. You could grow further apart as you realise he isn't who you thought he was. Or you could fall in love for real. You need to know which one it is. The potential of it is killing you.

"Okay," Shane says, picking up another beer. "Look. I'm not gonna be a fuckin' open book but I'll try."

"Thank you," you say. He looks over at you and you smile at him. He frowns a little, mouth pulling back into a sort of smile that's more like a grimace really.

You readjust on the wood, turning towards him, pulling one leg up. "Are we still friends?"

"We were never friends."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not! You would help me out with boys."

"You bribed me to do that."

"Like a friend would."

He huffs a laugh, shakes his head.

"So you don't wanna be my friend?" you ask.

"No."

"You just never wanna hang out ever again?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"You know why." His voice gets harsher, annoyed. "You know why. But that doesn't seem to matter. Doesn't seem to stop you from showing up anyway."

It hurts. You let it sit in the air for a while.

"Look," he says. It's softer. "If we could sit next to each other in silence every night for the rest of my stupid life then that would be fine. But I don't think you can do that. And I don't think you should."

"Why do you get to make that choice for me?"

"I'm not."

"But you are. You keep saying you don't want me to go down the same path as you." You're the one that sounds annoyed now. "I made my choice. I broke up with Sam. I picked you. And you just overrode that like it was nothing."

"I just want to be left alone." He throws a twig into the lake and it punctuates the word with a splash. A few fish dart away under the water as it ripples out. "I don't want you going down the same path as me so I can be on it alone."

You shake your head, gentle. "I don't believe that. I know that you care about me."

"I don't."

"You do. Otherwise you'd just keep me under your thumb. Telling me where to go, when to be there so you can just fuck me and walk away. Doesn't matter if my feelings get hurt. You'd just keep your walls up and keep me hanging on. But you ended it. You care about me."

It's hard to read his expression in profile. He just stares down at the water, beer in hand. "What would it matter if I did? It wouldn't change anything."

"We could be together," you say, lump in your throat. You swallow it, grab another beer. "We could be together, we could figure all this stupid fucking life shit out. Together."

"I've tried."

"You haven't tried with me."

"You don't know what I've been through."

"So tell me." Your voice swells with feeling. It's like you're begging him.

He looks at you. Really looks at you. His mouth is a straight line, brow furrowed, eyes suspicious. He chugs back some beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Jas," he says, then stops. Clears his throat. Takes another long sip of beer.

"Jas is my goddaughter. What stupid fuck put me in charge of a kid? ...Her mom. We were best friends since we were kids. Dated for a few years too. I even tried to give her one of those stupid fucking pendants but she said no. Broke my heart but we were still friends. She met a guy, I met a guy. She got married. I got my heart broken again. And again. The godfather thing was meant to be a formality. She was never meant to fucking die."

He clears his throat again. There are tears in his eyes. He looks away.

"Her husband took off. Couldn't handle it. We just told Jas he died too. Didn't know what else to say. How can you leave a kid like that? I barely knew her and I knew I couldn't just fucking leave her. So here I am. Working a job that I hate more than anything else in the entire world. Drinking away most of my paycheck. Just so I don't kill myself. So I'm not just another person who left her."

The tears spill over and he wipes them harshly with his sleeve before downing the rest of his beer, cracking another. "It's obligation. That's the only reason I'm still here. I should never have let her make me the fucking godfather. I thought it was a joke. But now, no matter how much I want to just roll off a cliff or drown in the lake or give myself alcohol poisoning, I can't. And I love Jas but I kind of hate her for that."

He drinks for a while and a few minutes pass in silence. You don't know what to say. It doesn't feel like he's finished.

"If you're like me," he starts, then looks at you, eyes red and wet and full of sorrow. "If you're like me then you should know. Every person you get close to, every connection you make, everyone who you care about and who cares about you. Just adds to the collateral damage." He takes a breath and sighs. "And you'll probably end up hating them for it."

"Do you hate me?" you ask. Quiet.

He gives you a small, sad smile. "No. Not really. Not yet. I just wish I'd never met you."

Tears spring to your eyes. It shouldn't hurt so much but it does. You'd never take any of it back. You'll be thinking about him for the rest of your life.

Shane frowns a little at your tears. Reaches up slowly with a gentle hand and brushes them from your face. You catch his hand and hold it to your face, press your lips into his palm. It's rough. Smells like beer. Smells like him. You close your eyes briefly, try and commit it to memory, the warmth, so much warmer because you know it's him. Then you wrap his hand in your own and hold it, resting them on the dock between you.

He lets you. You wonder what's different. Why he's blowing you off one second, saying you were never friends, and then the next he's drying your tears, holding your hand. He doesn't want to care about you. That much is clear. But you get these small moments of vulnerability. You can't help but feel like this is what he really wants.

"I'm sorry about your friend," you say after a while.

"Thanks," he says. Then he shrugs. "There's more. Childhood stuff. Just... more. But you get the idea."

"Yeah." You squeeze his hand. "I get it. Thanks." You decide to push your luck. You lean your head onto his shoulder. He doesn't move, doesn't react. It's comfy, the squish of his hoodie. The small rise and fall of his breath.

"I miss you," you say.

He huffs a small laugh from his nose. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"You're a masochist."

"Maybe. But I miss you."

"You've got Sam."

"Yeah." Guilt pangs through you. You almost don't say it out loud but it's just the two of you, out on the lake in the darkness. It feels private, honest. "But he's not you."

You feel his head turn towards you a little, the brush of his cheek on your hair. He readjusts his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together. "That's an understatement."

"Hah."

"I thought you wanted closure."

"I do." You frown at yourself. All you've been doing is trying to convince him to be with you. "I do, I don't want to be thinking about you all the time. I want to move on and leave you alone and be with Sam and be happy. That's what I want. Hypothetically. But here I am. Lying to him so I can sit next to you."

"The call of the void," Shane says, a little amused.

