Scarlet

“Hurry. He’ll walk in soon.”

You and your son race to your places, your daughter is in the backyard, oblivious to the shenanigans that are about to unfold. A rattle of a key, a click, the creak of hinges as the front door opens. There is a wall between the kitchen and the front entryway. You cannot see your husband, but you can hear him.

“Did you hear me?” you ask, the cue for your son.

“God! I heard you!”

Your son is a wonderful actor. Maybe he’ll join drama club.

Alejandro’s shuffling stops. There is no movement, no sound, and for a moment, you think your husband might not have heard. It’s the slow thump of his boots against the floor that seizes your stomach. He did hear.

As he appears, Alejandro doesn’t even glance your way. His gaze is pinned on his son who sits on the sofa in the living room. “Is that how you speak to your mamá when I’m not home?”

Not good. Not good not good not good.

“Alejandro. It’s fine. We’re joking,” you soothe. “Just pranking you. Wanting to see how you’d react.”

Alejandro’s gaze narrows, focusing in on his first born. “Where’s your sister?”

“Outside?” answers your son.

“And you’re not watching her?” Your son shots up so fast off the sofa he nearly topples over. “Good,” says Alejandro. “Go play with her. I’ll call you when it’s time to come in.”

The boy disappears. When the backdoor shuts, Alejandro’s stern demeanor melts, shifting into a “really?” expression as he turns on you.

“What?” you prompt.

“How long until dinner?”

“Thirty minutes,” you shrug.

“Good,” he nods, reaching for his belt. Alejandro is still in his uniform. “Bend over.”

“What?” you repeat with a laugh.

A man and his three sons, no wife to soften the edges. The land itself wearing the willow’s weeds. The valley lay fat and green between two ranges of hills that looked like hunched shoulders. John Price had worked that land since his own father put a rifle in his hands and told him the only honest prayer was sweat. Burned brown by the sun, eyes the sharp, restless blue. Hands thick and callused, shoulders wide from years of wrestling plough and fence and stubborn soil. And a dangerous vitality in him like the land itself. Fertile and unforgiving. Some said his wife had run off with a trucker when the boys were small. Others say she had betrayed him and moved to the little rented room above the cannery in the city. John never spoke of it. The land was his widow now.

Elias, the eldest at seventeen, already carried his father’s height and quiet fury. He worked the fields with men twice his age, learning the soil the way other Caleb learned girls. But there was a restlessness in him that John recognised too well.

Caleb was fifteen, and all quicksilver and storm. Lean. Fast to laugh and faster to anger. He could ride like the devil and fight like one too. Talked of towns that didn’t smell like manure and corn whisky.

Jonah was the most ill-fated of them all. He was the six-year-old that watched the clenched buds of horse chestnuts open like talons, the black birds circling around the smoke rising in the distance. A child who scraped red roof tiles into chalk, and ran after the goats but never caught up.

John himself was carved from the soil itself. Forty-something, spine straight and eyes the colour of the storm clouds over ripe fields – which was rare. The land was his honour, his wife, his God, and his curse. Every fence post, every acre was proof enough that a man could stand against time itself. He would kill for it. He might yet die for it. 

But the world beyond the hills was changing. Land developers with clean trucks began circling like crows, with offers and maps. The river upstream being fought over.

The dust hadn’t even settled from the morning’s plough when trouble came on horseback and a fedora hat. A sleek bay mare that looked too fine for this country. John was out by the south fence with Elias, the two mending the wire in silence, when the horse’s hooves announced her like a warning.

She sat the saddle easy, but her hands were soft. City hands, gentle against the reins. Her cream-coloured hat sat low over her hair that spilled down her back. The rest of her… Lord. The blouse clung where it shouldn’t after a long ride, and the riding breeches showed the kind of curves that had never known real labour. No calluses. No sunburn. Just smooth lines that made a man forget, for half a second, then the land demanded again.

She reined near the porch where Caleb was sharpening a knife and little Jonah sat on the steps barefoot, drawing spirals in the dirt with a stick.

“Afternoon,” she called, voice low and warm as sun on whisky. “I’m looking for John Price.”

John straightened slow, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. Those eyes narrowed against the glare. Bathed in the summer light, turning tan. 

“I’m Price,” he said, voice dry gravel. “This is my land.”

She answered with her name, swinging down from the mare with surprising grace. She didn’t offer a hand to shake. Just stood there in the yard, fedora shadowing eyes that were too clever by half. “My family owns the east parcel. I’ve come about the water rights.”

Elias stiffened beside his father. Caleb’s knife stopped moving. Jonah looked up from his dirt drawing, six years old and already sensing the shift in the wind. Big Price-eyes fixed on the stranger like she was a storybook come to life.

John felt it low in his gut. The same low warning the land gave before a flood. A woman like that didn’t ride into a place like this without reason. She was trouble wrapped in soft fabric and expensive perfume, the kind that turned sons against fathers, and fathers against everything they’d bled for.

Figs and trail dust. “I remember your father,” John said slowly. “We shared that ditch for years.”

She nodded, eyes lowering with what looked like genuine respect. “Yes. And I’m grateful for it. My father always spoke well of your family’s generosity. But things have changed, Mr. Price. The dry years are hitting us harder. I’ve come home to make something lasting on our land… orchards, proper irrigation. I’m hoping we can speak about securing the water properly. As… neighbours who both love this valley.”

She met his blue eyes steadily, the hat shading her face but not hiding the determination there. She was young – late twenties, carrying herself more than fine. Little Jonah looked at this beautiful stranger with open wonder.

Giving her what she asked would mean carving out part of what made his land whole. Refusing might slowly kill her family’s holding – and, in time, poison the goodwill that had kept the two properties alive beside each other for decades.

“You can water your horse,” he said at last, rolling his sleeves up higher, head up on his tall gait, nodding toward the through. “Then we’ll talk. But I’ll tell you now, Miss. Ain’t nothing here for sale.” 

She smiled, small, sad and ladylike. John gave a short nod towards the house, looking at her. “Boys. See to the mare.”

Elias took the reins without a word, Caleb following after him. Jonah kept glancing back at her every few steps as he ran after them.

The valley baked under a white, merciless sun. Heat rose off the dirt road in shimmering waves, the air itself gasping. It was the kind of day made land brittle.

She fell into step beside John as they walked the short distance up to the house. He was a big man, broad through the shoulders, heavy in the chest, weight of someone who carried his world on his back for years. The sun had baked him dark, and those blue eyes stayed fixed ahead. 

The house itself was nothing wasted. Timber and necessity. Weathered boards, no lace curtains and no flowers. Sturdy chairs, a small table. A child’s forgotten wooden truck half-buried in the dust near the steps. The kitchen table was scarred from years of knives and plates. Three mismatched chairs and a smaller one pulled up for Jonah. A woman’s touch had long since faded, and what remained was practical, male, and torn every inch of it smooth. 

John led her to the porch instead of inside. He pulled out a chair for her in rough courtesy. “Best sit out here. Cooler than the inside.”

 She accepted with a quiet nod, removing her fedora and setting it on the small table between them. Her hair gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat at the temples. John lowered his big frame into the opposite chair, the wood groaning under his weight. 

Little Jonah had followed them in their shadow. Climbed onto the porch and set on the edge, feet dangling just above the dust. His slippers slid off his feet and his small toes flexed against the heat radiating off the ground. Took off his carved wooden horse beside him, its legs worn smooth by busy little fingers. He kept glancing up at Miss with wide Price-blue eyes, curious and little shy, his fingers tracing patterns on his dusty knee. 

John poured two tin cups of cool water from the big jug he kept in the shade. Condensation beaded on the metal. He slid one across the table to the lady, then took a long drink himself, throat working. 

They both drank in silence for a moment.

When John spoke, his voice was low. And certain, so he didn’t need raise it. “Miss, that water comes off my land. Always has. I ain’t sharin’ it. Not for papers, not for money. My farm stays whole for my boys.” 

She sat down her cup carefully. She watched him for a long moment. Her voice stood measured, and gently persuasive. A lady who knew how to make hard truths sound reasonable. “I understand that, Mr. Price. A man’s honour is a rare thing these days.” She leaned forward slightly; hands folded neatly in her lap. “But honour doesn’t have to mean ruin. I’m not here to carve you up… or shame you. I’m offering a fair deal.”

The sympathy was there, thick as the heat. Two people who knew what it meant to fight the land. But underneath it, the blade was already clear. Both of them knew exactly where they stood and did not pretend.

“I can pay well above market value for a fair easement across the lower twenty acres, the wettest part where the ditch runs strongest. Enough money that you can improve this place for your boys, set something aside for their futures…” 

He was, unflinching. He wasn’t even thinking about it.

“Or, if selling feels too final, we could form a proper agreement- something legally sound, shared water rights? No one telling you how to run your land?.. See, Mr. Price, my father lost everything because there were no papers. I watched him get ill… I won’t have it happening to my own future, or to yours if I can help it. This doesn’t have to be a fight, John.”

Her using his name was an olive branch offered in the scalding heat. “Two neighbours choosing sense over pride. I have the money to make it right. All I’m asking is that you let me try.”

Little Jonah had gone still on the steps, clutching his carved horse, sensing the weight of the grown-up’s words even if he didn’t fully understand why they were talking such things, when they can just, be happy with what they got. 

John was a stuck-up stubborn bastard. A guy that never bent, if easy. 

“No.” 

He said it plain and final. Blue eyes hard on hers. Heat is a second skin around them and the air above the horizon shimmered off the road in distance. 

“I don’t need your money, Miss. And I sure as hell don’t need to share what’s mine. This land has fed my family through good years and bad without outside help. It’ll keep doing it. My honour isn’t for sale, neither is my boys’ future. You want certainty? Then drill your own wells and pray for the rain like the rest of us.”

Yeah. She opened her mouth to answer, still calm, still trying to find a crack in the armour… but before she could, Jonah piped up from the edge of the porch steps. 

“Mister… I mean, Miss Lady?” His voice was high and earnest, bare feet swinging gently. He held up his wooden horse, tilting it toward her with both hands like an offering. “His leg got broke… yesterday. Pa fixed it with string. See?” 

The six-year-old gave her a shy, gap-toothed smile, completely unaware of the tension. Cheeks flushed from the heat and hair sticking up in sweaty little spikes in every direction. One finger pointed proudly at the clumsy string repair around the front leg. “It works now. Pa fixes everything…”

For a brief second the scalding evening softened. Her face melted into a genuine, tender smile. She leaned forward slightly and admired the toy with real warmth. “That’s very clever, sweetheart. Your pa must be very good with his hands. What’s his name?” 

“Thunder!” Jonah said proudly, scooting a little closer on the steps. Clearly taken with the pretty lady who listened to him and not just hummed away the way his brothers do. “Because he runs fast.”

John watched the exchange, jaw tight, feeling.. complicated. Pride in his youngest, irritation at how easily the woman had charmed the boy.

He cleared his throat, voice still gruff. “Jonah. Go on and find your brothers.”

But the boy lingered another moment, looking at Miss Lady with a sunny, innocent grin before digging into the pocket of his dusty overall. Out came a small, very sad-looking plum. Mashed on one side, covered in pocket lint and dirt, warm from his little body and the heat. 

When she accepted the ruined little plum with genuine grace, he beamed pink, and pattered away one foot bare toward the barn.

A small, helpless laugh escaped her as she watched him run away under the gaze of his father. 

“You heard my answer ma’am. I think we’re done here.”

She rose from the chair with quiet dignity, smoothing her riding clothes, and the fedora settling neatly on her hair. 

“Thank you for the water, Mr. Price.” She gave John a respectful, slow nod. No pressing further today. She was to be here for a long time, but nothing more to do in this moment. Not yet. “I’ll leave you to your land. But I hope you’ll think on what I said. Good day to you.”

—;

The sun had begun its slow drop behind the western hills, though there was still no mercy in it. It lay white across the valley and turned the dust pale as bone, and somewhere beyond the barn, a horse stamped once against the flies. Jonah had climbed onto his lap as if nothing had happened. As though his father had not spent the last half hour refusing a woman that could make a man feel foolish for saying no. the boy’s head rested against his father’s chest. His wooden horse clutched against one fist.

John looked down at the broken string around Thunder’s leg. 

“That’s a sorry repair.” He muttered, laying his cheek on Jonah’s warm head, cupping his palm under his little one to carry both the horse and his son. 

“No, pa. you did it good.” 

He looked back at him as he defended his work. John’s mouth twitched. He held him until he decided to slide off his lap to go do what he does. John watched him disappear around the side of the house. 

Only then did he hear the barn door slam.

Caleb.

The boy came around with a coil of rope over one shoulder, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt that he opened a few more buttons than necessary. He’d seen the men in the city wear it this way. His hair damp and across his forehead, a streak of dirt along one cheek. He stopped when he saw his father. Climbed slowly up to the porch.

John didn’t look at him.

“Where’s Elias?”

“Barn.”

John reached down and picked up the tin cup the woman had used. He poured what little water remained into the dust.

“Thought I told you both to see to the mare.”

“Elias did.”

“And you?”

Caleb dropped the rope beside the steps, rather forcefully.

“I did too.”

John nodded and that should have been the end of it. He started gathering the things from the table. The cup, the jug. Jonah’s forgotten stick. It was as if he was deliberately gathering them because he knew if he looked at Caleb right now, they’d start saying things they may not mean. Caleb knew it too. He watched him anyway. 

Then his eyes went toward the road.

“She gone?”

John’s eyes lifted. “You watched her leave.” 

Caleb shrugged.  “What did she want?” 

“You know what she wanted. Water.”

He stared. And he stared back. “She offered you money.”

John let out a slow breath. “Caleb.”

“She did.”

John stood. It was not sudden. He rose from the chair with the slow weight of himself. He had never needed to hurry to make himself obeyed. “Go wash up.”

Caleb was something else tough. His chin lifted. “I ain’t finished.”

“You are.” John stepped down from the porch. The height between them changed. John stood in the dust now, broad and dark against the white glare behind, and Caleb suddenly looked younger. 

“Go inside.”

Caleb kicked at the dirt with the heel of his boot. “Why?”

“Because I’m telling you.”

Caleb laughed. It was a short and ugly sound. It sat between them and John’s face changed at that. “What’s funny, boy?”

“Nothing.”

“Then wipe it off your face.”

Caleb looked down at his boot, “She made sense.” Looked toward the road. “Was offering you a fair deal.” 

John took one step toward him. “Watch yourself.” 

“Why?”

“Because you’re fifteen.”

Caleb’s face flushed. Because what about it? Because fifteen was an age when a boy could see the cliff and what’s beyond it?

“I’m old enough to know when somebody’s offering us money for something we need.”

“We don’t need her money.”

“We need water.”

“We got water.”

John walked toward the fence line instead of answering. He bent and picked up a length of loose wire that had fallen beside the porch, twisting it once around his palm.

“Go get Elias.”

Caleb stared at his back. “You don’t want him. You want me to shut up.”

John’s fingers stopped. And Caleb came down the porch steps. “You didn’t even listen to her.”

“I listened.”

“No you didn’t.”

John turned the wire over in his hand. “She wants twenty acres.”

“She wants an easement, pa. The lower fields are drying out. You know they are. Elias knows. Everybody knows.” He came closer.

“Mind your tongue.”

“Why? Because I’m saying it where you can hear me?” 

John’s eyes went to the barn. “Where’s your brother?”

Caleb sighed exasperatedly. “Why?”

“Go get him.”

“No.”

John looked at him from where he knelt. Caleb seemed surprised he’d said it himself. 

Then John said, very quietly. “Go get Elias.”

Caleb’s jaw worked. “You’d rather watch this place go under than let somebody else tell you what to do.”

There it was. The thing beneath the thing. And Caleb knew he found it and, like any boy who had found the bruise, pressed his thumb into it.

“That’s what this is, ain’t it?” He spread his hands, taking a slow step back still.

John’s face went still. “Get inside.”

“It’s not honour.”

“Caleb.”

“It’s pride.”

The space between them seemed to shrink. 

Caleb was breathing hard now, though he had not moved. He looked too much like his father when he was angry. That was perhaps the last of it. The same blue eyes, the same stubborn mouth. Those shoulders already beginning to broaden into the shape of the man John Price had been and still was. A boy trying to fight his way out of the very body he’d inherited. 

John pointed toward the house. “Enough.”

Caleb didn’t move. “She talked about irrigation.”

“I know what she talked about.”

“She talked about making the place better.”

“She talked about taking my land.”

“Twenty acres!”

“Twenty acres today.”

“Jesus Christ!”

John’s head snapped toward him. Caleb’s breath caught, but he didn’t retreat. 

“Twenty acres,” Caleb said again, quieter now. “You talk like the whole world ends if you lose twenty acres.”

“It does if it’s the first twenty.”

Caleb stared at him. John stared back. Then the boy started. “You know what I think?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“I think you’d let every one of us starve before you’d admit somebody else has a better idea.” 

John’s hand moved. Not toward Caleb. He caught the edge of the porch rail instead, fingers closing around weathered wood. It frightened Caleb. And it also angered him. 

“She’ll make something of that place.”

John released the rail, used that hand to point his finger at him. “Don’t you worry about what that woman does.”

“Why not?”

“Because it ain’t your concern!”

“Everything is my concern if I’m supposed to spend my whole damn life here.” 

John’s eyes narrowed. He saw it in Caleb, the thing he could see beyond the hills and John had spent years pretending wasn’t there. Easier things. 

“You got a good life here, boy. Don’t be ungrateful.”

Caleb laughed again. “Do I?”

John’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “You eat every night.”

“So does a dog.”

“You got a roof on your head.”

“Yeah. A roof that leaks.”

… 

“You got land.”

“Your land.”

John stepped forward to him. Caleb held his ground; he was almost his height. 

“My land is yours when I’m gone.”

“That’s the problem.”

Even the horse in the barn had gone quiet. John stared at his son. And his face changed. For a second, he was only a kid again biting at his father. Then pride came over him like a door snapped shut. 

“What you say, boy?”