You smirk. "Yeah. Something like that." You think for a few moments. "How do you know when to give up? When you're too broken to try to keep going anymore?"

He shrugs, gently enough not to disturb your head. "It wasn't a choice. I just couldn't anymore. You get knocked down so many times, eventually you can't get up again."

"So you're saying... I need to go and suffer a whole bunch until my hope is completely obliterated, and then I should come back to you and we can be friends."

He chuckles. Leans his head onto yours. "Sure. Why not."

You're crying again. It's not clear why. It's just so sad, the reality of it. That you can't have what you want.

"I think it's too late," you say.

"Mm?"

You sniff, and Shane lifts his head to look at you. You take your head off his shoulder, your bodies turned towards each other, hands still laced between you.

"I'm already collateral damage," you say.

"Oh," he says. It doesn't sound like disappointment, more like an acknowledgement, his brow furrowing slightly. "Yeah."

You have to say it. Have to get it off your chest. That's what this whole thing is. But you can't look into his eyes, have to look at his mouth. You can see a small cut above his lip from his last attempt at shaving, a scar on his chin that doesn't grow hair.

"I feel like I love you," you say.

He blinks a few times, eyes narrowing in confusion and surprise.

"I don't know if I do," you add. "But it really, really feels like it."

He nods slowly, like he's processing. You look up at him again, eyes meeting. He's frowning but as you watch, the tension gradually releases, muscles in his face relaxing, until he just looks kind of... calm.

The gentle sloshing of the lake water becomes distant, almost silent. The chilly breeze of the wind fails to make you shiver. The moon in the sky is just a spotlight, created just for you, just for this moment.

Shane leans towards you and kisses you.

It's careful. Reserved. Like he knows it's a bad idea, like he wishes you would pull away. You don't. You kiss him back, slow, fighting your desperation for more, not wanting to push it too far. His lips are chapped, rough, his stubble scratchy and harsh on your face. It's just like you thought it would be. It burns.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers at the base of your skull, some of that hesitation breaking down as he kisses you a little firmer, a little faster, and you can't hold back a soft moan, can't help but push closer, push your bodies together, sliding your hand inside his hoodie to rest at his waist, gripping onto him like he might run away. He pushes towards you too, kisses becoming sloppy. The hand on your jaw moves, fingers slipping up into your hair, and he grabs it, tips your head back slightly before sliding his tongue into your mouth.

You groan, and it comes out sounding like relief. His tongue tastes like beer, the kiss all-consuming, deep and curious as he explores your mouth. It feels like it did when he ate you out on your kitchen table. Like he's hungry for it.

You slip your hand under his shirt and trail your fingers against the skin of his waist, and you make out like that for a while, the heat of desire building inside you, every passing moment convincing you that it isn't real, that he's going to push you away, tell you to fuck off and leave him alone. But his grip only tightens in your hair, his kisses only grow fiercer, sucking, biting at your lip.

Then he pulls away a little, starts kissing down your neck. Hard, firm kisses, open mouthed, licking at your throat before sucking on it. Making hickeys. Marking you. You know it's dangerous, read somewhere that it's bad for your health. But you don't care. And it's dangerous, too, because of the visibility. You think about Sam briefly. You never explicitly said you were exclusive but that's no excuse. He almost definitely thinks you are. Will you avoid him until the hickeys fade? Lie to him again? Or will you come clean, hope he forgives you?

That's a question for tomorrow. You'll face the consequences. You'll face the music when it comes. Right now all you want in the world is Shane's mark on you, proof that this isn't a dream, that he wants you, needs you.

"Let's go back to my place," you breathe.

"No," he says, and kisses your mouth again, pushing his body into yours, putting his weight on you, making you lay back onto the decking. You shuffle away from the water to make room for him, open your legs, wrap them around him as you continue to kiss. He rests on his elbows as the weight of his body presses down into you, enveloping you in heat and pressure. You feel doubt briefly — it's one thing to have sex deep in the forest like before, but here? It's dark, sure, but anyone could hear you. The feeling dissolves as soon as he pushes his hips against yours. He rubs his erection against you through layers of clothing and you moan into his mouth, grind your hips up into his, grab at his ass and pull everything closer.

Then suddenly he stops. Pulls back, sits up, kneeling between your legs where they're still wrapped around him. You look at each other. His mouth is wet, pink. His eyes are dark. He wants you. But they're stern, a little bit of that reservation clinging on, a shred of self-control left.

"This is the last time," he says.

You nod. "Okay."

"I mean it. This is your closure."

You take in the seriousness of it, the firmness of it. Your chest rises and falls, heart pounding in your chest. It can't be the last time. It just can't.

"I..." You want to argue but you know there's no point, no way to change his mind. If you protest, he'll just walk away. Better one last time than never again. "Okay."

His frown releases, replaced with a tiny, one-sided smirk. "Okay." He looks down at you, your outfit. You're wearing a dress, with a sweater over the top and tights underneath for the cold. He runs his hands up your thighs, pushing the skirt up, then rubs his thumb gently over your pussy through the fabric. Your hips buck upwards and his smirk grows. He pinches your tights between his fingers, gets a grip on them. "I hope these weren't expensive," he says, before ripping a hole in them.

"You fucking asshole," you breathe, the desire behind it erasing any venom.

He keeps ripping, makes a hole that covers your whole crotch, before sliding your underwear to the side. He doesn't touch you, just spreads you open, looks at you. "You get so wet for me," he murmurs. "Why?"

"Because I want you."

"I know that." He brushes his thumb over your labia, just hinting at your entrance. Your hips twitch. "But you get so desperate." He looks up at your face. "Look at you. You'd do anything for it, wouldn't you? Why is that?"

"You're the best I've ever had." You reach down your sides to grab at his legs, gripping onto his jeans. "I think about it every day. No one compares, nothing compares."

"No one?" He cocks an eyebrow, pushes his thumb inside you only a fraction. "Not... Elliott?"

You shake your head. "No."

"Not..." His thumb rubs inside you. "Sebastian?"

"No. God. No."

He smiles, dark, playful. "Not Sam?"

You start to speak but your conscience stops you. Sweet Sam. His golden smile, his touching effort. You don't want to bring him into this.

Shane's smile grows, and he slides his thumb up to your clit, starts circling it, making you moan. "Come on," he teases, chastising. "You know it's true. Dirty slut. You wouldn't be here otherwise." He touches you slowly, making you ache. "You wouldn't be so desperate for me, so fucking wet, so ready to let me fuck you on this pier where anyone could see, if he could give it to you like I do." He shrugs a shoulder, casual. "It's obvious."

"Please." You don't mean to say it, it just slips out. You need him.

He shakes his head gently, takes his thumb off you and puts it in his mouth. His eyes close briefly as he tastes you and then he starts to undo his belt. You dig your fingers into the backs of his thighs as he takes out his cock, starts stroking himself slowly, doesn't touch you.

You glare at him. He smirks. It's a stalemate.

"Fine," you say. "Fine. You're right."

He tilts his head, feigns confusion. "Can you be more specific?"

Fucking bastard. Your whole body pulses with arousal. It feels like you might explode if he doesn't touch you. "You're better than Sam."

He leans over you again, rests a hand next to your head. Touches himself while the fabric of his jeans rubs lightly against your bare pussy. "Good girl," he murmurs, and you whine, grabbing at him, trying to pull him closer, to kiss you, touch you, anything. He breathes a laugh. "So fun to tease you. So easy to get you worked up. I could do this for hours. And you'd let me, wouldn't you. Little whore."

"Please," you groan again. "Please. I need it. I need it, I need you."

He rubs the head of his dick against your clit and you moan, back arching, clutching at his hoodie. "You can do better than that," he says. "Come on. I wanna hear that filthy fucking mouth."

"Ugh." May as well let it all out. If it's the last chance you have to say any of it. "Fine, you fucking asshole. I'll tell you how much I want you. Sam asked me what I'm into and I sent him a list and every single thing on it was just things you'd done to me. Things I wished you'd do to me again. Slapping me around. Cumming in me raw. Rough. Public. The dirty talk. The force. The way you laugh at me, call me desperate, call me a filthy fucking bitch. He fucked my face and it was good, it was good, but it wasn't good enough to get you out of my fucking head. Half the time you fuck me and leave me there and the other half you give me the best orgasms of my fucking life, and I never know which one it's gonna be but I like that, I like it when you make me cum and I like it when you leave me there with my pussy aching and I like not knowing what's coming next. I like the power you have over me. I like letting you do whatever you want to me. If I could, Shane, I would fuck you every day for the rest of my life. I would let you do anything."

His teasing smile fades as you speak. When you're done, he waits a few moments. Thinks about it. Then he says, "Good enough," and pushes his cock inside you.

He fucks you slow at first, leaning down onto his elbows so his weight rests on you, burying his hand tight in your hair and pulling your head to the side to suck hickeys up the other side of your neck. You moan helplessly, loudly, too loud, unable to hold it back, and he moans too, quietly, low, so close to your ear, delicious and personal, just for you. He bites your earlobe, cutting off your moan with a gasp at the pain. "Such a good little whore," he breathes. "Such a warm, wet pussy. You want it harder, don't you?"

You nod fervently. "Yes."

"Moan my name." His stubble scratches your skin as his voice rumbles in your ear. "Moan my name so loud they can hear it all across town."

"Shane," you moan.

A hand slides up your dress and into your bra. He grabs your breast, grip tight, possessive. "Louder."

You take a deep breath. You might regret this tomorrow but for now there's nothing in the world that could stop you. "Shane."

It's so loud, he pulls away from you slightly, flinching. Your eyes meet and he grins. "That's my good girl." His voice is soft, almost affectionate. "By the time I'm done with you, everyone's gonna know who you belong to."

And then he makes good on his word, starts snapping his hips into you hard, each thrust sending a wave of euphoria through you. Your mouth drops open and your eyes squeeze shut and you're silent, overwhelmed by the pleasure, before you start to whimper, high-pitched, pathetic sounds. He grips onto your hair but his other hand slides from your chest up to your neck, and he presses in on the sides, right where he left the hickeys. It hurts. It aches. It burns.

He takes your ear in his teeth again, bites down so hard you're not convinced he hasn't drawn blood. "Baaaad girl," he breathes, drawing it out, basically purring. "I can go harder." You shiver as he sticks his tongue inside your ear, then he presses his lips right to it. "You want it harder? You wanna feel it tomorrow?"

"Yeah, god."

"You want me to make you sore? Make you ache?"

"Yeah."

He laughs. "Filthy fucking bitch." He kisses your ear before leaning back, pulling your legs onto his shoulders, lifting your ass from the deck. Then he leans down again, pushing your thighs back against your body, making your muscles scream. His hands slide under you, under your back, grip your shoulders from behind. And he fucks you so hard you don't think you'll ever feel normal again.

You whine, a vibrato, punctuated with every slam of his cock, clinging onto him for dear life, tears in your eyes. "God," he moans, head hanging over you. "Fuck. You take it so good. My good little whore." You squeeze your pussy around him. "Yeah. That's it. So tight for me. You like it when I stretch you open?"

"Yeah," you moan. "I love that thick fucking cock." He's swollen inside you, filling you completely, carving into you, even more so now he's getting close. He's staring at you, sweat on his face, dripping down his nose. You reach up and snatch the beanie off his head, push his hair back away from his face. It stays there, wet.

"Thanks," he says with a bit of a smirk, eyes burning into yours. "Now. You want my cum?"

"Yeah, god, yeah."

"You want me to cum deep inside you? Put a baby in you?"