Caleb swallowed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Say it.”

Caleb’s eyes flashed. “You heard me.”

John crossed the space between them. Caleb jerked back only because he moved faster than he expected. John caught him by the front of his shirt before he could turn away. He didn’t mean to hurt him, just enough to stop him. 

Caleb’s hand came up instinctively and struck John’s wrist. “Let go!”

“Then quit fighting me.”

“You’re the one grabbing me!”

“Because you don’t know when to stop.” His grip tightened. 

Caleb shoved him. A boy’s shove against a man’s chest. It didn’t do much,

but John released him. 

Caleb stumbled back one step and looked at what he’d done. John didn’t move. That was worse than if he’d struck him back. 

The boy’s chest rose and fell. He was even littler than fifteen now. 

John looked at his son for a long time. It was something heavy. 

“Pa—”

“Go cool your head.”

Caleb looked away. John waited. “Go.”

Caleb snatched the rope up from the ground and threw it toward the barn. It landed in the dust. “That’s all you ever say.”

John didn’t answer so Caleb turned. He made it to three steps, then John said, “Caleb,” so he stopped. His father’s voice had changed now. It was tired. 

When Caleb looked over his shoulder, John stood there with his arms hanging at his sides, the enormous shape of him suddenly older than he’d been ten minutes before.

“Don’t let some woman you met for an hour make you ashamed of where you come from.”

…Caleb shifted his weight, his face went hard. For a second he was a child who had wanted his father to tell him that he was wrong and the world outside was a lie, and that everything he needed was already here. “She didn’t.” He hated how weak he sounded. “You did.”

Then he was gone. 

There, near the porch steps, John spat into the dust and looked at the road where the Miss had disappeared. Nothing. Only the dust and the valley. Only the land he had spent his whole life believing he could keep. 

..,

The morning came on a cloudless silver sky. 

The sun came over the eastern hills already burning, laying its hand upon the roof and the fields and the back of the three Price boys as they moved about the yard, and John was at the kitchen table before it had properly cleared the horizon, one hand around his coffee and the other resting flat beside his plate. 

There were four places at the table. One empty. John looked at it once and that was all. 

He did not ask where Caleb was. He knew perfectly well where Caleb was, or at least he knew where he ought to be, and there were things a man could tolerate better if he refused to go check. Elias ate without looking up. Jonah was trying to butter a bread with the concentration of a surgeon, the knife slipping sideways every few seconds because the bread was too soft and his hands too small. He finally gave up and began tearing at it with his fingers. 

John drank his coffee. And the empty chair remained empty. 

He could hear him outside somewhere, or he imagined he could. He was the kind to make too much noise even without trying to. A boot against the board on a horse snorting because he pulled its bridle wrong. But there was nothing. Only the scrape of Elias’s knife, Jonah’s fingers and the flies worrying themselves against the window. 

John’s jaw tightened. He had told the boy to cool his head. Apparently the boy had interpreted that as permission to stay gone. 

Elias glanced toward the empty chair and Jonah licked his jam-stained fingers clean. That was the whole of it.  

By the time they were outside, the morning had already begun to dry the dew out of the grass. John put Elias to the lower field, sent Jonah after the goats, and Caleb was nowhere to be found. He told himself he didn’t care. The boy was fifteen. Fifteen was enough to sulk around without dying of it. 

Still, when John passed the barn, he looked inside. 

Caleb’s bedroll was empty. His horse was not. That made John stop. 

The gelding stood in the stall with its head lowered, reins hanging loose where somebody had left them. John looked at the horse, then at the empty space where Caleb’s saddle usually rested. His mouth flattened. 

“Goddamn boy.”

There was work to be done, and work had always been the one thing that didn’t ask how John felt about it. The fence needed mending. The south field had to be checked before the heat came down. A section of the ditch had collapsed near the cottonwoods, and one of the men working farther west had sent word that the lower rows were beginning to dry at the roots. The land was speaking. 

By midmorning, his shirt was wet between his shoulders. The sun had climbed high enough to bleach the valley until everything looked stripped down to its bones. Elias worked hundred yards away and John had just straightened from the fence with a length of wire in his hand when he noticed something wrong in the pasture. 

The bay mare stood near the far corner. 

Not his bay. 

His horse was gone. 

John stared. For a moment he thought he looked at the wrong direction. Then he walked to the gate and counted again. 

One. Two. Three. 

The gelding wasn’t there. 

He felt something ugly and immediate move through him. 

“Elias!”

The boy looked up.

“Your brother take the bay?”

Elias shaded his eyes. “No.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Elias looked toward the barn. “Maybe he left him loose.”

John didn’t answer. He was already moving. The gate to the pasture stood open by two inches. 

That was enough. 

The tracks led toward the creek, where the ground became softer beneath the cottonwoods, and John followed them with his jaw set. He knew that horse. The gelding was too well trained to wander far without reason, but there were holes in the fence along the eastern boundary and the grass on the other side was greener than anything growing on Price land. A horse did not care about property lines. A horse cared about grass. 

John crossed the field. The tracks continued. East. He stopped at the boundary. 

The fence between his land and the east parcel had been repaired recently, but near the creek the ground had softened and one of the lower boards had pulled loose from its post. There was a gap wide enough for a horse to push through if it wanted badly enough. 

And on the other side— there was his horse. 

John’s first thought was relief. His second was irritation. His third, when he saw who was beside it, was something far less than reasonable. 

The woman. 

She was kneeling in the grass with a rightness to it. She didn’t ride and she didn’t wait by the fence for him to come find her. Didn’t even trespass— she stayed entire on her own side of the line, her hat lying crown-down beside her, her hair come loose and gathered low at her neck. The knees of her riding skirt had gone dark and heavy with wet earth, sleeves pushed near to the elbows. John’s horse stood over her with one foreleg lifted clean off the ground, its great head bent low toward her shoulder, gentle as an old dog offering a paw.

She had one hand around the fetlock. 

John stopped where he stopped. For a second, the whole of it refused to make sense to him—the woman, the horse, the stillness of the two of them in the flat morning light.

Then the horse lifted his head. 

She looked over. Their eyes met. There was no surprise in her face. Only a little irritation, and his own rose up quick to answer it.

“That’s my horse.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I had gathered.”

He looked at the animal, then at her, then back at the animal. It stood dead still, patient as stone. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“He came here.”

He stared. She stared back. It was a fool question and they both knew it. After a moment she said, “Through the fence,” and his eyes went to the broken board and he saw at once it was his board, his fence. His fault. Of course it was.

He stepped through the gap. She watched him come but did not move aside until the horse shifted its weight between them of its own accord. He noted the way she’d set herself beside the animal, holding a steady hand low against its leg.

“What happened?”

“Stone.”

He crouched. The horse flinched. “Easy.” Her hand did not move. “He won’t put the weight down.”

“I can see that.”

She looked at him. He glanced up and caught some trace in her eyes that was not amusement, exactly. Worse. Patience.

He had never cared to be looked at patiently.

“How long?”

“Since I found him.”

“And when was that?”

“Perhaps half an hour.”

John’s eyes went to her. “You’ve been sitting here half an hour?” 

“He wouldn’t let me near the hoof first.”

That turned his eyes back to the horse. The gelding lowered its head again and blew soft through its nose. John reached for the bridle, her hand drew back. He took the reins and the horse pulled against them. Not much. 

“Don’t.” She said. 

His head came around. She was still crouched by the animal. 

“Don’t what?” 

“Pull.”

He looked at the reins, then at her. “It’s my horse.”

“Yes. I know.”

Something in the way she said it drew his shoulders up tight. He eased the reins half an inch anyway. The horse settled and he hated that she was right about it. Hated worse that she did not look one bit pleased to have been. 

“Let me see.” 

He reached for the hoof. The gelding jerked. She laid her palm flat against its neck. “Easy.” And it settled again. 

He looked at her hand. It was not a city hand, not out here. There was dirt packed under the nails, a thin red scratch under one knuckle, a smear of mud gone dry in her palm. The woman who had come to his house yesterday smelling of cashmere and figs had gone missing somewhere between the road and this patch of grass. 

Or he had simply been wrong about her from the start. He did not care for that thought either. He took the hoof in his hand. The stone had driven itself deep into the frog. “Damn…”

“I thought so.”

He looked up. “You thought so?”

“That’s why I didn’t try to walk him home.”

He looked back toward the Price house. Barely a smudge against the far light. She had not gone near it. Had not sent for him. Had not crossed his fence to fetch him. She had only found his horse hurt on her own ground and stayed with it until he came looking. 

His hand stayed where it was, wrapped around the fetlock. “Could’ve sent somebody.”

“I could’ve.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Because I was here.” 

There was no cleverness in it, and no edge. Only the plain truth of the things, and he had no answer for that plain truth, so he looked away and worked the stone loose careful with the edge of his knife. The horse shifted one and her palm moved slow and absent along its neck as if calming a child. 

“Hold him.”

“I am holding him.”

“Hold him still.”

Her eyes cut toward him. “You’re the one making him nervous.”

He stopped dead. The horse’s ear swivelled back. “So you’re saying I’m making my own horse nervous?”

“I’m saying you’re angry.”

“So?”

“So he knows.”

His mouth went tight and the horse breathed warm against his shoulder, and for one fool second he wanted to tell her that this animal had known him longer than she’d been back in this valley— that had ridden him through flood and hard winter and one bad summer after another, hauled fence with him, stood him tied under these very cottonwoods the day they buried his father— that there wasn’t a living thing in the county that knew the sound of his boots the way this horse did. 

Instead, he said, “he’s a horse.”

“Yes, John.”

His eyes came up sharp at the sound of his name, but she was looking at the hoof, and not at him, so he looked back down at the stone. 

When it came free the horse jerked hard enough to knock his shoulder, and she caught the bridle. Easy. It settled. The stone lay in the dirt between them, small and black and as ordinary as anything. 

“All that fuss for that.”

“He’s got a hole in his hoof.”

“He’ll live.”

“Probably.”

He gave her a look. She only reached for the cloth laid out beside her hat. “There’s water in the saddlebag.” She said.

“You got into my saddlebag?”

“I did not.”

“Then how’d you know?”

“It was hanging open.” She said with a sigh. 

He looked. It was hanging loose, sure enough. He closed his eyes for a moment. Goddamn morning. 

She began wrapping the hoof. He watched her fingers work. “You’ve done this before.”

It wasn’t a question, though she answered it. “Enough.”

“Where?”

“My father’s place.”

“You worked with horses?”

“Did you think I rode them by wishing?”

He looked at her, and there it was. The first true glimspe of the woman underneath the lady. He nearly smiled. 

“You don’t look like you worked much.” He said.

Slow, she looked up. He knew the second he said it he stepped wrong. 

“I didn’t realise farming required a particular appearance.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Good.” She went back to the bandage. 

He watched her. He had no business to. He watched her anyway. 

Beyond the fence, the Price fields lay dry and bright under the sun. On her side, young trees stood in rows too straight and small yet to look anything but tender against the size of the valley, and out past them men worked at something along the irrigation trench. 

He noticed. She noticed him noticing. “The first row goes in next week.”

He didn’t ask and didn’t say he didn’t. Just stood silent— there was no winning against this woman. He had understood on the very little encounters they’ve had. He looked at her for one more second over his shoulder, crouching beside her. Then he stood. The horse tried at once to follow him and her hand went to its neck. “Don’t let him walk yet.”

He looked down at her from where he stood. “How long.”

“Until he stops favouring it.”

“Could be all day.”

“Yes.”

He looked off towards his fields, thinking of the lower ditch that needs clearing, of Elias alone on the fence line, of a harvest that wasn’t going to hold off on account on its own damn horse and a stone. 

“He can’t work all day…” she muttered calmly from beside him. Got on her feet slowly.

“No.” He muttered back.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“If the swelling goes down.” Thinking out loud. He looked at her over his shoulder, before turning to her. She had her hat in one hand. 

“You’ve got a way with him.” He said. It was the nearest thing to kindness John Price had offered her yet, and she seemed to know it for what it was. 

“I’m glad somebody does.” His eyes narrowed. She set her hat back on her head. 

“Good morning, Mr. Price.”

He stood there and could’ve answered. He didn’t. She turned toward the young trees and did not look back, and he watched her a few more second longer than a man had any right to before he led the horse toward the gap in the fence. 

He led the horse into the shade and ran a hand down its neck, feeling the heat under the coat, the steady old pulse of the animal beneath his palm— and for no reason he could name, he thought of her hand doing the same slow thing. Her hat pale against all that green. He took his hand away.

“Couldn’t stay on your side, could you.”

The gelding flicked an ear. He sighed and led him home. 

Somewhere across the valley something rang against the metal, and something else answered it. The new irrigation. He looked toward the east and thought of Caleb’s empty chair, and the boy’s face the night before. “She made sense. You didn’t.” John looked at her land again and found no reason for the anger that rose in him— she hadn’t asked for a thing that morning. Hadn’t come near his horse, hadn’t crossed his fence, hadn’t so much as spoken to Caleb as far as he knew. It was all Caleb and not her at all. 

She had only found his horse hurt on her land and stayed beside it until he came. 

And still, standing there under the hard white sun, John felt it like a warning low in his gut. 

He hated her for it, which was a foolish thing to hate a woman for. 

John Price had never claimed himself to be a reasonable man. 

The town was three hours from the farm when the roads were dry and the horses were good, and John had come because the bank wanted to talk to him about the note. 

John did not like banks. 

A bank was a place where a man could be told he did not own what he had spent his whole life breaking his back to keep, and the men would tell him so would do it in clean shirts, with their cuffs buttoned and their hands soft enough to make John not trust them. John trusted a hard hand. A hand that had split at the knuckles and grown callused over the years had at least been made honest by something. Money had no such decency. 

And Jonah had come because there was no one else. 

Elias was out on the lower field, and Caleb had not spoken to his father properly since the day before and had apparently decided that this morning he would rather work somewhere John could not see him. So, Jonah had been washed and put into a clean shirt. 

The shirt was white and too large through the shoulders, with sleeves John had rolled twice at the wrists. Jonah had already managed to dirty one cuff. Boy was never too clean. 

John looked at him before they left. “You stay where I put you.”

Jonah nodded. 

“Sit still.”

Another nod.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, Pa.”

John had pointed to the bench outside the bank. “Right there.”

Jonah climbed onto it. John looked at those small boots swinging beneath him, then at his face. He had put two fingers under the boy’s little chin and turned his face up. “Don’t wander.”

“I won’t.”

For a while the boy did exactly as told, which in a child is its own kind of miracle, brief as good weather. He kicked his heels against the wood. He watched a fly march the length of the window glass and wondered how far it could go in a day. He watched a man in a hat spit a long brown arc into the street, professional as a man doing a job he’d done ten thousand times. He watched a woman hustle by with her skirt gathered in one fist, moving like she was running from debt or a husband or both. 

He sat still for perhaps seven minutes. 

Then the town smelled like something worth breaking a promise for. 

It came thin at first, riding the hot air between the buildings. Butter, cinnamon, sugar, the dark sweet rot of fruit going soft in an oven somewhere behind brick. Jonah lifted his head, nose first, brain second. 

Across the street stood a bakery, its window wide and clean, full of things no Price boy ever saw at his own table unless somebody had died or married or come home from the city flush and foolish with money. Cakes. Little glazed rolls fat as a fist. Not the serious bread his father bought home wrapped in paper, nor the biscuits Jonah knew could be eaten with honey if there was enough honey to spare. These things were made for looking first. And there, on a plate near the front of the window, were biscuits cut into animals.

Jonah stared the way a man stares at a thing he’s already decided he can’t live without. 

He looked at the bank door. Still shut. He looked at the bakery. Then back at the bank, working the math the way a six-year-old works it out instinctively. 

His father had said sit still. Jonah slid off the bench.

The street was only a street. The bakery was almost directly across it. There were people everywhere. He had been told not to go. Told not to wander. But it was not a long walk. It was close enough that he thought he could get there and back before anybody noticed.

That was how all dangerous things began.

Jonah crossed careful, looking both ways twice out of pure habit. A kind of habit a father beats into a boy through repetition until it lives in the marrow rather than the mind.

The bakery was cool inside, and the windows had been opened to let out the heat from the ovens. A bell rang thin and bright above him. Jonah stood just inside the door with his hands at his sides, trying very hard to behave like a boy who had not been sent there by a smell.

He looked at the glass case. Then he looked at the shelf. Then he looked at the lady standing near the counter. And stopped. He knew her. Not intimately like he knew his brothers or the men worked the fields. Or not like the woman who sold eggs two houses down and gave him the bad ones because she thought he was too little to know the difference. 

He knew her the way a child knows something beautiful from a story.

Miss Lady. 

She wore a pale dress fitted close without trying to show anything off, a narrow dark belt at her waist, the skirt falling clean to her calves. Her sleeves were gathered above the wrist, a small gold watch there, delicate as a bird’s rib. Her hair was pinned up but the heat had loosened a few strands at her temples, one curled strand laying against her neck like it had been placed there on purpose by somebody with taste. The town suited her the way water suits fish. Not anywhere John Price could put his hands on and claim as his.

Small gold earrings caught the light. John would’ve noticed those. John noticed everything that cost money and everything that didn’t belong to him. That was half his trouble.

Jonah simply knew her as Miss Lady. And that was enough.

She turned at the sound of the door. Her eyes found him. Something warm moved across her face like weather changing. “Well.”

Jonah stood still. Stared at her.

She smiled. “Thunder.”

His face went bright as a stuck match. She remembered. “His leg got broke.” He said immediately. 

“I remember.” 

“Pa fixed it.”

“I remember that too.”

Jonah stepped closer. 

“He did it with a string.”

She set one hand light against the counter. “I remember the string.” 

Jonah looked enormously pleased with this. She remembered him. Remembered Thunder. He came to stand beside her with the complete confidence of a child who has just discovered that an adult he likes possesses a remarkable and rare quality: memory.

She looked down at him. “And how is Thunder now?”

“Good. He runs fastest.”