It takes you by surprise this time, and your expression must give it away because his smirk grows. "What?" he asks, innocent, slowing his pace. "You don't want that?"

"I want it," you say quickly, grabbing at his waist, trying to pull him into you faster again. "I want it."

He just keeps smirking, fucking you slowly, dick twitching, so close to the edge but holding back somehow. "I don't find that very convincing."

You roll your eyes. He wants you to talk dirty again. "What is it with you and this?"

He shrugs a shoulder. One of your legs lifts with it. "I like it when you beg for me," he tells you, voice low and smooth and full of desire. "I like knowing how much you want me. What you'd do for me. How crazy I drive you. I like hearing the dirty, kinky thoughts you have about me. It turns me on, it gets me hard."

"I bet you think about me," you say, confidence coming from somewhere. "When you jerk off." Pause. "Don't you?"

He keeps up the smirk but you swear you see it falter for a moment. "Maybe."

"You do. You want me to beg for your cum so you can play it over and over again in your head while you touch yourself. Isn't that right?"

His smirk starts to fade. After a few moments, he nods.

"Give me your phone," you say.

He pulls it from his back pocket and hands it to you unlocked. You open the voice recorder, looking him right in the eye, smiling, playing with him.

"Hi Shane," you say into the phone. Your voice comes out breathy. "I've got your dick inside me right now. Feels so good. So thick and hard. You fuck me so good, you know that? Nice and rough, just how I like it. I can already feel where it's gonna hurt tomorrow." You pause, swallow, lick your lips. He doesn't take his eyes off you.

"Touch yourself good for me," you tell him, the image of the future Shane appearing in your mind even as the present one fucks you slowly. "Touch yourself and think of me. Your little whore. Think of your hand on my throat, your handprint on my ass. The bruises and hickeys you leave on me. And most of all, think about cumming deep, deep inside me." You grin up at Shane and he starts to move faster again, driving his dick into you. "You know how much I love it, being filled up with that hot cum. Please, baby." He frowns at that but doesn't stop, doesn't tell you off, just keeps fucking you faster. You've got the power now but all you want is to leave him a message he'll listen to and think of you and miss you and want you.

"I want you to put a baby in me," you breathe into the phone as you look him in the eye, talking to both versions at once. "I want you to bury that fucking cum as deep inside me as you can. I wanna milk it out of you until there's nothing left and then I wanna touch myself with it, get myself off with it. That's what I did the first time you fucked me. I used your cum to get myself off." His face screws up at that, mouth opening, almost there. "Please, baby," you beg. "I'm your dirty slut, I'm your good girl. I love you. Empty it all into me. Give me your cum."

He gasps, grip on your shoulders bruising, fucking you as hard as he can again before he thrusts into you one last time and moans, voice cracking, dick twitching and pulsing inside you as he cums, buried deep. "That's good," you soothe into the phone, pushing back his hair, the tears in your eyes spilling over. "That's good. That's my good boy. Thank you, thank you." He rests inside you, catching his breath as his orgasm fades. "I love you, Shane," you whisper into the phone, so quiet he shouldn't be able to hear you here and now. "Goodbye." You hit stop. Lock his phone, put it down.

He slides out of you without looking at you. Does himself up. Lays on his back on the pier. It's a few moments before the cum starts leaking out of you. He must have really got it in there.

You're crying again. So, that's it. The last time. Over. Never again. All that's left now is trying to get over him. Figuring out what to tell Sam. Suffering. Effort. God, you may as well just jump into the lake here and now.

After a few minutes Shane leans up onto one elbow and looks at you. "Go on then."

"What?"

"You said you wanted to get yourself off with my cum."

You sniff. "That's okay. Moment's passed."

"Do it."

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand. "No."

"Do it." His eyes are hard. "Do you want me to listen to that voice note and think about how you're a liar? Huh? Why would you say that if it wasn't true?"

You scowl at him. "Don't call me a fucking liar."

"That's what you are."

The sadness fades as annoyance flares in you, reminds you quickly how fast your heart is still beating, how hard your nipples are, how soaking wet you were even before his cum. You open your legs wide. He sits up, sits between them for a good view. You reach down and coat your fingers in his cum and start to touch yourself.

The moans start instantly, already most of the way there. It's dirty. It's wrong. It's a little humiliating to have him stare at you like this while you do it. But it all works, it all makes it that much hotter. Your clit is swollen, hard, throbbing, your hips bucking, and you sit up a little, leaning on an elbow, to look him in the eye. His gaze is between your legs, transfixed.

"Take a picture," you tell him. He looks up at you, raises his eyebrows a little. "It'll last longer."

He reaches over, grabs his phone. Takes a photo, stares at the screen for a while before putting it away. "I have that one from before," he murmurs, looking down at your pussy again. "From your front deck."

"Oh yeah." Your breath hitches. "You use it?"

"Yeah," he replies, embarrassment from earlier gone. "More than once."

You bite your lip. God. The thought almost makes you cum but you slow down a little, want to get more information out of him. "Tell me."

He starts trailing his fingers up and down the inside of your thigh, pressing his lips against your knee. "Late at night," he says, then stops. "Wait."

You read his mind, unzipping your pocket and handing him your phone. He brings it to his mouth and resumes. "Late at night. When it's dark and quiet and I'm in bed alone. Usually I'm drunk. And I get horny. And recently... I've been thinking about you." His eyes flick up to yours. You lick your lips.

"Thinking about where I'd fuck you next. What I wanted to do to you. The filthy shit you come out with sometimes. And since I got that picture I look at that too. It's a great picture. Your pussy so wet, your clit all red and swollen from cumming. And my cum dripping out of you."

He looks down between your legs again. Swallows. "Fuck. I love how much you love it. I never really cared before but now it's what I think about every time I jerk off. Cumming raw and deep in you. And now I'm gonna be thinking about this too. You getting yourself off with it. You're so fucking sexy, such a dirty girl."

It's so hot, his voice low and simmering, holding your phone to his mouth and staring at you. You want to drag it out as long as you can but it feels too good, you can't help but speed up, finger flicking up and down on your clit. "God," he breathes. "That's it. I bet it feels good, huh? You're gonna make yourself cum for me, aren't you?" You nod, touching yourself faster, moaning louder. "So beautiful. My little whore. You get me so hard. You fucking turn me on."

"Shane," you moan, so close now.

"That's right. Good girl. Say my name. Cum hard for me, baby."

You don't have time to process that before you're cumming, hard, and then his lips are on yours, kissing you deep and slow and passionate, cupping your face in his hand. You moan into his mouth, sliding your tongue against his, orgasm making your body shake, your cum mixing with his. He pulls back slightly, pushes your foreheads together, brings the phone closer. "That's my good girl." It's so soothing it brings tears to your eyes yet again. He brushes your hair back. "That's it, baby. Good job." He kisses you again, just a peck. "My girl."

Your moans taper off, and he stops the recording, leans back, puts your phone down. You watch him through bleary eyes as he stares off at the lake.

You sit in silence for a minute or so. He turns so his legs are swinging over the edge again, and after a while, so do you. Aside from your ripped tights, it's like nothing ever happened.

He pulls two beers from the case and hands you one. Your hands are filthy but you take it and crack it anyway. That's the last thing you care about right now.

"No more," he says. "You've had your half an hour. No more."

"I love you." It's pathetic and you hate yourself. "I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." A sob forces its way out of you, ugly. "I don't know what to do."

"Please." He shakes his head. "Please stop. You don't love me. You don't know me."

"But I do."

"What's my last name?"

"I don't care, I don't care, I just wanna be with you." You can't stop crying. It feels like the world is ending. "I don't wanna wait until life has fucked me over enough times to where you feel like you won't ruin me. I'm already your collateral fucking damage. You're not a lost cause. You called me baby. You care about me. There's something in there."

"Please." He takes a shaky breath. "Every time I have to say no to you. It hurts. I have feelings. You're doing exactly what I asked you not to. Getting my hopes up. Tricking me for a second into believing in something."

"It's not a trick. It's not false hope. It's real. I love you."

"Stop." It's harsh. He crushes his beer can in his hand and throws it down hard into the water. "You don't even care if you're hurting me. You're just upset you can't have what you want."

"I'm sorry."

"I want to be with you." He spits it out. "There. Fucking honesty. Amazing. Wonderful. I care about you. I want to be with you. But do you know how many times I've tried to kill myself?"

He looks at you, like he's waiting for an answer. You just stare, tears streaming.

"Five," he says eventually. "And I got real good at it at the end there. It was close. I went into a fucking coma. I don't think I would survive number six. I know it. So no matter how many times you say you love me or you want to be with me I just can't, okay? I know there's a chance it'll all work out and be sunshine and rainbows but it's a pretty slim fucking chance, and I know myself. If you break my fucking heart I'm gone. I'm out of here." He starts crying too, angry tears. "So please. Please. You said this would be the end. You said you'd leave me alone. It hurts. I can't..." He takes a breath but it comes back out as a sob and he presses his forearm to his eyes, tries to catch his breath.

You raise a hand to touch him but then you put it back down.

"Please." He looks at you with those eyes, lashes wet. "Please. Stop now. Let it end."

You sniff. Wipe your eyes. Nod. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll stop. I'm sorry. I'll stop."

"Thank you." He looks back out at the lake, then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, crumples. "It hurts," he gasps. "It hurts so fucking much."

"I know," you say. Resisting every urge you have to reach out to him. "I know. I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm so sorry."

"It's..." He takes a deep, shaky breath. "It's not all your fault. I couldn't keep the wall up. I wasn't strong enough."

"I know. I know that now. I'm sorry. You don't have to hold it up anymore. I'll leave you alone."

He pulls his knees to his chest, curls in on himself. Face turned away from you. "I don't want you to go," he mutters. "I'm gonna miss you. So much."

You nod, swallow hard, push it down. "I'm gonna miss you too." You force your body to move, going through the motions mechanically. Standing. Taking a step away from him. Pushing out the words. "Bye, Shane."

He doesn't respond. Just cries.

You feel sick as you walk away. Over the pier, through the forest, onto your farm. None of it feels real. You throw up outside your house. It burns. You start sobbing immediately after, manage to get your key in the door of your house before you just entirely collapse, curling up into a ball, crying harder than you can remember crying in your life. You'd been sad when you broke off your engagement but it was more of a relief than anything, and that's how you knew it was the right decision. But this is what heartbreak feels like. Like everything is ruined and will never be right again. Like you want to break every single object that you own and lay down in the wreckage.

You'd tried to make it better. But that just made it worse.

Maybe he's on to something.

Chapter Text

You tell Sam everything. Everything. The look on his face breaks your heart all over again but he deserves it. You tell him you really like him, you really really like him. But it wouldn't be fair to keep going. You're not over Shane. You never were. You need time.

He cries. You cry. He gets angry. Yells. Then apologises, hugs you. You cheated on him and he's stroking your hair and saying sorry. This boy.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," you tell him, holding him tight as he cries into your hair. "You're perfect. You're the best person I know. You were nothing but kind to me. I promise you, I promise you, none of it was your fault. It's me."

"We don't have to break up," he says quietly. "I forgive you."

"Thank you. Thank you, that's so kind of you Sam. You're such a good guy. But it wouldn't be fair to you. I'm in love with someone else. I need time."

"Will you let me know when you've had enough time?"

You laugh a little, sniff, rub a hand up and down his back. "Sure. You'll be the first person I call."

You don't leave the farm for 6 months.