“Of course he does.” 

Jonah considered the display in front of them. She followed his eyes. “Ah.” He looked up at her looking at the biscuits. “What have you found?” She asked. 

Jonah pointed, and she bent a little, examining the tray with him. “Are those horses?”

She leaned toward the glass. “One is.”

His hands pressed to his sides again. A little soldier. “Can I have it?”

“Did your father say you could?”

His face fell like a dropped plate. “No… he said sit still.”

Her eyebrows rose, amused and unhurried. “Did he… and here you are.”

He looked at his boots, confessional of a small kid. “I was sitting still. On the bench.” He pointed vaguely behind himself with his head.

She glanced through the window. The bench sat empty across the street, a good honest distance away, mute witness to the crime. She pressed her lips together. It was such a solemn little disappointment that she could not bear it for long. “Quite a long way from here.” 

He thought about lying. Decided against it, with the peculiar helpless honesty children haven’t yet learned to file down. “I wanted to see.”

Something in her face softened like wax near a flame. “I know.” Then she turned to the woman behind the counter. “Can I have that one, please?”

Jonah’s head snapped up like a dog hearing its name. the woman lifted the little horse-shaped biscuit from the tray—golden, slightly crooked, its four legs unequal, one ear bent back from the heat of its own making. Sugar dusted along its spine like frost on a fence rail in January.

She took it with a kind thanks, but didn’t hand it over right away. “Is this Thunder now?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d better be careful with him.” 

He took it in both hands like a relic. It was still warm. “For Thunder.”

“For Thunder.”

He looked at it, then at her. Then back at it. “He’s a cookie now.”

She looked down at his hands and remembered another small horse, carved from wood, dear to him. She remembered a little boy sitting barefoot on a porch in the heat, giving away a plum that had been ruined but still was the best thing he possessed at that moment and because he had decided she ought to have it. She had thought of him since. Perhaps more than once.

“Don’t eat thunder.” She told him.

Jonah looked scandalised. “It ain’t Thunder.” 

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

She nodded gravely. “My mistake.” 

Jonah held the cookie closer to his chest. “This is just a cookie.”

“Of course.”

“Thunder is wood.”

“Quite right.”

“And Pa fixed him.”

“I remember.” 

The boy looked at her with sudden suspicion. “How do you remember everything?”

She laughed quietly. “Ladies have excellent memories.”

Jonah smiled the smile of a boy who has made a grown woman laugh and is holding a horse made of sugar and has decided, on the strength of that alone, that the day has turned out considerably better than it had any right to. 

She looked toward the street again. The bank door had not opened.

She looked down at him. Jonah had begun to eat the edge of the biscuit, careful at first, then with less ceremony as the sugar began to win over manners.

And there, at the edge of the bakery window, a shadow crossed the light. Jonah did not see it but she did. 

John Price had come out of the bank.

He stood on the pavement, his hat in one hand and a fold of papers in the other, the sun hitting him hard after the dim brown quiet inside, his face carrying that dark unsatisfied look a man gets when somebody’s spent thirty minutes explaining his own money to him like he was slow.

His sleeves rolled to the elbow. His forearms had gone near black with summer, veins standing up thick under the skin like roots pushing through dry ground. His hair lay flat where the hat had pressed it, damp again at the temples. There was a crease between his eyebrows that had likely been there since breakfast and showed no sign of retiring.

His eyes went to the bench. Empty. 

Across the street. Into the bakery.

Jonah. Her. 

She watched the exact second the whole arrangement landed on him. It wasn’t anger. It was the particular disbelief, of a man who’d spent his morning wrestling paperwork and comes out to find the universe has gone and thrown his youngest son, a beautiful woman, and a pastry into the same small room, purely to spite him. His arranged thoughts into sensible piles only to find that somebody had come along and kicked them over.

John crossed the street. Jonah noticed his father then. His eyes widened. His father came through the bakery door, and the little bell above it gave one bright, cheery sound that seemed wildly inappropriate.

“Pa.”

John’s jaw lifted. The boy lifted the cookie slightly, as if perhaps the object itself might explain his presence there. John’s eyes went to her, then back at Jonah. Then at the cookie in his hand. The horse was already missing its head, and one burnt leg.

“Thought I told you to sit still.”

Jonah swallowed. “I did.”

“You’re across the street.”

Jonah glanced at the window like it might vouch him. “Yes, Pa.”

John shut his eyes for a moment. Miss Lady looked down and he caught the corner of her mouth twitch and cut his eyes toward her and God help him, she looked good. Too good. The dress. The gold at the ears. That loose curl of her throat, a faint sheen of bakery warmth on her skin, one finger dusted with powdered sugar like she’d been caught mid-scheme and hadn’t bothered wiping the evidence away. 

She smelled like something sweet. He blinked slow. Not the cashmere and the fig from the porch. Something closer to the ground here. 

Amber, perhaps. 

He hated that he noticed. 

His eyes dropped back to the cookie. “Where’d you get that.”

Jonah opened his mouth. She beat him to it. “I bought it for him.”

John looked at her. Jonah kept chewing like none of it concerned him. 

John’s jaw worked once. “You bought him a cookie.”

“Yes.”

He looked at the boy. Jonah was still chewing with his cheeks slightly puffed, eyes carefully lowered to his cookie as if he had discovered a fascination with it with deep devotion. He’d seen this look on Caleb’s face when a lie went wrong in the telling. 

“Jonah.”

The boy looked up. 

“Thank the Miss for it.”

Jonah straightened. “Thank you, Miss.”

“You’re welcome, Jonah.”

John looked at her. She had remembered his son’s name. Had bought him a cookie. It was entirely harmless, there was nothing to be angry at. But he was angry. 

He watched Jonah instead, sugar riding his upper lip like a white moustache. John reached down with his thumb and wiped it off, and the boy leaned into the roughness of that hand the way a plant leans to the sun. Natural. Trusting. No thought behind it all. 

Something in John’s face gave at that. She saw it anyway. 

“Come on.” He said. But Jonah didn’t move; he was looking at Miss Lady.

“Jonah.”

Then Jonah turned toward the door, still chewing on his cookie as if daddy had never bought him any before, and John gave him a nod of his head as he settled his hat back onto his head. 

The bell rang again. They walked out.

The street lay bleached and dusty, horses tied outside the general store with their heads low and and their tails lazy against the flies. John walked toward the truck with his papers folded in one hand. “Don’t get crumbs in the truck.”

John didn’t turn around. Didn’t have to. A man could feel a woman’s eyes on his back the way he’d feel rain coming. Some old animal sense that never did him any favours. 

He had spent his whole life on the notion that if a thing wasn’t his, a man had no business wanting it. The land and the years taught him that. His father had beaten it into him with the same cruelty he’d used on green colts. 

And yet there were things a man could neither own or let be, the way a splinter works itself deeper the more you leave it alone or the more you touch it. John Price was beginning to suspect that she belonged to that exact kind of trouble. A kind that doesn’t ask permission, and doesn’t much care whether you want it or not. 

They got to the truck, and John sat behind the wheel without staring at it. For a while, he just stood there, one hand over his face, the other hanging loose at his thigh, the heat gathering beneath the roof until the truck had smelled of dust and the old leather of his belt and whatever sweetness Jonah left on his fingers. 

He could still see her. 

The cream of her blouse. The loose hair at her nape. Her neck. The way she looked at Jonah as though there was nothing else in the world worth looking at.

“Jesus Christ.”

The lake sat there big and dark with depth, the far shore chewed off by mist, and not one thing moved on it. There was no bird, no boat, no voice from the other side. 

She found it after hours in the saddle. 

She had ridden farther than she meant to, past the dry fences and the cattle paths and the shallow ditches where the water had become no more than a brown memory in the earth. The heat had followed her all afternoon, laying itself over her shoulders and beneath her collar, and she had begun to feel the valley closing around her in the peculiar way it sometimes did, every field and road leading to something she had not yet decided whether she wanted.

Then the land opened. She came over the rise and saw the water, her mare slowed beneath her without being asked. She sat there for a moment, one hand loose on the reins, looking down at the lake. The horse breathed hard through her nose.  A fly worried at the animal’s flank. Somewhere behind them a cicada rasped in the grass, but the sound seemed to belong to another country.

And then she saw him.

John was already there. He sat on a broad, low rock at the water’s edge with his boots in the shallows, his shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled above the forearms. His hat lay beside his boots. His back was turned partly to her, broad and dark beneath the white sun, one elbow resting against his raised knee. He looked as though he had been there a long time. As though the lake had made room for him.

For a moment she thought of turning around. He looked too visible there by simply being quiet, and maybe it was a way she wouldn’t want to be caught herself. 

The mare gave a soft snort then. John’s head turned. He saw her already. Maybe even before that. 

Across the small distance between them, they regarded one another with the strange stillness of people who had already met one another too many times to call themselves strangers and not nearly enough to call themselves anything better. 

His eyes went to the mare. Then back to her. 

She lifted two fingers from the reins in something that was not quite a greeting. His chin dipped once. That was the whole conversation.

She dismounted. Tied the mare beneath a low cottonwood, left her hat riding her head, and walked down toward the water with her boots swinging from one hand by the straps. 

John watched her come. 

She came without hurry to him. The lake swallowed the little sounds of her feet. When she got to the rock, she sat beside him. Half a foot of good clean air between them. Room enough for manners. Room enough for a question that hadn’t been asked yet.

She set her boots down and drew one knee up under her skirt. He looked at the water. Kept looking.

For a while there was nothing at all but the lake. Doing what lakes do, which is just lie there being larger than whatever trouble you brought to it.

“Long ride.” He said finally.

His voice sounded different out here. Lower, maybe. Or maybe there was simply nothing left for it to strike against.

She looked out at the water. “So was yours.”

He glanced at her. She kept her eyes on the water. The corner of his mouth moved, though whether it was amusement or something with sharper teeth, she couldn’t have said.

He reached down beside his boot for the tin cup he’d brought, dipped it in the lake, let the silt settle, and held it out to her without a word of explanation. She looked at his hand. Then at him. 

She took it. The rough pad of his thumb against the side of her finger, gone before either of them had cause to name it a touch, their fingers brushed. She drank. The water was cold enough to close her eyes for a second. He watched the lake while she drank, though he was aware of the movement beside him. The tilt of her wrist, the small pause before she swallowed, a loose strand of her hair lifting now and then whenever the breeze bothered.

She handed the cup back. He drank from the same place her mouth had been. She looked away and neither of them said anything about it. There were things a person can ruin outright just by handing them a name. 

… after a while she leaned forward and picked up a stone, flat, smooth from the water’s patient sanding. She weighted it in her fingers.

He watched her do it. He’d leaned back on his hands by then, elbows locked, face turned half toward her and half toward the lake, calm. He had spent a good time of his life watching things to know, most of it sorts itself out quicker when you don’t crowd it.

She turned and threw the stone. It struck once. Then disappeared. She watched the ring widen from where it had gone under, water closing around it. 

His eyes narrowed some, but he let it lie. She picked up another. This one went badly from the start, rushed angle, and it caught the water crooked and went under the instant it touched. Just a dull little plunk and splash. 

John said nothing. he watched her fail with the calm, unbothered attention of a man who found there was something worth watching in it regardless- the small furrow that came into her brow, the way her jaw set the same stubborn way his own did when a thing wouldn’t go right. He made no move to help. He only sat there elbows planted, content for the moment simply to look at her failing at something, which was its own kind of pleasure he hadn’t expected and wasn’t in any hurry to explain to himself..

Then, he pushed himself up off the rock.

He stepped into the shallows, bent, picked a stone without much ceremony and sent it low and flat across the surface.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four. 

Five.

Six.

Seven.

The little thing hesitated each time before kissing the water again, carrying itself out farther and farther like it had somewhere to go, until at the last the lake took it under for good.

She looked at the ripples. Then at him.

He was already glancing sideways at her.

“Show-off.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Seven.”

He shrugged. She counted. 

“Try again.” He said. And this time he didn’t step back to let her manage it alone. 

He came around behind her, close enough that she felt the heat coming off him before he ever touched her, the plain animal warmth of a body that had been standing in the sun all day. He didn’t ask. He took her wrist lightly, the way a man handles a thing he already respects, and turned it half a degree. 

“Not like that.” His voice dropped low, pitched for her alone, close enough by her ear that she felt it more than heard it, a low current running under the words. “You’re throwing it like you want to hurt something.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.” A pause, unhurried. “That’s why it keeps sinking.”

His hand stayed at her wrist. The other came to rest, barely, at her elbow, guiding the angle down, down, until her arm sat low and easy the way his had. 

“Wrist stays loose.” He muttered, quiet. His eyes had gone to the bare skin at the side of her neck where her hair had come loose and pooled, and stayed there a beat longer than the lesson required. His breath, when he spoke again, stirred a strand of that same loose hair, and she felt the warmth of it against her ear before she closed her eyes and looked at the water instead. Or the stone. “Let it go early. Don’t hold on past.”

The voice of a man who didn’t talk this way to anybody and didn’t seem entirely sure what to do with himself now that he was doing it. His thumb moved once, absent along the inside of her wrist, and something in her went warm and unsteady that had nothing to do with the sun.

She let out a small sound. Not quite a word, not much of a breath. Something like a hum that she hadn’t given herself permission to make. He stayed still behind her. Then, quiet, “throw it.”

She threw it. Two skips. Then a third, clean.

She looked back at him. He hadn’t moved away yet. He was close enough that she had to tip her head to find his eyes and when she did there was something in them that had very little to do with stones.

“Better.” He said. His voice hadn’t come back up to its regular register.

“Better?..” 

“Mm.”

He stayed where he was a beat too long before finally moving off, putting a proper distance back between them- though it cost him something to do it, she could see that much. Another stone went four for her. He nodded again. By the fifth she managed five, and turned to him with the smallest kind of a triumph. She didn’t need and audience but wanted one anyway.

He looked at the lake instead of her, thought it took him a second longer than it should have to get there. “Don’t get proud.”

“I just beat my own record.”

“Wasn’t much of a record.”

She stared at him. He smiled

…

By the time they sat again, their shoulders were near touching. 

“Did you always want to be a farmer?” she asked.

“My father never asked.”

The last light was bleeding out of the sky when it began. A stretch of the old flume had given out. Without it both places were bone dry by morning and there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about that except get down in the dirt and fix it or watch everything he’d built go to hell in the space of one night.

John was already cursing and hauling when she showed up.

She didn’t hesitate herself, just hiked her skirt and came down into the wreckage and started working next to him like she had every right to be there. They didn’t talk. Just bodies tearing into rock in what was left of the light, both of them too angry to waste breath on words yet.

It was ugly. His shirt soaked through and stuck to him like something trying to drown him from the outside in her yellow dress had gone from ruined to something worse, plastered flat to her, hair come loose and sticking wet to her neck, and every time they bent for the same timber their bodies came up against each other and neither one pulled back.

A beam wedged tight between two boulders. Needed two sets of hands.

“On three.” He didn’t look at her when he said it. They strained, arms scraping, shoulders slamming together. Her breath tore out of her in a hard grunt that matched the curse tearing out of him. The beam didn’t move.

“Ah!” she snapped. “God damn you and your pride!” her voice cracked wide open. “If you’d listened the first time I came to you we wouldn’t be here killing ourselves in the dark—”

“Don’t you lay this on me!” He was shouting now, hauling harder, sweat flying off him. “You rode in here with your money and city manners thinking you could buy twenty years of my blood with a checkbook!? This is MY land.”

The beam gave an inch then. They shoved into it together, chests near touching, and something about the closeness made him madder, not less.

“I’m not trying to buy your soul!” Her face had gone warm with heat and fury both, a nail torn back and bleeding at the quick, the shoulder of her dress ripped clean through. “I’m trying to keep my father’s trees alive while you stand there like you own my land yourself, ready to let it ALL die sooner than bend one inch—”

“Better to die on my feet with something left of my name than crawl for your charity!” 

“It isn’t charity, you fool! You’d rather starve proud than take help from a woman— is that it? Say it! Say that’s the whole of it!”

“That’s a hell of a lot of it, yeah!”

They were screaming now, inches apart, spit and dust in the air between them. His hands had gone raw on the rough wood, split open at two knuckles, and he didn’t stop, didn’t even feel it yet, just kept digging his bleeding hands into rock and timber like the pain was fuel and not a warning. Blood smeared dark across the brown wood where he gripped it. She saw it. Kept pulling.

“Tell me John,” her voice had dropped, hoarse, shaking with both rage and exhaustion. “How much longer are you gonna let your precious honour kill us both?” 

“Long as it takes.”

They kept digging. The anger didn’t cool, it just went underground and kept burning there like fire in dry grass, invisible until it isn’t. he tore into the ground with bare hands where the shovel wasn’t enough, dragging rock loose, and the split skin at his knuckles opened wider and started running blood down over his fingers, mixing into the mud, yet he didn’t stop. Didn’t wipe it, let it drip because stopping meant thinking and thinking meant looking at her and looking at her was the one thing he couldn’t afford to do right now.

“Your hands—”

“Leave it.”

“John, you’re bleeding into the dirt—”

“I SAID leave it.”

She left it. But she was watching him now different than before, and that made it worse, not better.

Then the flume cracked. A support beam, dry as bone, split loud and total, and the whole section came down after it in a small landslide that sealed the last trickle of what shut for good, final, done. 

He roared and threw his whole body into the wreckage trying to force it back by nothing but rage and muscle. It didn’t move. His hands, already torn, caught fresh against the splintered edge and felt that one clean, and he still didn’t stop, kept shoving until she grabbed his arm.

“STOP. It’s done. Stop, you’re tearing yourself apart—!”

He shook her off. Stood there chest heaving, fist closed, blood running down both hands now, dripping off two fingers steady as a leak in a roof. His eyes were wild, not just with rage, but with something closer to the bottom of him than rage ever got.

“It’s gone,” she said, quieter now, and that quiet hit him worse than any of the shouting had. “…that section’s finished.. we’re not fixing it tonight.” We.