You can't risk it. You wanted to get away, take a long vacation, but you've got the animals to look after. So you made a few calls. Gus, Lewis, Pierre, Robin. Let them know the situation. Pierre brings you seeds every Monday — with a reasonable markup for the service, of course. Gus comes by once or twice a week, brings you groceries, booze, spends half an hour chatting with you about how everything's going. The first time you see him you ask him not to talk about Shane and he doesn't ask, just nods, and doesn't mention him once. Lewis picks up your goods from the shipping bin and makes excuses for you at the festivals, stops inviting you, sends you letters with important updates as and when you need them. Robin lets you place orders over the phone, shows up at your house at 6am to start her building work, doesn't bother you with intrusive questions.

You fill your days with work. Every tillable inch of soil on the farm is utilised, filled with high value crops. Even in the winter, you grow whatever you can, working the hard soil with aching muscles. You put up fences, you lay path. You don't get any more animals, don't want to risk a call to Marnie's house in case she's not the one who picks up, but you take good care of the ones you have, giving them extra land and grass, petting them every day. You start at 8am, even on weekends, and end no earlier than 6, often pushing yourself hard until you physically can't anymore, until you're so exhausted you pass out as soon as your head hits the pillow. If not, you drink until the world slips away.

It's the best way. Forcing the time to pass. Moving forwards without stopping to smell the roses. Time heals.

At first it felt like you couldn't breathe. Every second of every day felt like you were gasping for air but never quite getting enough, never enough to feel safe or to relax. You'd sob at random times, harvesting the crops, milking the cows. It hit you in the shower. Eating lunch. One time you almost choked. Had to throw yourself onto the back of a chair.

Slowly, it's been easing. You were sobbing three times a day, then two, then one. After two months Gus drops off the groceries and manages to make you laugh, a real laugh. He's becoming a good friend, keeping you up to date on the gossip you've missed. Elliott and Leah's short-lived affair. Sebastian coming out. The awkwardness between Clint and Emily after their failed first date. Maru going off to college. He complains to you about Pam's rising tab and you give him advice. One time he brings you a pot of spaghetti. No tupperware, no container. A pot, straight from the stove, with strict instructions about stirring.

One night you have a nightmare and wake up covered in sweat and full of panic. When Gus shows up that morning, you don't even crack a smile.

"Shane," you say.

He just looks at you.

"Is he... I just wanted to make sure he was still..."

"Alive?" Gus finishes. You nod. "Yeah," he says, gently, kindly. "He's alive." He puts a hand on your shoulder. "Do you want to know anything else?"

"No. No thanks. Thank you. I just..." You take a deep breath. "Will you let me know? If he..."

"Of course."

"Thanks. Okay. Yeah. Anyway. Talk me through these groceries."

After three and a half months you get a text from Sam.

Hi I haven't seen you around in a long time are you okay?
I wanted to text you a million times but I thought I should leave you alone
But now I'm worried
We can still be friends, I hope you're okay

Your heart squeezes in your chest. It hurts a little, a reminder of everything that happened, but it's also nice to hear from him.

im okay, you can come over if you want
any time. im always home

He shows up on the farm twenty minutes after you send the messages. You're digging for truffles, elbow deep in dirt, and he grins when he sees you, a huge smile, and you can't help but smile back. He wraps you in a hug even though you're covered in dirt, then steps back.

"Sorry. Was that okay? Sorry."

You laugh. "It's okay. Thanks."

You make a pot of coffee and a snack and sit outside on the deck, looking out over the farm. "This place looks awesome," he says. "I don't even like vegetables but these ones look good."

"Thanks. Yeah." You shrug. "Not much else to do during my quarantine."

"Huh?"

"Can't avoid your ex in a place like this, so. I haven't left the farm."

"Are you kidding?" He shakes his head, eyebrows shooting up. "I would go insane. That explains why I haven't seen you!" He shakes his head again as the shock wears off. "Is it working? Like, are you getting over him?"

You chew and swallow, take a sip of coffee. "It's hard to say. I think so. But..." You look away. You cheated on Sam with Shane. You can't bemoan your healing process to him. "Sorry. You don't need to hear about this."

"Tell me," he says. He nudges your leg with his knee. "I asked. We're still friends. I wanna know."

You smile, huff a laugh. "Okay. I worry... that I'll get to a point where I feel like I'm over him, where I can go back into town and see him again. But then I see him, and it just hurts all over again."

Sam shrugs. "Sorry. I don't have anything useful to say. That's not my area of expertise."

"Well... are you getting over me?"

He looks down, swings his legs on the deck. "No. But I haven't been trying."

"Why not?"

"You said you'd call me."

"Sam." It brings tears to your eyes. You reach out for his hand and it slides into your own, warm, soft. "You don't have to wait for me."

"I know." He looks sideways at you, gives you a small smile. "I want to."

"Why?" You don't understand. "All I've done is hurt you."

"That's not true. We had some good times. And... you were honest with me. People aren't honest with me very much." He shrugs, rubs his thumb across your hand. "You did the best you could. You know?"

You start crying. He hugs you. You hug him back.

After that, he comes around a few times a week. Often unannounced, scaring the shit out of you while you're in the middle of something. But he's always a sight for sore eyes, his huge smile and infectious energy and bottomless pit of kindness. It's nice to see him, a welcome distraction. You always feel a bit lighter after he leaves.

After four months, you're sitting on your bed with a third glass of wine, staring at the voice note.

You haven't listened to it. How could you? You're trying to get over him. Still feel the pull of attraction, of love. This could set you back months.

Shane has one too. A voice note from you from that night. Pictures, too. Did he ever listen? Does he still use them? Did he delete them? Is he keeping them for some unknown reason, just like you?

Briefly you consider deleting it. But you couldn't. You can't. It's the last piece of him you have. It's special. Before you can think it through you're pressing play.