“Don’t.” He breathed out. “I don’t want your pity.. any more than I want your money.”

She rubbed her hands down her face in frustration. Then remembered one second later they were covered in dirt. “It isn’t pity, you stubborn—, … it’s the truth, okay? You’d see it if you weren’t so busy hating me for saying it out loud.”

She reached for his hand, and he pulled it back before she could touch it. 

“Let me see—” 

“I said leave it.” 

“You’re BLEEDING, John.”

“Everybody’s bleeding out here, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

That landed somewhere it shouldn’t and they both saw it. Silence dropped ugly and hard between them. He turned on her, finally, all of it coming up at once.

“You…” His voice came up out of him like something breaking loose. “You think you can ride in here on your fine horse, bat your eyes, wave your money at a man like he’s some broke sharecropper, and tell him how to run his own land?”

“John—”

“NO. You’re a city girl.. hands not done nothin’, your money clean, ideas about what’s fair. You don’t know the first thing about breaking your back sunup to sundown just to keep a roof over your boys’ heads. You don’t know what this dirt MEANS.” His voice cracked louder, ragged, blood and sweat both flying off him as he threw a hand at the wreckage. 

“And now you stand there in a dress that cost more than my seed money telling me it’s unfixable, telling me I need your help, telling me I ought to carve up what my father bled fifty years for and hand it over because the water’s low and you got a sad story about your daddy’s trees?”

“That’s not—”

“FUCK your money. Fuck your fairness…making me watch my own boy challenge me, making my own boy hold something you bought him like you’re already sitting at my table.. in my house, in my LIFE—”

“I never asked to be in your life, John, I just asked for—”

“Same difference with you, ain’t it! Everything you touch you end up owning a piece of, don’t you… don’t even notice doing it—”

“That’s not fair and you know it!”

“Fair!” He laughed, no humour in it at all, ugly as the wreckage around them. “Don’t talk to me about fair. Nothing’s fair. The rain isn’t fair. The land isn’t fair. You standing there whole and rich while I bleed into my own dirt isn’t fair,” he kicked his foot along the dirt, “but here we both are.”

She stood her ground. Filthy, shaking now. It wasn’t cold.

“I am not your enemy, you bastard. The drought is. Your pride is. I’m trying to keep both our families fed through the winter while you stand ruining yourself like that proves something—”

“While I what?” He closed the distance fast, towering over her. She had to lift her head up and tilt it back to meet him, breathing right into her face. “While I protect what’s mine? Get off my land, woman. Before I forget you’re supposed to be a lady.”

“Supposed to be-!” Something close to a laugh tore out of her, no mirth at all. “Fine. You’d rather lose every last tree and every last drop than owe a debt to a woman. That’s not honour, John. That’s a little boy’s excuse dressed up in you. Your father’s dead. You can stop performing for him.”

John’s brows lifted the smallest fraction at that. Neither of them moved. His hands were still bleeding, dripping slow into the mud between them, though neither of them looked down at it now, both of them too far into the other to spare it any attention.

“Careful, woman.” He whispered. More animal than words.

“Or what?” 

…

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. something in him had gone past holding. His chest kept heaving like the fight wasn’t over even though his arms had stopped, and his mouth had come open a little with no words behind it. Nothing left to throw at her. He was tired down to something under the muscle, the kind of tired that showed itself in the eyes and not the shoulders, and he stood there in the wreck of the one thing that was supposed to save them both and found he couldn’t do the one thing he’d done his whole life without thinking— shrug it off, set his jaw and walk it back into silence like it never happened. 

He couldn’t. 

Whatever this was, standing here and beaten in front of her, it had gotten in the past the place where he kept himself locked, and he had no idea anymore how a man was supposed to stand in front of a woman who’d just seen the whole of him laid open like that and pretend he hadn’t felt it. He looked at her like a man looks at the last thing standing between him and going under.

When there was nothing left to move, they stood in the wreckage and listened to what little water remained working its way through the broken stones, thin and patient, indifferent to the two of them the way water always is to whatever’s bled beside it.

Her mare gave a low, miserable whine.

John turned his head from where he kept it close to hers. 

The horse stood under the cottonwood with her head hanging, sides going in and out too fast, sweat dark along her neck like a stain she couldn’t shake off. Her tack had soaked clean through. One hind leg trembled under the weight it was still being asked to carry.

He looked at her a long moment. “Jesus Christ.”

She heard the change in his voice. Quieter now, lower down in him, the same place the anger had been living all night, now wearing a different coat.

The mare whined again, and John went to the horse slowly, like he’d already decided he loves this horse and has simply never said so. The moonlight at his back. She followed after him. When she reached for the reins he was there first, loosening the bit, running a broad hand slow down the wet neck. “Easy.”

The horse pushed its nose into his shoulder like it’d been waiting all evening for permission to lean on somebody.

She came up beside him, her voice at his nape. “She carried me all the way out here.”

“And you’ve both been standing in this heat half the damn day.”

“I can walk her home.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. He looked at her then, properly. Looking at the fire dying once he’s done fighting the one that started it. 

She was just as bad off as the mare. Her yellow dress had gone brown near the waist, the shoulder torn, the skirt plastered to her legs in a way that left very little of the shape of her to the imagination, not that he’d been trying not to notice all night. Her hair had come down entire now, damp against her throat, a curl stuck to her collarbone. And her chest was still rising too fast from the work, a faint unsteadiness in the way she held herself that she was clearly too proud to admit to. 

His eyes went over all of it. Slow. He looked at her like he’s already lost the argument about wanting. 

“…you’re both in bad shape.”

“I’m perfectly in—”

“Don’t. Don’t.”

Her mouth shut. 

He held his hand out. “Come here.”

—;

They walked the last twenty yards in heavy silence, John leading the horse and her walking beside. Every now and then their arms brushed. Neither pulled away. 

The house appeared out of the dark, practical, its clapboard skin weather-beaten to the colour of old bone. A single bulb on the porch sagged faintly, throwing a yellow bruise across the steps. The door creaked when John pushed it open. He stood back, letting her go first into the kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke, and the sharp scent of boys who’d spent the day riding fences and sweating in their sweat. The lantern he struck on the table gave off a low, steady glow that caught on their filthy faces. Mud streaked with blood on her cheek, the blood on his knuckles caked dry. Their eyes met for half a second, then slid away, trying not to see the hunger still crackling under everything else.

“Water’s in the pump out back,” he muttered, not quite facing her. “Basin’s on the stand if you want to wash off..” 

She stayed there in the middle of the room like she’d been nailed there. Her dress hung in rags, torn at the knee, and her eyes, her eyes were still bright, still burning with the words they’d shouted at each other while the horses thundered in the dark.

John had shown her to the small bathroom off the hallway, a simple room with a big porcelain tub, a washstand, and a single lantern burning. He left without a word, but the door didn’t quite latch. It stayed open a sliver, just enough for the warm lantern light to spill into the hallway. Outside, the horses stamped once, impatient. Somewhere in the dark a dog barked once, long and low, then fell silent again.

She looked around the room silently, breathing in the stillness. Then she began to undress. She peeled the ruined dress from her body slowly, the fabric sticking to her damp skin before finally falling to the floor in a filthy heap. Her underthings followed, brassiere, drawers, until she stood completely naked in the soft light. Her body was warm and soft in all the places the sun had never touched, breasts with her nipples tightened in the cooler air, the gentle curve of her belly, wide hips, and the dark triangle between her thighs. Mud and sweat streaked her skin in long, dirty trails. 

She pumped the water into the basin, loud in the quiet house. Then she took the rough cloth, soaked it, and began to wash. Slowly.

The wet cloth dragged across her collarbone, water running in rivulets down between her breasts. She cupped one breast in her hand, lifting it slightly as she cleaned the dirt from underneath, thumb brushing the sensitive nipple by accident. A soft exhale escaped her. The cloth moved lower— over the soft plane of her stomach, across the flare of her hips, then down the outside of one thigh and back up inside, slow and thorough. 

She turned slightly, unaware or uncaring that the sliver of open door gave a clear view from the hallway. The lantern light painted her in warm gold. The curve of her ass, the long line of her back and the way her hair spilled over one shoulder as she bent to wash her legs. The cloth dragged unhurried between her thighs, parted her legs a little, cleaning carefully, the wet sounds soft and intimate in the small room. A quiet sigh slipped from her lips as the cool water soothed her overheated skin. 

In the hallway, barely breathing, stood John. Big. Hard. Ruined by the sight of this woman washing her cunt and tits in his house like she already had it. Him. 

The air felt thick enough to drown in. 

…

John finally tore himself away from the cracked door and went outside to the other pump. He stripped off his filthy shirt and washed quickly like an injured animal, rough strokes over his chest, arms, face, trying to scrub away the heat and the images burned into his mind. When he came back inside, he left a clean, worn work shirt and a pair of his own, loose trousers outside the bathroom door. 

“Put these on,” he said gruffly through the sliver. “Your dress is ruined. Can’t ride back in that.”

A few minutes later she stepped out. The shirt swallowed her – loose, faded blue, the hem cinched tight with a twist over her waist. She had rolled the sleeves and left the tops buttons undone for the heat. She kept pulling the trousers up. 

John gave her one long look, then turned away. 

The rest of the evening settled into something almost mundane. He reheated the leftover stew and cornbread. They ate at the scarred kitchen table in near silence, the lantern collecting little flies. The exhaustion had dulled the sharp edges of the tension. Outside, her mare was watered and resting under the stars. The boys were gone. 

After they ate, she helped clean the dishes without being asked. John watched her move around his kitchen in his clothes, the fabric shifting against her body with every reach and bend. He was quieter than usual. She gave it to his exhaustion. 

They ended up back on the porch. 

Air had cooled a little. Crickets sang and John sat in his usual chair. She took the other, legs tucked under her, and she kept twisting the hem in her fingers absentmindedly as they sat in the quiet, the motion pulling the shirt tighter against her chest before releasing it again. 

John couldn’t stop noticing.

The worn cotton draped over her breasts, clinging slightly where her skin was still damp from washing. Every time she reached for the cup for water or moved, the fabric dragged across her nipples, slow, subtle friction that made them visibly stiffen against the cloth. Prominent points pressing outward, clear even in the low lantern light from the doorway. The shirt was thin enough that he could see the soft, full shape of her breasts swaying gently when she moved, the weight of them obvious, natural. She wasn’t trying to be seductive. That made it worse. She simply sat there in his clothes, too-big trousers loose around her hips, the shirt collar gaping a little around her neck, showing the curve of her throat and the beginning of her cleavage. 

John had his arms on the arms of his chair, jaw tight. Looking.. away. At her. Away. His own body was still thrumming from the fight, the work, the loss, the sight of her naked in his bathroom. Now this. Her wearing his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

He sighed. Then stared. 

He didn’t hide it anymore. Leaned against his hand on the table, his blue eyes moved over her. She met his stare. Didn’t look away. Her lips parted slightly. 

John stood up. Then he jerked his head toward the open door.

“Inside.”

She rose without a word. Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt in her throat, the blood rushing hot and loud between her legs.

He led her straight to the bedroom at the back of the house. The room smelled of old wood, and man. Simple, lived-in, no frills. Moonlight came through the single window. John closed the door behind them. Then he came up to her.

His body was pressed against hers the moment he was close enough, heavy and solid and unmistakably male, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of his shirt like it had been waiting all day to do exactly this. He didn’t speak. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving against hers, each inhale low and slow, each exhale a low growl that vibrated straight into her mouth.

His hand came up, rough palm sliding to the side of her face, thumb brushing the line of her jaw before he tilted her jaw this way, then that way. For a second, he just looked at her, 

then he was walking her backward, guiding her step by step toward the bed behind her, his body never quite leaving hers, her back meeting the mattress and then the weight of him coming down on top of her, pressing her into the old quilt like he’d been doing it in his sleep for years and now the dream had finally caught up to real life. His hips rolled forward, cock grinding against her through his pants, already leaking a hot, wet spot that soaked the front of her trousers. His hand slid down her side, fingers digging into the soft curve of her hip, pulling her legs wider so his thigh could slide between them and press right against her pussy. 

Every time he exhaled, it was hot and shaky against her neck, and every time he inhaled it sounded like he was trying to swallow her whole. Hungry. Needing. 

He pulled her clothes off in a second, and she laid naked in front of him, breathing hard, breasts rising and falling, thighs parted. John looked at her like he had been dying of thirst. He shed his own clothes quickly, then came down on top of her. His body was hard, sun-darkened, thick with muscle and years of labour. His cock was already heavy and full, standing thick against his belly.

It was slow after that.

No words passed between them. His gaze never left hers. Deep, unblinking as though the world beyond their eyes had ceased to exist. He held her stare while his thick, heavy cock, already rigid and aching, slid into her slowly, inch by inch. One rough hand guided the way, palm rough against the slick heat of her thigh, guiding the wide head to part her folds with a slow, inexorable pressure. 

She was wet, God, she was drenched, but he was so fucking big. The stretch burned, raw and exquisite, and her pussy clenched around him as the first thick ridge slipped past her entrance. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, high and involuntary, the sound raw against the thick air between them. 

He sank deeper with a low, guttural grunt that vibrated straight through his chest to hers. He fed her his cock until her walls were stretched wide and full, until the blunt head kissed the very end of her and his heavy balls pressed hot and tight against her swollen, dripping pussy. 

Her back arched off the bed like a bowstring, a raw cry ripping from her throat as the overwhelming fullness claimed her entirely. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into sweat-slick skin. 

“Fuck—John—”

He didn’t answer, dropped his head beside hers, cheek pressed hard to hers, stubble rough against her hot cheek. His big body covered hers completely, chest to chest, thighs pinning hers down, the heavy weight of him like a living wall that had nothing but the two of them and the heat of her body beneath. 

Then he started fucking her. 

Deep. Powerful. The first thrust rolled slow, long, and heavy, stretching her still-tight pussy around his length until her walls fluttered helplessly around the intrusion. A low grunt tore from his throat as though the very act of claiming her had punched the breath out of her lungs. 

He drove in again, deeper, slower, every powerful thrust lifting her hips from the bed, pulling her toward him like a rope tied around her spine, every powerful drive pushed her further up the bed, her back arching again, breasts bouncing with the force of it, nipples tight against the slick valley of her cleavage. The next thrust landed with a controlled snap of his hips, the head of his cock battering her cervix in perfect merciless rhythm. 

The bed creaked loudly under them, every old spring protesting the raw force of their bodies collapsing. His thick cock stretched her wide on every stroke, the fat head dragging wetly along her pulsing walls, bottoming out so deep it kissed the very mouth of her womb. She cried out, loud and broken animal sounds that filled the entire room, as if echoing off the wooden beams and the empty fields beyond. 

John liked her tits. 

He shifted his weight onto one forearm, the other hand closing around one breast with a rough, possessive squeeze. His thick fingers sank deep into the soft, warm flesh as he kneaded and rolled it, thumb circling the stiff peak until it throbbed between his knuckles. Then he lowered his mouth to the other, biting down, teeth sinking into the yielding flesh, tongue lashing the nipple in the same punishing rhythm. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around his invading cock, milking him with every frantic squeeze. 

Every brutal thrust slammed straight into the deepest hollow of her belly, and she felt it like a slow, molten flood. Her clit rubbed against the base of his cock with each savage withdrawal, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure that bloomed behind her eyes and made her toes curl so hard her calves clamped. The stretch was too much. The thick ridge of his head dragged along that spongy spot that made her vision blur, then pulled back until only the head remained, leaving her empty and aching before slamming back in and forcing her thick again. 

She was dripping down the crack of her ass, soaking the sheets beneath her, soaked that the wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her filled the room like a heartbeat. Every time he bottomed out, a hot, liquid pressure built low in her belly and spilled over into her thighs, making her legs tremble and kick uselessly against the mattress. Her nipples throbbed where his teeth sank in, sending waves of pain and pleasure straight down her spine to her cunt, where the walls clenched tighter, tighter, tighter as if trying to pull him even deeper. 

“John—”

His cheek moved to press on the pillow behind her head, his breath against her face and she turned to him too, laying her cheek against her cheek as he fucked her harder. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Mmph.. look at you… is that what you wanted?” He whispered against her ear. 

Her pussy clenched around his cock like a fist at that, cunt pulsing and gushing around him as she whined something unintelligible that meant yes. The hand around his back lowered and fell to his waist, gripping him to her. He pressed his mouth under her ear, breathing harder. “Come. Come, sweetheart.”

John didn’t stop. He fucked her through her orgasm with deep, punishing strokes until his own release hit. With a long, low groan like a breath, he buried himself to the hilt of her and came, thick ropes of cum flooding deep inside her, pulse after pulse, filling her up. 

::;

They stayed tangled like ivies in the dark. John held one arm around her hip, grounding her against him. He could feel her trembling slowly easing against his chest. 

She looked at him for a long moment— tear-streaked, eyes glistening with everything they had just done. Then she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. It was a deep, heavy press of mouths. Lingering pressure, lips locked together in exhausted need. John kissed her back the same, stubble, honest and grounding contact. He moved his hand to cradle her head after, and they drifted off with the with the heat, and the heat. 

—;

Morning light crept in thin and golden through the single window, dust motes dancing around the beams, floating gold. The house was quiet, except somewhere out past the wall a cow shifted its weight in the barn, and the old timbers answered. 

They lay side by side on their backs in the bed and the room smelled of them. The sharp musk of sex still hung in the air, mixed with dried sweat, the faint iron tang of skin, and the deeper, dust and wood scent of the farmhouse itself. It was the smell of a woman and a man who fucked hard and long the night before. 

John’s big hand rested heavy on her belly, fingers splayed wide, thumb idly stroking the soft skin just below her navel. His arm was warm and solid across her. He didn’t speak until she woke, and turned her head on the pillow to look at him. 

He’d been turning it over since before, the actual shape of what he meant to say, and every version of it had sounded wrong in his head. Too much. Not enough. He wasn’t a man who’d ever had to find the right words for something this size, and it scared him some, how much he wanted to get it right. 