The first sound is just his breath on the microphone. You hold your phone to your ear. It feels like he's right next to you. Late at night, he says, and your whole body reacts to the sound of his voice. Pain, relief, arousal, confusion, they all wash over you at once. When it's dark and quiet and I'm in bed alone. God. It's low, makes your insides melt. Usually I'm drunk. And I get horny. And recently... I've been thinking about you.

You pause it. Take a deep breath. You've been seeing a therapist recently and she said to do body scans. Pay attention to where your feelings are, where you store your tension. Right now your whole body is tense, so you try and relax it. Your feelings are tight in your chest, but also further south, your heartbeat between your legs, a hot feeling in your gut.

You take a few more breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The tension leaves you but the heat remains. You finish off your glass of wine and pull your earbuds out of a drawer, connecting them to your phone. Then you lay back, let your hand wander downwards, and press play again.

Thinking about where I'd fuck you next. What I wanted to do to you. The filthy shit you come out with sometimes.

You touch yourself as you picture it. Him in bed, cock in hand, thinking about you.

And since I got that picture I look at that too. It's a great picture. Your pussy so wet, your clit all red and swollen from cumming. And my cum dripping out of you.

You can hear the arousal build in his voice. The tone getting harsher, having to stop to swallow. You picture him again. Looking at the photo of you, phone in one hand, dick in the other as he strokes. God. That's hot. And it's not just a fantasy. He's confessing to you. It happened. More than once. Maybe it still does.

Fuck. I love how much you love it. I never really cared before but now it's what I think about every time I jerk off. Cumming raw and deep in you.

You moan, touch yourself faster, getting wet for him like you always do.

And now I'm gonna be thinking about this too. You getting yourself off with it. You're so fucking sexy, such a dirty girl.

You nod as your hips buck, back arching. You missed that so much. The things he calls you. You're his dirty girl. He must still think about you. He said he would.

There's a pause in the recording as he just breathes, ragged. Distracted. You can hear your own moans quietly in the background. You think about it, that night. Imagine him sitting next to you like he was then. Watching you now.

God. That's it. I bet it feels good, huh? You're gonna make yourself cum for me, aren't you?

"Yeah baby," you whisper to yourself, pushing away reality in favour of the fantasy. The fiction. His voice is in your ear. He's there with you. He wants you to cum for him. Your fingers move faster.

So beautiful. My little whore. You get me so hard. You fucking turn me on.

Your recorded moans are getting louder now, closer together, and so are your current ones. His voice is rougher, firmer. Insistent. You work your clit, sliding two fingers inside yourself, desperate to please him.

Shane, you moan in the recording.

"Shane," you moan, alone in your room.

That's right. Good girl. Say my name. Cum hard for me, baby.

You do, the orgasm hitting you hard, writhing on the bed, head pressed back into the pillow. You moan his name, quietly, still listening to his breathing, to the sound of him kissing you. Emotion overwhelms you and tears stream down your cheeks even as you're cumming, sobs bursting out of you, the pleasure dying down, becoming dull and far away as you curl up on the bed and cry.

That's my good girl.

The grief overwhelms you. It's not fair.

That's it, baby. Good job. My girl.

The recording ends. You press your face into the pillow and wail. You miss him. You love him. You miss him. It's been four months but it feels like it's been four minutes. How? How are you ever going to get over it? You're his girl. You're his baby. It's not fucking fair.

You sob for half an hour and then finish the rest of the bottle of wine. You can't delete it. You could never delete it. But you vow never to listen to the recording again.

Another month passes. Filled with work, distraction, booze, the last of your weed. It's getting to the end of spring now, summer just around the corner. You've got all the seeds lined up for the first day of the new season, just working on clearing out everything that's up for harvest.

Sam still comes over a lot. One time he offers to help and you give him some gloves and the easiest job you can think of and he still messes it up but you laugh about it, tell him it's not a big deal. A few dropped eggs won't eat into your profits.

He asks if he can bring Abby and Sebastian next time and you say okay, and they show up in the evening with a pizza and you play Solarian Chronicles. Your fantasy character always reacts calmly to encounters, very emotionally healthy with a high wisdom modifier. It's nice to live in that reality for a while.

Afterwards you sit on the sofas in your lounge, Sam to your left, Abby and Sebastian on the other as she teases him about the guy he's been seeing. "He won't tell us who it is," she says. "I feel like it's a celebrity. He's signed an NDA."

"It's not a celebrity," Sebastian sulks. "I told you. He's not out."

"Does he live in town?" you ask. Sebastian hesitates. "Come on. That's so broad."

"No it's not, that would narrow it down to like four people!"

"So he does live in town."

Sebastian groans, and you and Abby grin at each other.

"Guys," Sam says. "C'mon. Give him his privacy."

"Okay, okay." You relent. "Well, whoever it is, I've boned every guy in this town so let me know if you need advice."

Abby bursts out laughing. Sam looks at you in shock. "Really?"

"Really really."

"Even Uncle Doctor?"

"Who?"

"Harvey?"

You shrug. "We made out."

Sam shakes his head, looks more impressed than anything. "Wow."

"Who was the best?" Abby asks, leaning forwards.

Your smile falters. The hole in your chest pulses.

"Ah," Sam interjects. "Come on, Abby, that's crass." Pause. "It was obviously me."

"Bullshit!" she yells, throwing a pillow at him.

"Well it wasn't me," Sebastian grumbles. "I'm fucking gay."

"Please?" Abby asks you, bottom lip jutting out. "I'm dying to know."

You think about it for a second. "If we don't count Sam, because obviously he was the best..."

"Obviously," he says, nodding.

"...Alex."

"I knew it!" Abby yells, clapping her hands together. "Those fuckin' muscles."

You glance at Seb. He's smiling slightly. You don't mention it. Good for them.

The conversation drifts onwards to Abby's love life, her attempts to sus out whether Haley is into girls or not. You get a drink and when you sit back down it's closer to Sam, your legs touching. He puts an arm around you. You let him. That's as far as it goes. But it's nice.