Her own body ached, pleasant, heavy soreness between her thighs, the tender places where his mouth had been rough. She could still feel the ghost of him inside her, the sticky warmth where he had spilled himself a few times. 

He met her eyes. No smile. Just that steady, blue gaze. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. 

She waited. He breathed out through his nose. 

“You asked me for that strip by the creek.”

“Hm.”

“I’ve turned it over every way a man can.”

She waited. 

“I won’t sell it.”

“…I know.”

“My father would’ve boxed my ears if I did. His father before him too.”

She smiled faintly. “I didn’t expect you to.”

“No.” 

Another long pause. 

“But I found another answer.”

She turned onto her side to face him. He looked at her, properly. As though he were seeing the rest of his life laid out before him with the morning just beginning to gather beyond the window.

“I’ve got good land.” He spoke slowly. Measuring. Though his heart was going harder than it had any business going for a man just lying in his own bed talking. 

“I’ve got a house. Weathered worse than me. Three boys who’ll test every ounce of patience you’ve got. A table that’s full come supper. More work than I can finish in a lifetime.”

He reached for her hand. “It’s not a grand life.”

“But it’s an honest one.”

His thumb moved across her knuckles, rough skin over rougher skin, the same hand that worked a stone loose from his horse’s hoof and bled into the dirt of his own broken flume and wiped sugar off his son’s mouth. 

“And there’s room beside me.” 

Her breath slowed, and he followed her gaze, all around her face. 

“If you’ll have it.” His voice softened. Gentler, dropped his guard.

“It’s yours.” 

She looked at him for a long moment. Took her time on purpose. “Is that your way of asking me to marry you?” 

He frowned, honestly puzzled, “reckoned it was.”

“You never actually said it.”

He blinked. Slow. To a man like John Price, he’d already handed over everything he had to give. The question itself was just the last small thing he had to say, once a man had already given up all the rest. 

“…marry me, then.”

—;

The sun dropped low and heavy over the ridge, turning the white sheets on the line into half-melted ghosts that hung limp in the heat. John stood in the shade of the cottonwood, watching her work— the way the sun slid down her back in the hollow where her blouse clung damp. She reached up, pinned another sheet with quick fingers, and the fabric snapped once like a gunshot. 

He came up behind her without a sound, got no thought but touch. His hands found the warm place under her arms, slid along the slight give of her waist, then forward to cup the weight of her breasts through the thin cloth. She didn’t pull away. Instead she let out a soft breath that sounded like a laugh, and her body leaned back against him just enough to tell him she could feel him there. The sheets hung around them, a thin white wall that trembled each time she moved her shoulders. Their shadow painted the fabric. 

He pressed closer, his mouth at the nape of her neck where the hair was damp from the heat. He slid one hand lower, down the curve of her hip, and pulled her harder against him so his palm could rub slow and firm along the line where her hip met her thigh. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the way her body answered him, loose and easy after only a week of being his. 

She hummed, turning her head just enough for him to see the little smile at the corner of her mouth. One sheet slipped free, dropped to the ground in a soft heap of white, and neither of them bent to pick it up. 

John Price

John didn’t treat you well today.

He didn’t transfer your spending allowance into your account, he rescheduled dinner due to a “client meeting” that was running long, and he also forgot to say “I love you” before hanging up the phone.

Yes, John is busy. Yes, he has clients to dazzle and money to make. But this simply won’t do.

“Look at you,” croons John, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over the nearest chair, reaching for his tie. “This for me?”

You bat your eyelashes and bend forward, revealing your slick pussy. Putting on John’s favorite pair of lingerie, the crotchless ones that allows him to fuck you without ever taking them off, always entices him. The man deserves to be punished, his ego knocked down a few pegs, just to poke at him.

Tie gone, the belt goes next, and then his pants. With each step, John removes his clothes until he’s stroking his dick. It takes less than a minute for him to get hard, the head of his cock tapping against your entrance. John rubs it around and through your slickness, coating himself in you before he finally decides he’s had enough and wants to fuck.

One hand on your hip, the other holding the base, John eases himself in, inch by inch. You bite down on your bottom lip, steadying your breath, refuse to flinch or wiggle or fucking moan. John is big, and every time you fuck, you’re full to bursting.

As he bottoms out, John uses both hands to squeeze both ass cheeks, sighing happily. “Needed this after the day I had,” he says.

Swallowing hard, you look over at him with bland expression. “Is that it?”

John glances up, the middle of his brow pinched. “Is what it?”

“I hardly feel you at all,” you state. “Are you even inside me?” John simple stares as if he didn’t hear you right. “I said—”

Abruptly, John draws out, flipping you onto your back. Caging you in, he brings his head low. “You’re upset with me. Why?”

You chew it over, and decide to spit it out. “You didn’t say ‘I love you’ when you ended the call. You always say it.”

John chuckles. Runs his hand over his face. “Alright then.” Shoving your legs up and together, he drives in, filling you to the brim.

He thrusts, hard. “I love you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The world’s fallen apart, become a fracture of the place you once knew. Survival, for you, means few things. It means being handed off against your will, given to one of the many soldiers that guard the compound. A wife, they say. More like brood mare. And here you are, naked, in bed, on your stomach, trapped beneath the body of your new husband.

Kyle.

He is handsome with lovely eyes and an enticing smile. From hand-off, to this moment, Kyle has been nothing but civil, treating you like an equal and not an object. Which is why you’re not entirely upset about consummation. Kyle’s dick is big, and he’s nothing but muscle. You’re not turned off in the slightest.

But you are pissed about the circumstances, and in that, you’ll be a bit of an asshole because it’s all the ammo you have.

Kyle’s hands slide up your hips and sides as his lips mark a path to the curve of your neck. His lips are wet and sticky from when he had his head between your thighs. That, you can’t complain about. He made you come hard, twice.

One hand plants itself to the right of your head, the bed surrendering to Kyle’s weight. He's going to fuck you prone bone, and that shouldn’t be hot. It really shouldn’t, but fuck, your pussy throbs with the anticipation. Intimacy is hard to find when everyone wants something from you, but Kyle hasn’t asked for anything, even offered to postpone if it meant you were comfortable.

Better to fuck and be done with it.

Kyle’s cock slides between your thighs, finds your pussy, pushes in. You nearly choke on your next breath, eyes rolling as he eases more inside you. Thank God he can’t see your face or he’d know you’re enjoying this.

When he’s entirely seated inside you, cock twitching, you find the venom.

“Is that it?” you ask, closing your eyes a moment to steady yourself before looking over your shoulder at him.

Kyle’s expression is one of bewilderment that promptly morphs into amusement. He chuckles, smiling, yet there’s nothing malicious in it.

“Cheeky,” he croons. “I like that.”

He lowers himself, hips drawing back. The lacking is an ache, quickly filled by a punch to the gut. You can’t hold it in, can’t contain that bland expression. The half-moan, half-whimper wins out, shredding your fortitude.

“No one’s ever complained,” he muses, lightly smacking your ass. “Don’t think you will now.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I know you remember,” whispers Johnny, pressing into your space, allowing you no clearance. “You’re lying.” He nuzzles the side of your neck. “Why are you lying in the house of God, lass?”

Your hands shoving against his chest is futile. There is no use in trying to move the hulking beast of a man, no matter how much you enjoy his presence, or how much you enjoyed that night together. Johnny is a pagan, and you are a woman of God. That is all it is. That is all it can be.

“I do not lie.”

“You do,” he affirms, cupping one breast through your dress. “Look at the way you respond to me.” His touch instantly pebbles your nipple beneath the fabric. “Are you wet?” His other hand dips. “Let’s have a look.”

You don’t resist as Johnny lifts your skirts, pinning them up around your hips, exposing you to the cold air of the church. His fingers delve between, parting your cunt, sliding through easily. A little gasp escapes you as his fingers brush over your clit.

With a growl, Johnny hoists you up and onto the wood table nearby that usually holds candles, the blood and body of Christ, and a solid gold cross. It’s empty now, and Johnny forces your legs wide, lifting up his tunic, shoving his pants down to reveal his cock. You’re speared on it in seconds, and everything squeezes down, refusing to release him.

“That’s it? Hardly how I remember,” you say between clenched teeth.

Johnny smirks. Withdraws. Bottoms out.

Your legs give out and Johnny laughs, the sound filling the empty church. No one is here. They aren’t supposed to be. A celebration is happening on behalf of the Christians, and the clergy eagerly lead it in the hopes of converting pagans.

“Aye. Lying.” Grasping tight, Johnny thrusts roughly into you. “Lying in a house of God. Lying while you’re taking my cock.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Umbra. Shade. Shadow. Ghost.

How were you to know the demon you summoned wanted your pussy as payment? Ghost, as he called himself, omitted the finer details, the underlying agreement of the contract. He did his part to the exact letter of specification. Impressive, really. You hadn’t expected him to be so thorough, but you’re a fool for believing you’d slipped around a demon’s tricky nature.

Red hands with sharp claws encase your throat. Your lips are parted, tongue slightly lolling, saliva and cum coating your lips and chin. Ghost is a mouthful, and you spent the whole time on your knees chocking on his fat cock. Now you’re in his lap, impaled on that same cock, naked for his entire throne room to see. Not that they’re all paying attention. The orgy in front of you is keeping all of Ghost’s lower demons occupied.

“Is that it?” you manage, though your words are slurred.

The way this transpired is a sham. You agreed to sex but you didn’t agree to be his breeding hole. Which is why you’re pissed off even as his thick, ribbed cock rubs your inner walls, sending electric sparks straight to your clit. You could come like this, unmoving. It’s simply fucking unfair.

“I’ve fucked bigger,” you spit, and Ghost laughs behind you.

“Love,” he croons, lips tracing the curve of your ear. “You’ve never had a cock like mine.”

With his hands around your throat as the counterweight, Ghost bounces you on his cock. Your legs are spread wide, forcibly open by his thick thighs. With your head shaking around, it falls forward limp, and you see it all. Magic must be at work for him to fit all of that in you. Not surprising since you’re in Hell, bound to a powerful Lord.

As he continues to fuck you, the base of his cock swells, and then you’re crying out as his knot pops into you, your pussy overflowing with cum.

It’s when you’re on the phone with your friends John may or may not block after he hears them trying to get you back into the dating feild.

Why would you need to date anyone else but Price? Who else would marry you when you’re already dependent on him, John may or may not have lead to a few men getting in an accident before your planned dates. No deaths, nothing serious (thankfully).

But it has you worried, completely oblivious to the fact that John’s physically blocking any potential prospects from coming your way, maybe you’re not pretty enough anymore. Maybe they don’t actually find you interesting.

Pure Blasphemy leaving your mouth. Sexiest thing on the planet, and he reminds you. Fucks you right against the mirror so you can see him splitting you open, how beautiful you look all disheveled. John holds your legs wide and your back to him. Can see the exact way heis cock is filling you to the brim, Sledgehammering into your slippery walls that’s gushing either way your mixed fluids, his pre weeping into your needy cunt, threatening to get you pregnant.

“Would look even prettier with a rock on y’ finger birdie, mm- have you all stuffed full ‘f me with a rock on your hand. ‘S what you need.”

And your pussy’s trembling, gasping for air into your lungs because you can imagine the sensation. John used to cum in you all the time when he found out you were on the pill, how warm it felt inside you, makes your mind swirl and put the balls of your feet right in the dovey of his back as he could be deeper, till it was dripping out of you’re hole and your body was limp, and he’d dip his tongue in to plug it up. Smear his tongue all against your sensitive clit and suck your cum up. But you got pregnant, came to your senses that even with the pill, you could end up in the same situation—

“You can’t-“ you’re keening, head rolling back on his hairy shoulder, grabbing at his calloused hands to put you down but he only fucks more of himself inside you, faster— harder— “Oh fuck John- nngh!” He’s doing it on purpose, widened mushroom tip knocking right against your cervix.

You can feel him smirking the way his beard prickles against your skin, sucking a love bite onto you, the bastard, “I can’t what honey?”

“You can’t cum inside- you can’t!” You’re shaking your head but your cunt is gripping him tighter with every rough thrust. His breeder balls are slapping against your cunt with every sloppy roll of his hips, lucky he pulls out just as your walls start to spasm. His cum dripping to the floor as he holds you so close. He lets you down to your feet and hold you close, humping against as you both come down from your highs, his hands squeezing your tits.

He lowly groans, flushed forehead pressing against your messy curls, “Fuck, but you’d look so good pregnant again dove.”

You got lucky.

Lucky you didn’t get pregnant but there was a scare. Almost as if your body had been achin for it, for this man and only man to knock you up right after fucking you silly.

“‘S a shame.” He exhaled his cigar when you give him the news.

You’re more than relieved, and John understands that. You’re still young. You’d atleast want some of your life to yourself before having anymore kids. You make your way over to him, falling into his arms on the lawn chair. You wrap your arms around him first for once, because at the very least you know he’s safe. This is home. You mumble into his neck, “Maybe when the baby turns four or five we could—“

“—Whatever you want sweetheart, God it’s whatever you want.” He hums, pressing his lips against your temple. Hand running up and down your back as he presses you into him.

You’d definitely be married by the end of the year.

Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder. 

Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day. 

“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed. 

“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.

“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.  

The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house. 

You sigh and shut the water off.

The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream. 

On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate. 

At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack. 

“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.

“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”

“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”

He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast. 

You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.

There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table. 

Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”

The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”

Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.

You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether. 

And then, and only then, can you finally exhale. 

It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time. 

It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside. 

He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat. 

Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away. 

By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you. 

No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never. 

The latter point doesn’t apply to your period. 

Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them. 

And then it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.

The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.

This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.

There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after. 

You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side. 

He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food. 

You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in. 

Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—

John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”

And he does. 

Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done. 

You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return. 

His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up. 

Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end. 

He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning. 

A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life. 

A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.

It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John 

The next time John calls, you tell him as much. 

“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”

You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”

You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”

“Then why would we reschedule?”

“Oh. Okay.”

Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain. 

If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life. 

It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away. 

And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch. 

A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you. 

You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late. 

You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little. 

The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click. 

“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup. 

“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.

John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”

“John—”

“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin. 

You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him. 

You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss. 

When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up. 

The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test. 

Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.  

Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.

“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”

His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up. 

It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well. 

You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter. 

Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear. 

You’re glad you have John.

Not everyone shares your opinion.

A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.

“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”

You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”

“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”

“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”

“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”

Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. 

A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails. 

It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process. 

Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.

The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair. 

His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular. 

“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started. 

You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”

John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach. 

“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”

Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw. 

“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs. 

“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”

He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”

There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet. 

That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside. 

Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust. 

The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out. 

It’s finally becoming a reality now that the summer heat has hit full blast, the air outside sweltering. 

You prance out into the backyard, smiling brightly at him, your cutest swimsuit on with a fluffy towel in your hand. “Are you gonna swim too, Papa?”

“No, I will sit and watch you,” he chuckles as you furrow your eyebrows, glancing down at the swim trunks he chose to wear. “Come here.”

You’re standing in front of him as soon as your brain registers the direction, shivering when his hands roam up and down your warm skin. “Papochka–”

His fingers pull at the straps tied around your neck and back, pushing your hands away when you go to cover yourself. 

“We have a fence for a reason, sweet girl. You do not need a swimsuit– it did not cover much anyway,” he says. 

He squeezes your ass before tugging down your bottoms as if to prove his point, unable to hide the smirk on his face when your thighs twitch underneath his palms. 

All it takes is that brief moment of the sun against your naked body to make you ready to jump into the cool water. 

His fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Sunscreen first, malsyhka.”

To his credit, it starts innocently as he spreads the lotion across your face and upper body. 

His hands reach your chest, the cold lotion and feeling of him massaging your breasts causing your nipples to perk up. It’s a brief motion, but you can tell by the look in his eyes he’s just getting started.

“Don’t tease, Papa,” you whine, gently pulling at the gold chain hanging around his neck.

Rough skin glides down your stomach, squeezing your hips before he kneels into the grass. “Apologies, sweet girl, but safety first.”

His touch is harrowing as he glides the sunscreen down your bare legs, his face level with your mound. He looks up at you, smiling before placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh. 

You can’t hide the slick that spills from you as his palms lotion the outside of your pussy, even if you tried, he’d know– he always does. 

“Turn,” he says, pouring more sunscreen into his palms. He starts with your legs this time, working his way up towards your backside. 

“Papa!” you squeak. The sharp sting of his hand hitting your ass is quickly replaced with the soothing cold lotion. 

He chuckles, standing up as he rubs circles onto your back. “Could not help myself.” It’s not an apology, but you forgive him anyway.

He spins you around, mouth crashing into yours as his hands slide down to your waist. 

It’s not the physical sensation of kissing Nikolai that sends heat pooling straight to your stomach– though the way his tongue slips past your lips does feel hypnotic– it’s the wave of emotions that come along with it. 

Every time lips move against yours, it feels like something beyond ownership– it’s letting go, trusting him completely. 

You whimper as he pulls away, lips turned downwards into a frown. “Papochka, need you…”

All your pouting is for naught. He crosses his arms and shakes his head at you. “Malyshka, you said you want to swim– so go play.”

The second the timer he sets goes off, you jump out of the water, naked body dripping as you rush towards him. 

You don't even bother to pull his swim trunks down all the way before you place yourself in his lap. His hands grip your hips, bouncing you on his cock. “My sweet girl, always so ready for me.”

You can’t even bring yourself to feel ashamed or embarrassed anymore, not when it– he– feels this right. 

His thumb traces soft circles onto your puffy clit, and he lazily thrusts up into you. “Harder, please, Papa!” you cry out. 

Your words make him twitch inside you, a low groan leaving his mouth. “Needy girl,” he teases you with a low grin– but his pace fastens anyway. 

The deep, guttural rumble of his pickup truck tearing through the gravel drive is a warning, a proclamation—he’s home. Your spine straightens before you even realize it, ears attuned to the familiar sequence of his arrival—the creak of the screen door, the slam, the heavy thud of boots being kicked off near the welcome mat.  

Except today—silence. 

No boots. No pause. Just the hurried, uneven thud of his footsteps, heavier than usual, more urgent. A shiver races down your spine, instinct flaring before you can even turn—  

And then him.

Big. Encompassing. Swallowing you whole.  

His heat presses into your back, rough hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t need to look up to know his expression—you feel it. The tension coiled in his muscles, impatient huffs against the curve of your throat.  

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly as your fingers lift, clawing back into the wild strands of his hair—midnight black, nearly blue in the dim light. It’s longer now, unruly, a messy tangle between a wolf cut and a short mullet, the front nearly falling into his eyes. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, and he exhales sharply through his nose, his apology a low, graveled grunt against your skin.  

“‘Couldn’t get to you fast enough." 

You know him.  

His anger, his irritation, the frustration clings to him like a second skin. It seeps into you like ink in water, dark and suffocating, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. Your body responds before your mind can catch up—arching back into him, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch. 

That’s when your hands shift, turning you just enough in his grasp to catch his gaze—and the moment you do, the world narrows.  

Those eyes. 

Deep gray, like storm clouds rolling in over the pasture, narrowed and restless beneath the weight of his scowl. His brows—thick, dark, almost severe—are knit together, tension carved into the space between them. At thirty two years old to your twenty nine? The years have only sharpened him, etching his features with an intensity that makes your breath catch. A full blooded Japanese man raised in the heart of the South, he’s a walking contradiction—heritage and home clashing in the best ways.  

And today, every inch of him shows it.  

Dust clings to him like a second skin, ground into the fabric of his filthy wifebeater, streaked across the navy and black flannel rolled up to his forearms. His tattoos—a sprawling canvas of ink swallowing his egregiously broad frame—peek out from beneath the dirt, the edges of them smudged with the day’s labor.  

Head ranchmen. Raising livestock. Wrestling miles of fencing. Hauling hay, operating machinery, fighting with the land and the heat and the men under him who can’t keep up—it’s all written across the stars. His muscles are still coiled tight, his jaw working as if the frustration hasn’t fully left his bones.  

And yet, god, he’s yours.  

The scent of him—sweat, leather, and something wild washes over you, a pheromone laden reminder of exactly who you belong to.  

You reach up, thumb smoothing gently between his furrowed brows.  

“You okay?”

He exhales sharply, "M’alright. Always doin’ this, woman. Thinkin’ I’m about to cry."

A laugh bubbles in your chest, but you press closer instead, fingers trailing down to cup his jaw.  

“My soul’s with yours," you remind him, tilting your chin up despite the height difference—“I know when you’re sick before you do—" 

He grunts at that, but there’s no real irritation behind it. Instead, he ducks his head, nudging his nose against yours in a rare moment of tenderness, the gesture contradicting every rough edge he wears so well.  

Toji’s head dips low, those storm gray eyes scanning you with the kind of focus that makes your pulse flutter.  

You stand there in white fuzzy socks, swallowed whole by the oversized replica of his flannel—the deep blue of it sharp against your caramel skin, sleeves slipping past your wrists, the hem hanging dangerously high on your thighs.  

And as your husband, he knows what’s beneath. 

The way your waist cinches in like a damn hourglass, unnaturally narrow compared to the flare of your hips—so wide, so heavy it looks like you’ve carried a child before. The ass that fills his palms perfectly, fat, jiggling with every step. And those tits—full, heavy, sitting high like they belong on a sultry pin up poster. His name—Fushiguro—in tiny cursive beneath the curve of your left breast, a claim he never gets tired of seeing.  

Your fingers drag gently through the hair at his nape, nails scratching lightly as you murmur, “Yumi missed you.” 

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, calloused and rough—“‘Momma missed me too?”

You nod, just slightly, tilting your head with those fox eyes of yours—narrowed, knowing, stripping him bare of any lie he could try to spin.  

“Tell me what happened at work.”

His brow twitches, “You tellin’ me?”

You don’t argue. Just raise your brows, waiting.  

A beat. Then, with a sharp exhale, it spills—

“Men actin’ like goddamn children. Argued with me ‘bout the fence line—then one of ‘em nearly flipped the ATV ‘cause he wasn’t payin’ attention. ‘Whole damn day wasted fixin’ other people’s—” His voice deepens, slipping into sharp edged Japanese, “…Nande kon'na baka-domo to issho ni hatarakanakya naranē nda? Mattaku, kuso jikan'nomudada.” 

Why the hell do these idiots work for me? Total waste of fuckin’ time.

You stand on your tiptoes, pressing your thumb between his brows again, smoothing the crease there as you answer him—fluent, just like he taught you. 

“Son'nani ikatteiru to, fukeru no ga hayamarimasu yo.” 

You’ll age faster being so angry.

He pauses, nostrils flaring—before he lets out a sharp exhale, forehead dropping against yours.  

"...Goddamn, woman. ‘Always knowin’ how to shut me up.” 

You hum, pressing closer.  

“So that’s why you keep me around?” 

“Nah. Keep you ‘cause you’re mine.” 

You hum, fingertips tracing the corded muscle below his neck, your touch featherlight. 

“Did talking about it help?" 

His jaw flexes, “You want me to lie?" 

“I’d rather you be honest, Fushiguro.” 

A rough exhale escapes him, “I’m on the news tomorrow? ‘Know I killed one of those bastards." 

You know he doesn’t mean it—but the frustration is real, simmering beneath his skin like an untamed storm. So you tease just a little, trying to loosen the tension coiling in his shoulders—“Fussier than a baby, ‘swear." 

That gets you a glare—"Nowhere near a damn child."  

You react before he can pull away, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, holding him just firm enough to ground him.

“Hey," you murmur, voice softening, “I was just pokin’, love. Yeah?" 

He stares down at you, that perpetual scrawl of his features more habit than anger now. After a beat, he nods.  

You press on, voice a gentle lull. 

“Rough days are inevitable…but there’s your favorite meal to look forward to. And cuddles from me an’ Yumi." 

His expression doesn’t change.  

"Or," you offer, tilting your head, “I could rub your ear  ‘like you like?” 

Something shifts in his gaze then—dark, heavy. He looks at you—really looks. That sweet, sultry face he’s seen crumble beneath him, twist in pleasure, pout in frustration. It all hits him at once, a wave of something possessive and hungry that makes his fingers flex against your waist.  

And in response?  

“Yeah." 

A single word. Deceptively simple.  

Because you did rub his ear, sure—but what you didn’t expect?  

Was ending up bouncing stupidly on his cock in the process.  

Now, here you are—hair a mess of copper, cinnamon, and black curls, wild like a halo around your flushed face, the flannel hanging open, barely clinging to your shoulders. The fabric dips, revealing the sinful swell of your tits, the heavy weight of them barely contained by the parted material. Your fuzzy socks—adorable, ridiculous in contrast to the filth of this moment—curl helplessly into the bedsheets as you struggle to steady yourself.  

Your thighs ache, burning from the relentless pace he’s set, but you barely feel it. Not when he’s got his hands wrapped around your waist, his fingers so big they nearly touch when he grips you—effortlessly hauling you up, then slamming you back down, forcing you to take every inch of him.  

“F—Fushiguro—!" 

You choke on his name as he pulls you all the way up, the slick length of him just about to slip free before he yanks you back down, letting his dick carve straight into your g-spot with every punishing thrust.  

And the worst part?  

He hasn’t even undressed.

Leaned back against the vintage headboard, still in his dirt-streaked wifebeater—tugged halfway up to reveal the hard planes of his abs, ink-dark tattoos trailing down the cut of his V-line. The roughness of his pubic hair grinds against your clit with every brutal snap of your hips, the friction almost too much, threatening to push you over the edge before he even lets you.  

And his face— 

Dark brows pulled low, storm gray eyes locked on you with an intensity that borders on cruel. He watches you with that same scowl, like you mean nothing to him in this moment—just a warm, trembling hole for him to use, fucking you with ruthless precision.  

He leans back, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you again, dragging you down onto his cock with a sharp snap of his hips.  

“C’mon," he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Keep fuckin’ feelin’ me.”

You’re silent—trying to be—but your pussy isn’t.  

Loud. Obscene. Creaming around him in thick, slippery pulses, gushing with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of it—wet, filthy, shameful—fills the space between your ragged breaths. Your lips stay pressed together, but your expression betrays you—eyebrows pinched, a cute little frown twisting your face as pleasure burns through you, sharp and unforgiving.  

Discomfort. Overstimulation. The kind of pleasure that hurts, that makes your toes curl and your stomach clench. Because god, the way he stretches you—thick, unrelenting, carving into you like he was made to ruin you.  

The worst part? He knows.  

Knows that in places where you’re soft, silent, observant—here, like this? You’re a mouthy little thing when he gets you there. Which is exactly why he cocks his hand back, fingers tangling in the back of your flannel, yanking you down harder on his cock before—  

SMACK. 

The sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room, your flesh jiggling from the impact, the heat of it blooming fast.  

“Ain't hearin’ shit from you," he growls. 

“C’mon. Gimme’ somethin’.”  

The rough clap of your thighs against his hips—hard, frantic, skin slapping skin—does something to you. Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers sinking into his forearms, claws digging in as a whiny little cry punches out of you.  

It’s a domino effect afterwards. A whimper slips free, trembling, desperate, and then another—another, slurring into heavier, broken whines, like you’re trying to swallow them back every time they threaten to escape. But you can’t. Not when he’s like this—when his thighs are so thick, his grip so bruising, when he makes you fuck him like he hates you.  

“There it is,” he grunts, fingers tightening around your waist, hauling you down harder, heavier. 

“‘Know my wife more than anyone in this fuckin’ world.”

You're an eye-rolling, pouting, mess. 

His mess. Your pussy keeps gushing, clenching forcefully around the thick swell of his cock, kicking off a series of unfinished, half-shattered orgasms that leave you spiraling—dizzy, overwhelmed, ruined.  

Tears brim your dark, pretty eyes, lashes sticking together as broken little whimpers spill from your lips.  

“I'm—‘M cumming.” 

But Toji? He doesn’t stop. 

His grip tightens, digging into the softness of your hips as he finds a devastating new rhythm. Slower now, but heavier. Louder. Each deep, punishing thrust drags a wet, filthy sound from where you’re stretched around him, the slap of skin echoing through the room.  

And the scent of him—god. 

Woodsmoke, leather, the erotic musk of a hard day’s work still clinging to his clothes, swallowing you whole even as he lounges beneath you, lazily using your body to chase his own pleasure.  

“Wanted me to feel better, ‘ain’t you?" 

His palm lands against your ass again—hard—the sharp crack reverberating through your bones before he spreads you open with that same rough hand, exposing your flushed, dripping cunt as he starts fucking up into you with renewed force.  

“Gonna fuck you ‘til every nut makes me less angry," he grunts, fingers biting into your flesh—“Had a hard fuckin’ day, remember?" 

You lean forward, sniffling pathetically, nodding in meek submission—like you’ve lost a game you never even meant to play.  

“Okay," you squeak, voice surrendering, small.  

His teeth flash in a wicked grin.  

“Atta fuckin’ girl." 

And then he takes—pounding up into you with a brutal pace that has you muffling trembling little moans into the crook of your arm, body jolting with every deep, claiming thrust. 

Toji slides his broad palm against the top of your head, fingers threading through your curls as he tilts your face up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. 

“You here with me?" 

You nod, and that's all he needs before he tugs you forward by your hair, sealing your mouth with his in a deep, tongue-filled kiss. It's filthy, possessive, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he pulls back just as swiftly.  

And then—SMACK. 

His palm meets your cheek with enough force to make your breath hitch, just sharp enough to snap you back into focus. 

“Fill your fuckin' mouth up.”

You sink down instantly, taking him between your lips with breathless little whimpers, your lashes fluttering as you suck him in deep. You pull back just enough to kitten lick along his length, teasing the flushed tip before swirling your tongue around it. Then lower—sucking his heavy balls into your mouth, your fingers lightly jerking the base of him.  

It's adorable in the most pathetic way—how easily you obey when you're usually all quiet fire and defiance. But like this? You're truly his.

Toji watches as you work him over—his cock glistening with your spit, your lips stretched around him. Then he takes himself in hand, slapping his length against your flushed cheek, dragging it over your lips with a filthy, wet sound.  

“Look at you," he grunts, voice rough with satisfaction.  

And he does look—drinking in the sight of your dark, caramel skin flushed raw, your pretty eyes swollen with tears, your lips parted and trembling. It makes him crave more.  

“C'mere," he growls suddenly, gripping your waist before flipping you both in one swift motion—your back now pressed to his chest, his thighs bracketing your head as he maneuvers you into a 69. 

The second you're settled, he buries his face between your thighs with a groan, his tongue devouring you. You gasp, trying to refocus, wrapping your lips around his cock again—but it's impossible to concentrate when he's sucking on your clit like he's starved, his tongue dragging hot and wet through your folds, slurping obscenely. Your hips jerk, back arching as pleasure zings through you, your forehead dropping against his hip as you whimper around him.  

“Focus, baby.”

He mutters this against your cunt—right before his hand comes down on your ass again, the sharp SMACK making you jolt.  A broken moan slips past your lips, and then you're bobbing your head faster, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him back into your mouth with desperate, sloppy devotion.  

And Toji?  

He just feasts—grunting, licking, taking—his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks his tongue inside you, making sure you feel every second of it.  

You don’t stand a chance.

The air is thick with the sound of skin on skin, your breath ragged and wet as you lose yourself in the rhythm of him. You move without thought, drunk on the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue—both palms wrapped tight around the base of his cock, jerking him from root to tip in slow, filthy strokes. Your tits bounce with every movement, swaying heavy and lewd as you work him over in a way that’s downright pornographic, your body moving like it was made just for this.  

Toji’s hips twitch, his breath catching when you suddenly take just the head of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip while your small hands take care of the rest. His head knocks back against the headboard with a low groan, his voice rough, strained, as he mutters something under his breath—half curse, half praise—before his hand comes down again, another sharp SMACK landing on your ass.  

“Edge of the bed. Now.”

You crawl there on shaky knees, face pressing into the blankets, ass up—presented, waiting—and before you can even brace yourself, he’s sinking into you, stretching you open in a way that punches a muffled whine from your throat. His fingers tangle in the nape of your hair, tugging just enough to make your back arch as he yanks you back onto him, filling you to the hilt with a single brutal thrust. Your face stays buried in the blankets, lips pouting, muffling little whimpers and breathless complaints—but they’re weak, half-hearted, lost in the haze of pleasure as he starts moving, fucking into you with rough, measured strokes.  

“Fussin’ just like Yumi," he growls, voice thick as you tuck your face deeper into the sheets, hiding the way your cheeks burn. 

“Tch—feet closer to your chest.”

He rasps this, voice gravel-scraped and impatient. You whimper but obey, knees pressing tight to your body, hips lifted higher—exposed, helpless. Then, in Japanese, sharp and commanding—

“Jibun no handan de ugoite kudasai.”

Move on your own. 

And you do.  

At first, it's slow—tentative—your hips rocking back and forth in small, uncertain motions, your body arching as you try to find the right angle. The sight of you like this—spread open, trembling, taking him—is obscene. Erotic in the rawest sense.  

His fingers snap once, sharply. Another order, another growled phrase—“Head up.” 

You just obey, lifting your face from the sheets, breath ragged as you look back over your shoulder at him.  

“If you don’t move, I’ll show you how I wanna’ be fucked.” 

You pout—lips trembling, eyes wet—but then you start moving again.  

Little bounces at first, your ass clapping lightly against his hips—gentle, testing. Then deeper. Faster. More. Until you’re fully fucking yourself on him, your body taking over, driven by instinct, by the need to please. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as you pant, as you whimper—  

“…M’sorry, baby." 

It slips out without thought, weak and breathless.  

Toji only grunts, “Yeah?” 

You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. But you say it again, lips quivering. 

“M’sorry—"

You’re squirting. 

A hot, sudden gush, spilling around him without warning, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. The words turn into something else—deep, shuddering sobs, your voice breaking as you keep repeating it, "M’sorry, m’sorryyy...” 

Your husband? He could care less. 

Toji fucks you through it. His grip on your hair tightens, his hips snapping up to meet yours as you sob, as you tremble, as you fall apart. 

Because this? This is how he takes his anger out.

The world narrows to nothing but the brutal snap of his hips, the sound of skin meeting skin in sharp, wet slaps. Toji yanks your legs out from under you, planting your feet flat on the floor—forcing your spine into a deep arch, your ass tilted up just right for him to sink into you even deeper, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.  

You can’t help the noises that tear out of you—loud, broken, punched out moans that rise higher with every merciless drive of his cock. His fist tightens in your hair so everlasting, wrenching your head back as he growls above you, the sound rough and satisfied—because nothing pleases him more than hearing you unravel, your voice frayed beyond coherency.  

Your fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white—until he tsks, a single sharp sound of disapproval that has you scrambling to correct yourself before he can fuss. Arms straight back, wrists together, like you know what he wants without him even saying it.  His free hand wraps around both your wrists in one brutal grip, pinning them against the small of your back as he drives you into the mattress, fucking you so deep you squeal, high and desperate, your body jerking beneath him.  

“Fuckkkk…!” 

It’s a shriek, really—raw and guttural, your cunt gushing around him as he pistons in and out, his grunts syncing with your cries in a filthy, primal rhythm. He’s not gentle. Not close. Every snap of his hips is punishing, claiming, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you until you’re keening, your thighs shaking, your mind gone beneath the sheer intensity of it.  

And then—  

His rhythm stutters.  

A deep, guttural growl rips from his throat, his fingers tightening hard in your hair as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing ropes. Your sounds drown his—whimpers, choked cries, the way your body clenches around him as if trying to milk every last drop.  

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing—his, yours—both ragged and uneven.  

Then he slowly pulls out, leaving you limp beneath him, your lower body trembling, your nerves still alight with aftershocks.  Toji catches his breath for a beat—just one—before he leans down over you, his voice rough but soft now, murmured against your ear in Japanese.  