You wake up one morning and look at your calendar. Six months.

It feels like the longest time of your life and yet no time at all. Each day a slog, a chore, a list of tasks. Each night deliberately forgotten. A few bright spots. Gus. Sam. But mostly a sea of brown and green, your eyes on the land, trying not to think about him.

You make a coffee and sit out on your deck. The sun is still rising. It's summer now, the air warm, but it's too early in the morning for the real heat, for it to be oppressive. You sit in your PJs and sip your coffee and think about Shane.

He's alive. That's all you know. That's all you need to know. You'd been worried for a long time that you'd pushed him too far, that you'd broken his heart, hurt him too much. But he's still here. So he must be okay. Well. Not okay. But as close to okay as a guy like that can be.

You wonder about seeing him for the first time. You said you'd leave him alone so you will. Even if you see him in town, even if you go by the saloon, you'll leave him alone. He said he wished you'd never met. You still don't wish that. But you can pretend it's true.

You sift through the emotions inside you. Sadness. Grief. Longing. Love. All still there. All still strong. But faded. More like memories of feelings. Nostalgia. You've lived so long without him now that he's become an idea again. A concept. Of course you could never be with him. He was never real.

Your cat circles around your feet, purring, wrapping her tail around your leg. That's something else new. Marnie came to your farm a few weeks ago and you'd almost had a heart attack at first, convinced something had happened, but she just asked if you wanted to take in a stray. You'd hesitated, unwilling to commit to anything, but the cat had purred and nuzzled your hand and you'd had no choice but to say yes. You're still getting to know each other but she's friendly, meowing every time she sees you, sleeping in spots of sunlight, and you're getting attached. More collateral damage. So be it.

You can feel it. Today's the day. You shower, get dressed. You need fertiliser and Pierre isn't coming by until tomorrow. You load up your backpack, take a deep breath. Tell yourself it'll be okay about a dozen times. And then you walk into town.

Pierre's is closed, doesn’t open til 9 and it's 8:45. You kind of forgot how time works, used to doing things on your own schedule. It feels exposing to just linger outside the shop but you dare not wander, hoping to run into as few people as possible on your first trip.

After a few minutes, the clinic door opens next to you, making you jump. Harvey emerges, key in hand, opening up shop for the day. "Oh, hello!" His smile is warm and genuine as he looks at you. "I haven't seen you in a while."

You smile back. "Been busy. Crops. Etcetera."

"Oh, I bet." He puts his hands in his pockets, leans against the doorframe. "How are you doing?"

You shrug. "Eh. You?"

"I'm okay." Harvey frowns, clearly not satisfied with your answer. "You know… you're overdue a checkup."

You roll your eyes. "Really?"

"Your health should be a priority," he says, a little stern. Then relaxes. "Sorry. It’s hard to turn it off."

You laugh. "It's okay. I'll swing by for one sometime."

"Good!" He gives you another smile, eyes crinkling, moustache lifting. "Well, lovely to see you. Take care."

"Bye, Harvey."

He disappears into the clinic. He seems good. Didn't stutter once while talking to you. You lean back against the wall.

And there he is.

He's across the town square from you. Headed up from the river, towards Jojamart. Probably going to work. Your heart stops, your breath catches. He hasn’t seen you. Head down, hands in his pockets. Back to the cargo shorts for the heat, though his hoodie's zipped up to his neck. His hair is shorter, like he just got a haircut. Stubble's longer, like he's due for a half-hearted shave. Those same blue-purple circles under his eyes, that same glazed look like he's operating with the minimum possible effort. Dark hair. Dark brows. Light eyes. You were almost beginning to think you'd made him up.

He walks across the square and is about to turn the corner towards the bridge when he spots you, eyes flicking up.

He stops. Just stops walking. Stands there. Stares at you. You stare back.

There's about twenty feet between you but neither of you bridge it, neither of you move. It's hard to read his expression from the distance but it seems to be mostly surprise. Maybe a little hesitation, confusion.

You lift a hand. Give him a small wave.

He takes a hand out of his pocket. Lifts it. Waves back.

A few moments pass. Then he turns away and walks on.

You watch his back for a moment before looking away. The door to Pierre's opens beside you and you pick up what you need and take it home, dropping it onto the deck, catching your breath, taking a second.

You're okay. You feel okay.

It was hard. But he feels like an ex now. Like a different version of yourself from the past, like a memory. It's been so long. You don't know him anymore. You'd felt so close to him that night on the pier, felt all of his feelings as if they were your own, because they were. But now, you're strangers again. You stare. You wave. You're on first name terms. Well. You always were.

Shane. You wonder how he is. He looked the same as he always did. Still going to work, which you take as a good sign. Is he over you? Did it hurt to see you? Is he thinking about you now? They're futile questions. You'll never know. All you know is that you gave him what he wanted. You left him alone. You let him go. The rest is up to him.

You take the day off work for the first time in six months. You pick a random book off your shelves and crack it open, playing soft music from a speaker, sitting on the deck with your legs in the sun. The book fails to hold your attention so you just sit, listening to the music, feeling the sun on your skin. Maybe Sam will drop by today. You kind of hope he does.

You pull out your phone. For some reason you open your voice notes. See it sitting there. You just look at it. You don't want to listen to it. You know it would just resurface old wounds. Because that's what it is now. An old wound. One you can never get rid of, one you'll carry with you. One that will scar over and flatten and fade but never disappear. And that's okay. It shows that you lived.

You don't delete it. It'll be there in the future if you ever fancy listening to it, feeling particularly masochistic one day. You realise you have those photos of him from when he slept on your couch. You email them to yourself without looking at them, mark the email as read, and delete them from your phone. Same thing. They're there if you want them. But right now, you don't. You're tired of this. You want to move on.

Sam texts you then, as if reading your mind. Asks if you want to hang out. You smile. Feel like hearing his voice. You don't text him back.

You call.