“Daijōbudesuka?”

You alright? 

His hand cups your throat from behind, tilting your face toward his. And then—kisses. Tiny, chaste pecks against your swollen lips, one after another, as if checking that you’re still with him.  

You let out a breathless little giggle, your lashes fluttering.  

“Mmm...legs feel numb." 

He hums. 

“They should.” 

The moment his hands twist you around, your breath catches—but it melts into another light giggle as he scoops you up effortlessly, depositing you onto the bed like something precious. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the burning imprint of his body still lingering on yours.  

And then he looks at you. 

His fingers slide through your hair again, slower this time, almost reverent, before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s startlingly gentle. You nudge your nose against his, affectionate, lingering, before you pull back just enough to murmur—  

“…‘Gonna have a better day at work tomorrow?" 

Sweet. Hopeful.  

Toji rumbles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead—“Already havin’ a better day now." 

Your eyes dilate at that, lashes fluttering as you whisper—"Really?" 

“Murder’s still in question for ‘them employees, though.” 

Your face falls immediately, lips pressing into a pout as you sigh, long suffering. Before you can protest, his palm lands on your thigh—a light, teasing smack—and then he’s pushing off the bed, leaving you sprawled there. You scramble to grab his discarded flannel, draping it over yourself like a makeshift shield before flipping your hair back with an exaggerated huff.  

“You’re hardheaded!” 

“Got a hard head, baby.” 

You suck your teeth. 

But then? he reappears in the doorway, Yumi cradled in his big arms. 

The whiplash of it nearly gives you an actual headache. One second, he’s got you bent over the bed, fucking you like you owe him money, and the next? He’s holding that Persian kitten like it’s spun glass, cooing at her in a voice three octaves higher than you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.  

You roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your own brain.  

“You don’t talk to me like that.”  

Toji ignores you, of course. Because why would he ever acknowledge the way your metaphorical tail is swishing back and forth in irritation? He’s too busy booping Yumi’s tiny pink nose, murmuring, “Momma’s the fussy one, isn’t she? Yeah?" 

“Boy, please. I don’t win the hot head award. You’re an overachiever for that score." 

He just smirks—smirks!—as he sets Yumi down on the bed, watching with that stupid, smug expression as she prances toward the headboard like the little princess she is, tail held high as she lets out a dignified Mrrow. 

One second you’re lounging there, all sass and post coital glow—the next, he’s on you, knocking you flat onto your back in the sheets with a oomph that dissolves into breathless giggles as you shove at his chest.  

“Go away!"

He doesn’t.  

“You know how much I love you?"

You tilt your head, pretending to think. 

“Not sure."

The air between you shifts—just for a heartbeat—from playful to something deeper, something heavier. His rough fingers catch yours, and he brings your hand up, pressing a slow, almost reverent kiss to the gold band on your finger. Against the metal, he murmurs something low and raw—something that sounds suspiciously like—“Mines forever." 

You sigh, but it's a warm sound, your fingers curling around his, intertwining like they were made to fit there. Playfully, you squeeze.  

“Hungry?"

He exhales through his nose, “Been thinkin' about those red beans all day."

You bat your lashes, feigning innocence. 

“I wasn't part of the meal plan?" 

His thumb drags over your pulse point as he leans in, breath hot against your ear, “You were the meal plan."  

Then, just like that, he's hauling you up—one arm under your thighs, the other bracing your back as he tosses you halfway over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but your legs lock around his waist instinctively, arms looping his neck as he starts moving.  

“C'mon. I'm starvin'."

You press your lips to his jaw, nipping just to feel him tense—“You're starvin’, and you love me?" 

He grunts—but for him? It’s not a denial. It’s yes, a thousand times over. 

You found your father in the living room, sprawled back on the couch with one arm over the backrest, a beer bottle dangling from his other hand, like most nights. Any other ocassion you'd make fun of him "Drinking beer and watching TV isn't gonna help you with that beer belly, old man." But tonight you had to be extra nice.

The TV was on, with some sports game he wasn’t really watching. You battered your eyelashes, swaying a little on your feet. “Daddy?”

Joel’s eyes slid lazily to you. He knew that tone, he knew how you'd call him daddy when you wanted something from him. “Mmm?”

“Can I get some money to go the movies with my friends tonight?” you asked, keeping your voice extra sweet, the way you knew he liked.

He hummed before taking a slow sip of beer. “What bout your allowance?”

Your bit your lip. “Already spent it all, daddy.”

Joel arched his brows. “On what?” He scoffed.

“I don't know, daddy! On stuff. Now, can I get some more money or not?” You tried to remain sweet but Joel was getting on your nerves.

“Well, that depends,” Joel tilted his head, smirking, and before you could ask him on what, he already answered. “On whether or not you’re feelin’ generous.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but you still made a face. “Generous?”

“Mm-hm.” He patted his thigh. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, standing in front of him. “Ugh. You’re so annoying,” you muttered, even as he set the beer down and spread his legs wider.

“Yeah, but you still want somethin’ from me,” he said smugly, reaching for the waistband of his jeans. “If you wanna go watch a little movie. You're gonna have to make one with daddy too first.”

You blinked in confussion. Usually what your dad wanted when you asked for money, or permission to go somewhere was a quick messy blowjob fifteen minutes before your friends picked you up, maybe just a handjob if he was feeling generous that day. “What? Dad, I just want some mone—”

“On your knees,” he said, hooking two fingers under your chin. “I wanna see those pretty lips wrapped around daddy's cock. And this time…” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “…we’re gettin’ it on camera.”

Your head snapped up. “What? No. Gross, dad. I’m not letting you record me so you can be some weirdo jerking off to it later.”

He chuckled, he always found your initial objections and that bratty attitude of yours amusing, and hot as hell. “Babygirl, I don’t need a video to get off to you. You’re walkin’ around this house all the damn time, keepin’ me hard without tryin’. But I want this. I want proof of how fuckin’ good you are f’your dad. And you’re gonna give it to me.”

“Ugh. Why do you have to be such a creep, dad? I don't want that on your phone forever. It grosses me out.”

Before you could protest again, his big hands were already on you, yanking you with force by your arm, pushing you down until your knees hit the rug under you. One of his hands dragged you forward by the back of your neck until your face was right between his spread legs. The big bulge straining against his jeans was right in front of your face, and your cheeks heated despite yourself. You hated how your dad, even being so disgustingly gross, still made your pussy ache with just seeing the outline of his prominent cock.

“Daaad—” you started, but he was already unbuckling his belt, and when he did you knew nothing would make him change his mind.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered roughly. “And don’t you dare hide that pretty face from the camera.”

You groaned, and couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes. “Ugh, you’re so disgusting. Such a perv.”

He just grinned at your insults. Every time you called him a “perv” or a “creep,” it only made him harder, more desperate to fuck the sass out of you. It wasn’t just the words, it was the attitude behind them, the way you acted like you didn’t want him, like you find him gross, when he knew your tight little pussy was already soaking wet every time he was around you. And that’s what drove him absolutely insane, the thought that he was the only man allowed inside your pretty little body, just daddy. The only one who would ever look after you, who always knew what was best for you. Your resistance only made him hunger for you more, it made him want to claim you, to have you forever, only for him. No other guy could ever give you the love your father gave you.

He held the phone now in his left hand, and he aimed it down at you, the bright flash light almost blinding your eyes. “Say that again to the camera. Go’head, tell em what I am."

“Daddy’s a perv,” you muttered, trying to hide your eyes behind your hand. Joel didn’t let you get away with it, of course not, you’d cooperate, and he’d have your pretty face on close-up chocking on his cock, so with a firm grip, he grabbed your hair, twisting it into a makeshift ponytail, and he tugged your head up so your eyes met his, getting you fully exposed to the camera.

“That’s right,” he said, pulling his cock free from the confinement of his pants. That cock that you already knew too well, was hard ever since the moment you walked into the living room, he couldn’t help it, that was the effect you had on daddy’s body, seeing you with your pouty glossy lips, with your little tank tops that showed your pretty nipples, or little skirts that he’d love to lift just to fuck that tight pussy like he owned it. His cock was thick, his heavy balls hanging below it. He took hold of his shaft and brushed the head agaisnt your lips, smearing his pre-cum all over your pink lipgloss, coaxing your mouth open so he could plug his cock inside you. “Now open up, babygirl. Show the camera how good daddy thaught you to suck cock.”

With a shaky huff, you parted your slick lips. There was no point fighting it, you wanted the cash for those tickets, and your dad was aching for his girl to worship his cock. He’d told you a million times already he’d never had a woman suck his cock so good like his babygirl did, maybe part of what turned him on so much was your initial resistence, maybe it was how you’d always start lazy, like you’d rather be watching paint dry instead of sucking him, that until he’d start fucking your face, and he definetely loved how you’d always take it, you’d complain, but you’d take it. The moment your lips spread, he wasted no time, sliding his thick, pulsing length into your waiting mouth. The phone hovered close, the lens capturing every detail as your tongue swirled, coating him in wet saliva.

“Fuuuuck, yeah, just like that,” he growled, loving that first moment of feeling your mouth around him. “Look at her, fuckin’ perfect, takin’ her dad so damn good. Prettiest little mouth in the whole damn world. Made it especially to suck this cock.” His hips rocked forward, pushing deeper into you, his groans filling the air as your throat tightened around his invasive girth, a slick gag escaping your mouth. “That’s it, babygirl, choke on it. Let ‘em hear how much you love this.”

Your muffled whimpers vibrated around his cock, a desperate sound that might’ve been a complaint if your mouth wasn’t so stuffed. The tears started to spill from your eyes, making your cheeks glisten as you struggled to take him. You tried to pull back, gasping for air, maybe to spit out another “gross old man” at him, but his rough hand clamped harder at the back of your head, pinning you in place, making it impossible for you to move, or to do anything else but to keep sucking his cock.

He kept talking into the phone like some depraved narrator. “She’s actin’ all bratty, tryin’ to squirm away,” he told the camera, arrogantly, “but this little slut loves when daddy fucks her pretty mouth raw. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

You managed to pull back just enough to gasp, his grip loosening for a split second. “No, s’gross, daddy, I—” Your defiance was cut short as he thrust forward again, his cock plunging deep, the swollen tip ramming the back of your throat. You gagged hard, the wet, choking sound filling the air as your body jerked. Saliva dribbled down your chin messily, as you fought to breathe through your nose.

“Mmhm,” he drawled delighted. He loved watching you struggle, savoring the way your face contorted, your cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing, tears streaking down your flushed skin, your throat spasming around his length, the obscene gluck-gluck of each thrust echoing as he pushed past your gag reflex, forcing you to take every inch. “Fuck, look at that. Love those little noises you make when you choke on daddy’s cock. Say it now. Tell me you’re daddy’s filthy little cocksucker.”

You glared up at him with defiance, managing a muffled, “Mmmgg, n-no,” the sound garbled around his shaft. But his grip tightened, fingers digging into your scalp, and he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze, you broke, voice trembling as you choked out, “…’m d-daddy’s… l-little c-cocksucker,” each word punctuated by the wet, sloppy rhythm of his cock sliding deeper into your throat.

“Attagirl,” he said, and his phone caught every second as he started thrusting harder into your mouth. He moved his hips fast and deep, like trying to bury his cock deep down your throat, punishing you with every stroke. You could hear his breathing getting heavier, hear the slick noises of your spit coating him and dripping down his ballsack.

“Fuck, look at this filthy mess she’s makin’,” he growled for the camera, tilting it to capture the glistening strings of drool dripping from your swollen lips, your mascara streaking down your cheeks in dark rivers, your jaw quivering as you gazed up at him, utterly defenseless, like you had no choice but to let him fuck your mouth raw until he was done with you. “She’s a perfect messy thing. So fuckin’ perfect f’me.”

His thrusts grew more brutal by the second, giving you no chance to catch your breath. His thick cock slammed against the back of your throat, bruising your palate, the raw ache spreading with every punishing stroke. Your throat tightened, saliva pooling and spilling over, making wet sounds as he used you. When your face flushed a deep red, gagging too hard on the slick mess of your own spit, he yanked your head back by the hair, his grip rough and unyielding, forcing you to look at him.

“Mgggh… daddy… enough,” you rasped, spit clinging to your chin. “You’ve got your stupid video already.”

“Just a bit more, babygirl, ‘m almost there,” he cooed, as he pushed your head back toward his throbbing cock. “Be good f’daddy, and he’ll finish real quick.”

You rolled your eyes, but complied, letting him guide you back. Your tongue slid deliberately along the underside of his shaft with every thrust of his hips, the wet drag of your mouth pulling low moans from him. You hummed around him, cause you knew how much he liked the vibrations, they made his cock twitch. He shoved himself deeper, burying himself to the hilt, until your nose was crushed against the coarse hair at his navel, his balls heavy against your chin. He held you there, grinding shallow, cruel thrusts into your throat until your lungs burned, your hands clawing at his thighs, desperate to pull away.

With a harsh tug on your hair, he ripped you off his cock. You choked, gagging violently, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip as you gasped for air, your chest heaving after being suffocated by his length.

“Gonna give you somethin’ to remember this by,” he rasped. You whimpered, shaking your head weakly, knowing exactly what was coming, but he didn’t care. His hand pumped his cock furiously, as he aimed the swollen tip at your tear-streaked, spit-slicked face. The first thick, hot rope of cum splattered across your cheek, followed by another across your chin, your nose, your parted lips. It was a flood that felt endless, so much cum dripping down your face in sticky streaks. “Ahhh, Ahhh yesss, ffffuck yeah… take it, babygirl. Take all of your daddy’s cum,” he groaned, making your stomach twist with a mix of disgust and heat. You hated how vocal he was, his filthy words made you cringe, his ragged breaths, the way he moaned, it all sounded gross out of his mouth.

“God damn, babygirl…” he panted, finally lowering the phone, the flash blinding you as it lit up your cum-drenched face. His other hand gripped your chin, tilting your head up to show off the mess he’d made. “Stay just like that. Wanna get a good shot of my baby.”

Your cheeks were flushed from the heat of it all, your hair a wild tangle from where Joel’s fingers had gripped and yanked, tugging hard as he’d used your mouth. The makeup you’d spent hours doing to look pretty for the movie date with your friends was now a wrecked mess, your chest heaved, each breath was a shaky gasp as you tried to steady yourself after he’d finished. Thick ropes of his cum clung to your face, dripping down your cheeks, pooling at your chin, some already drying in sticky streaks.

“Hold still, babygirl,” Joel rasped. His free hand was now wrapped around his cock, fisting it lazily, he moved it so the swollen tip of it would brush your jaw as he smeared his release across your skin, dragging it toward your lips. The other hand held his phone steady, angling the camera to capture every inch of your ruined face in the frame.

You turned your head, whining, you already hated his cum, the smell, taste and texture of it, but now he was ruining all your hard effort, “Ew, Daddy, gross—stoppp. You’re ruining my makeup even more.”

“Darlin’, makeup’s the least of your worries right now,” That little smirk of his was there across his face. He tapped the head of his cock against your cheek, leaving another sticky smear, ugh, it felt so thick and warm. “Look at that. Prettiest fuckin’ mess I’ve ever made.”

You groaned dramatically, squeezing your eyes shut when he dragged himself across your mouth, the wet tip catching against your bottom lip. “Ugh, dad! You’re seriously so disgusting. I can feel it sticking to me.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed amusingly, “and now every time daddy jacks off to this, he’s gonna see you sittin’ there, takin’ it like a good girl.” He tilted the phone closer, zooming in on the mess he’d made, his tip rubbing his cum into your skin in circles. “Look at that. Daddy’s cum paintin’ my girl’s pretty face. Not a damn inch of you I ain’t claimed.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes toward the camera, so annoyed at the fact that sucking him wasn’t enough, now you had to put on a show for him too. “Don’t call me your girl, dad, especially when you’re… ugh… smearing it all over me like some perv.”

Joel chuckled, his thumb coming to tilt your chin up so you had to look directly into the phone. “Say it,” he ordered.

You frowned. “Say what?” You already knew, just enjoyed playing dumb to try and piss him off

“Say whose cum it is.” His tone left no room for argument. With dad his words was always final.

You squirmed, glaring at him through your lashes. You knew daddy loved the attitude and the sass, maybe that’s part of why you did it, you internally wanted to please him. “I don’t wanna—”

The sharp slap of his cock against your cheek cut you off, followed by another lazy drag down your nose, he was really smearing his cum and dragging his cock all over yur face. “Say it, babygirl.”

You sighed heavily, your voice dripping with reluctant sass. “It’s yours, dad. Obviously. It’s all yours. Happy now?”

“Real happy,” he smirked, leaning in to press the head against your lips until you parted them. He pushed just enough to smear the taste onto your tongue before pulling back. “Now tell the camera you love it.”

You groaned, feeling your face hot. “I hate it.” You did hate the taste, it was always salty and bitter, but there was something about knowing that it was you, not any other woman, but you, his baby, making your daddy’s cock hard, and making him cum so much, that made you ache between your legs.

“Try again.” He always knew he had to insist a little with you before you gave in,

You gave him an exaggerated pout but muttered, “I love it,” in the most unconvincing tone possible.

Joel chuckled, and he finally lowered the phone, satisfied with the result of his little homemade movie. “That’s my girl.” His hand cupped your jaw, smearing one last streak of cum along your cheekbone. “Gonna keep this one for a long, long time.”

You wrinkled your nose, part of you disgusted with the idea of your father jerking off alone with the video of you sucking him off, but another part secretely turned on by it, of course you wouldn’t let him know, you had to keep up the act. “You’re literally the grossest man alive.”

“And you’re the prettiest mess alive,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, smearing even more of himself there, enjoying how much it bothered you having his seed on your face.

“Can I have the money for the tickets now?” you huffed impatiently. “Need to go fix my makeup again.”

You rolled your eyes and kept walking toward your room, chin tipped up. “It’s just a few minutes. Sorry for having friends, daddy.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He pushed off the couch, closing the distance between you in two slow steps. “Friends don’t keep you out this late. Makes me think you’re forgettin’ whose girl you are.”

You snorted. “I don’t forget. You remind me every time you—”

“—stuff you full’a me ’til you’re walkin’ funny?” he cut in.

Your face heated instantly. “Joel!”

“Mm.” He cupped your chin in one big hand, tilting your head back so you had to look at him. “Gonna keep talkin’ to me with that smart little mouth, or you gonna behave for daddy?”

You opened your mouth to sass him again, but the way his eyes dropped to your lips made your pulse skip. Joel never looked at you like boys your age did, all shy and hesitant. He looked at you like a real man, like he’d already had you in every position possible… because he had. He always said a dad knew how to take care of his girl best, and no boy would ever care for you the way he did.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured when you stayed quiet, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’ve been out with boys, huh? Let them all look at you so pretty like this.”

You rolled your eyes once again. “None of your business, dad,” you shot back.

“Oh, but it is my business when all of those punks are tryin’ to get into my baby’s panties,” he said, as if the thought of anyone else but him having you repulsed him. “You haven’t been havin’ fun with those boys, have you? You don’t let them fuck that pretty pussy, do you?”

“Ugh, gross, dad. Don’t talk about it,” you said as you began to make your way to your bedroom. Just as you crossed the door, Joel came up behind you, big hands sliding under your sweater to cup your tits. “Cold hands, daddy!” you squealed, squirming.

He chuckled against your ear. “Better get you warmed up then, huh?”

“Dad, I just got here—”

“You been gone all day with your friends. Think I’m waitin’ any longer?” He turned you around, backing you toward the wall. “Mm-mm. Daddy’s been hard for hours thinkin’ about you runnin’ that mouth.”

“You’re so disgusting,” you huffed. “Not in the mood, dad. Just got home, I’m tired.”

“Don’t care.” He leaned down to kiss you softly, then deeper when you gasped. His tongue pushed past yours, one hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you there when you tried to squirm away, the other already sliding down to squeeze your ass.

Joel’s mouth tugged into a slow grin. “Come on, babygirl. Just suck your daddy. Just a little of that mouth, and I’ll let you mind your own stuff later.”

Your head whipped toward him. “No, dad. I don’t wanna.” You didn’t mind sucking Joel or fucking him most of the time. It was good, it felt good. But Joel always wanted to fuck at the most inconvenient times, and he was so icky about it.

“Didn’t ask if you wanted to, babydoll. Said you gotta.” He was a stubborn man, and when he needed his baby, nothing else would do but her. “On your fuckin’ knees now. Make it up to dad for bein’ late.”

“Ugh… gross,” you muttered, crossing your arms. You glared at him for a beat, but when he crooked a finger toward the floor in front of him, you sighed and knelt down.

He was already leaning against the wall, unbuckling his belt. “C’mon, babygirl. Let daddy see that pretty mouth.”

You mumbled under your breath, something along the lines of “ugh, so annoying,” but your hands still moved to pull him out, thick and half-hard in your grip. Joel’s cock was huge. He didn’t know you’d seen other guys’ dicks, but those were nothing compared to Joel’s long, veiny cock.

“That’s it,” he said, watching you from under heavy lids. “You love your dad’s cock, don’t cha?”

You didn’t answer, just leaned in and wrapped your lips around him, giving one slow bob of your head before pulling back with a sigh. No little teasing before sucking him, no kitten-licks around the shaft, no soft kisses on his tip like he liked. Just going straight at it like it was work.

Joel frowned. “The hell is that? You usin’ that mouth or just restin’ it on me?”

You rolled your eyes but kept going, though your movements were lazy. You kept your mouth closed around his cock, bobbing your head up and down, but not bothering to do any tongue play, not moaning around it or looking up at him. You really weren’t in the mood to suck him right now just because you got home late and your dad, being the perverted man he was, thought this would be your punishment. You’d rather be chatting with friends or watching a show on Netflix, but when dad needed help, you needed to provide.

He reached down, gripping your hair tight. “Don’t half-ass it, babygirl. You do it right, or I’ll bend you over your bed ‘til you’re cryin’. That what you want?”

You shook your head around him, your cheeks were heating at the way he was staring down at you like you were just there for his pleasure. Joel always cared about you, but when he was really horny or angry, he’d just take you like you were his little doll.

“Good. Then make daddy feel it,” he ordered, guiding your head down until you gagged lightly on it. “Gotta make it up to him for bein’ so late whorin’ around with boys.”

You pulled back with a whimper, wiping the drool off your mouth after he’d made you choke on his cock. “Ugh, daaaad…”

Joel just smirked. “Don’t go ‘ugh, dad’ on me. You misbehaved, so now you gotta make it right. I’m bein’ nice here.”

“I don’t think it’s nice,” you muttered, shooting him a glare. “It’s gross, dad.”

He just chuckled, reaching forward to hook a finger under your chin and tilt your face up. “Y’know what I think’s gross? A brat who won’t use her manners when I’m bein’ generous.” His thumb swiped across your cheek like he owned it. “Now, open up that smart mouth again and suck like you fuckin’ mean it.”

You whined. “Enough, daddy. I’m tired. And I’m not in the mood. Can’t you just, like, do it yourself?”

“Alright,” he said slowly, his hands gripping your hair into a tight ponytail. “Since you’re gonna give me attitude, you’re gonna stay down there till I’m satisfied. And I don’t give a damn if it takes all night.”

“Dad—” you tried once again.

“Nope. Mouth open. C’mon, babydoll. Gimme that sweet mouth. You know I love watchin’ you try to fit me in.”

You hesitated, so he guided you forward, pressing the blunt, heavy tip of his cock, still wet from your saliva, against your lips. With an exaggerated sigh, you parted your lips, letting him inside your mouth again, but still moving your tongue in the laziest way possible.

Joel groaned, but not in a pleased way, more like frustrated. “Mmh, you’re really doin’ the bare minimum, huh?” His grip tightened in your hair, forcing you down further, making your lips stretch wide around him. “Feels like you’re just sittin’ there lettin’ me do all the work.”

You pulled back enough to glare up at him, spit and pre-cum glistening on your lower lip. “Maybe ‘cause I am. You’re the one who wanted this, dad.”

That earned you a sharp push down his length until you gagged and your eyes watered. He held you there for a beat, letting you choke on his thick cock, feeling the way your throat felt against the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Mm, that’s better,” he rasped, finally letting you come up for air. “Nothin’ I hate more than a lazy little mouth. Suck it like you mean it, or you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

Your cheeks burned hot as you gasped for air, still feeling the ghost of his cock down your throat, cutting off your air. You hated how that threat worked. With a grumble, you sucked him harder, letting your tongue swirl just to show the bare minimum interest, but still doing something.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek in mock affection even while his other hand kept your head in place. “Knew you could behave if dad reminded you who’s in charge.”

You felt his hand cup the back of your head, fingers sliding through your hair just enough to grip. “Mm-hm. Uh-huh. That’s real nice, babydoll,” his tone turned sharp, “‘cept you’re actin’ like you’d rather be scrubbin’ floors than suckin’ your daddy’s cock.”

You glared up at him, mouth stuffed full, cheeks hollowing around him. You tried to pull back, make some bratty retort, but Joel kept you there, pushing his hips forward until you gagged again. Oh, how you hated when he fucked your mouth like this.

“Nah, sweetheart. Don’t even try to pull back. You’re gonna learn to do it right with some goddamn enthusiasm.” You mumbled something garbled around him, like “screw you, dad,” but it only made his eyes narrow in an amused way. “Uh-uh. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Work for it.”

His grip tightened, and he started guiding your head at his pace, deep, slow drags that forced you to taste him all the way. He was watching you, every little tear spilling down your eyes, every time your throat worked. The wet, messy sounds filled the room, and the more you tried to make it quick, the more he slowed you down.

“There you go. Nice an’ deep. Don’t you dare pull off.” His voice was low; he loved having this control over you. Everything he did was for your own good. This was just to teach his baby to have some manners and respect. “You think I don’t notice you slackin’? Not givin’ daddy what he needs? Uh-uh. Keep goin’ until that pretty little jaw aches.”

Your jaw was screaming by now, a dull ache all over your chin, but Joel was relentless. His hips rocked just enough to keep you on the edge of choking, pulling back only so you could suck harder on the way up. He kept you there until your eyes were glassy, your lips shiny with spit.

You whimpered, hands resting on his thighs for balance. He didn’t let up. “Mhm, finally startin’ to look like you mean it.”

And then, when you thought maybe, finally, he’d let you stop, Joel’s hand in your hair tightened again. “Don’t even think about pullin’ off, baby. I’m gonna cum down that pretty throat.”

You gave him a muffled, miserable whine, trying to push away before he filled your throat, but it was swallowed up when he pushed deeper again. His breathing changed, his thighs and ass tensed, and you knew he was close.

“Keep your mouth open… yeah, just like that… gonna fill you up, babydoll.”

And when he came, his release was hot and bitter, he kept you there choking on him, forcing you to swallow around him. You squirmed, making little noises of protest, but he only groaned, “Swallow it. Every bit. You love your Joel, don’t ya? Then take it.”

Only when he was sure you’d swallowed did he let you pull away. Your jaw was aching after being wide open for so long, your lips swollen after sucking him, and his smug grin told you he was more than satisfied.

“Mmm,” he murmured, thumbing your spit-slick cheek. “Now that’s better. See? It ain’t so bad when you try.”

You grimaced, your distaste evident on your face. “Ugh, daddy! You know I hate when you cum in my mouth,” you complained. “Ick, your cum tastes so bad. It’s gross.”

“Gross?” Joel chuckled. “Sayin’ it’s gross, but you swallowed every last drop,” he said, pleased with himself.

“Yeah, ‘cause you were holding my head,” you whined.

“Quit complainin’, or you’re in for a lot worse, babygirl,” Joel said roughly. “What has dad told you about being a little brat?”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do, daddy? You gonna fuck me?” you laughed, amused, looking at his soft cock resting between his thighs. “Your dick looks like a little worm, I doubt you’re gonna fuck anyone anytime soon.”

“You better watch it now,” he said, and instantly he spit on his hand, moving it down to his length, closing his fist around it, violently stroking it, trying to bring it back to life. “You don’t know who you’re messing with when dad gets angry.”

“Yeah, I’m messing with an old man who can’t get it up more than one round,” you laughed, your eyes fixed on the way his hand gripped his cock hard, moving up and down, but still not getting hard. “It’s so sad to see you try, daddy. Maybe you should go and take a nap.”

“Shut your mouth,” he muttered. The muscles in his forearm were flexing as he pumped himself harder, it was as if he was almost punishing himself with every stroke, desperate to get himself hard again so he could fuck you and knock the attitude out of you.

You giggled. “Oh my god, you’re really trying. Need me to get you one of those little blue pills, dad? Look at it, it’s all soft and squishy.”

He groaned, angry at himself for being so old, for his body not responding like it used to, because he had his daughter on her knees in front of him, with traces of his cum on her mouth, and still he couldn’t coax his cock hard again. He thrusted into his fist with frustrated thrusts, but nothing yet.

“Look at you, daddy. You’re red in the face. You’re gonna pop a vein before you even get it up,” you teased him, leaning forward so you could watch his soft cock up close.

You enjoyed so much being a brat and getting on Joel’s nerves. Joel let go of his soft cock and grabbed you by your arm, yanking you up and throwing you over your bed, climbing fast on top of you. He grabbed your knees and pushed them apart, settling in between them. His hands moved to push your skirt up, hauling it around your waist, and sliding your panties to the side, baring your pussy for him. You were soaking wet; even when you complained about sucking him or about how bad his cum tasted, your body still wanted him to fuck you stupid.

“C’mere,” he growled, wrapping his hand around his cock again to try and stabilize it enough to get it inside you.

You yelped and pulled back. “Dad! You’re not even fully hard yet, look, it’s all floppy. Just go have a nap and leave me alone.”

You saw a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You think you’re funny, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” You bit your lip, feeling cocky. “Can’t even get it hard twice in a row, poor daddy. Go on, give it a try.”

His hands snapped to your thighs, pulling them open. “I’ll get in. Don’t need it all the way hard to fuck you.”

He shoved his half-hard length between your folds, trying to grind forward and push inside your hole. But even as he tried hard, it kept slipping out, smearing his pre-cum all over your clit and entrance.

“Feels like a wet noodle, dad,” you mocked him.

That was the last straw. Joel grabbed you by your hips and turned you around, pushing your face down against your pillow, and his other hand pulled your ass up. “Daaaddy!” you tried to complain, but your voice was muffled by the pillow. Suddenly, as if by magic, his cock started to stiffen.

You could feel the thick and now hard head of his length pressing against your entrance, threatening to push in. “D-dad,” you mumbled.

“Ohhh, no,” he mocked you this time. “What happened to that smart mouth now?”

He pushed barely an inch inside you; your heat enveloped him instantly, your tight walls clamping around it, and oh, it felt so good. Joel was sure you were made for him, because no other woman he’d ever fucked before, not even your mother, had ever felt so good wrapped around him.

“Fuck… dad—wait!” you gasped, but Joel just shoved your face harder against the pillow until it was pressed flat against it.

He took hold of your hips and pushed all the way in, in one rough and hard thrust. You felt every single inch of him now spreading your little hole open; the intrusion made you whimper against the pillow, your hands grasping the bedsheets.

“Ohhh yesss… Oh yes, baby, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Feels so fuckin’ tight today,” Joel grunted. And you could only think about how icky he sounded when he dirty-talked and moaned like that. “Mouth shut, ass up, fuckin’ perfect pussy around me, mmmm yeah.”

The mattress was groaning under both of your bodies, as Joel set a brutal pace, fucking you through the slick mess between your legs, a combination of your fluids and Joel’s pre-cum. He was going as deep as he possibly could, the tip of his length hitting your cervix every time he bottomed out, his balls slapping against your ass.

You tried to lift your head, at least to catch your breath, but Joel just pushed it down again with a firm hand on the back of your skull. “Mgghhh, ddd-dad, oww,” were all the little sounds and words that escaped your mouth.

“My perfect girl… oh shit, makin’ daddy feel so goddamn good,” he gritted out while his hips kept slamming into you with that relentless rhythm, each stroke making your toes curl. “You complain so much, but this cunt is eatin’ my cock up.”

Joel’s arm reached under your body for your swollen nub, and once he found it, he started to thumb it. His thick digit moved in circles around your clit until you began to sob on the pillow, your thighs shaking in pleasure.

“Mphhh… ahhh,” you tried to say. And even if the words and sounds made no sense, Joel knew, by the way you were clenching around him, that you were getting close.

“Soundin’ real nice like this, babygirl,” he drawled, punctuating every word with a hard thrust that made you scream into the pillow. “Now you’re gonna cum on dad’s cock. Gonna soak it real fuckin’ good.” He said it as if he wasn’t giving you a choice, and by the way he kept fucking you and rubbing your clit, he wasn’t.

His free hand gripped your ass cheek roughly, spreading you wider so he could bury himself to the hilt, even deeper than before. His cock was diving deep enough that your thighs tried to close, but the grip on your ass kept you wide open for him.

The pressure on your clit intensified, and you felt a jolt of pleasure ripping through your body as Joel made you cum. He felt the way your pussy walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter than before, fluttering insatiably.

“Fuck—baby. Look at you takin’ it like that, so perfect. Shit—gonna…”

He heard you muffling something that sounded like “mmmg—no, n-not inside—ghh.” But it was too late, and he didn’t care, there was nothing he loved more than stuffing his girl full of his seed. He felt the climax taking over him, and with your pussy milking his cock, thick and warm ropes of his cum painted your walls.

Finally, Joel let go of your head, and you came up to breathe. Your face was red after being pushed down for so long, your eyes were also red from sobbing so much. And you felt the hot, slippery trail of cum running out of your pussy and dripping down your thighs.

“Ahhhg, daaaad, you’re the worst,” you whined, but Joel was too far gone to care, he was lying on his back next to you, trying to catch his breath after exhausting himself. “I hate when you cum inside me. You leave me all messy, it’s so sticky and gross.”

“Mmm, you look so pretty with my cum in your little pussy,” he said as he grabbed you and pulled you against his body, forcing you to cuddle with him. “C’mere with dad.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you tried to move away, but his grip on you was tight. “It’s disgusting. I feel it coming out of me, uggghh, it’s so slippery. Feels awful.”

Joel kissed your forehead. “Daddy’ll clean you up in a second, baby. Just let me catch my breath.”

You sighed in annoyance. “Don’t want you to clean me up. Want you to stop cummin’ inside me.”

“No can do, baby,” he said and laughed as if the idea was ridiculous. “No can do.”

I won’t be active on this account other than to post fics like this one if I write any more. I decided to create this anonymous blog due to how toxic the fandom has been. I don’t want this reaching the wrong public and have them come at me, but I still want people who enjoy this kind of fics to maybe be able to find them and enjoy them, since there isn’t that many dad!fics.

he leaves socks fucking everywhere, never loaded a dishwasher in his life, wouldn’t know how to work the washing machine if you stapled the instructions to his forehead.

he refuses to acknowledge valentines day.

“s’just another excuse to spend money, love. don’t need a special day to prove i love you. we’ll go out for your birthday, eh?”

only you never go out for your birthday. he’ll come home with a half wilted bouquet- the kind that’s been sitting neglected in the stagnant air of the local tesco for the past three days- and expect you to drop to your knees.

he’ll come home late from the pub, his last pint still heavy and bready on his breath. he’ll sprawl over the bed, lug his alcohol laden body on top of you and nudge himself between your legs. wakes you up, gets himself off, and rolls over. leaves you high and very dry, left to deal with the mess in the morning while he drags himself out of bed at noon and grumbles round the house like a bear with a bad head.

when you serve him the papers, he can’t believe it. can’t believe you’d do this to him and the kids.

keeps saying to a more than unsurprised simon how “the divorce came out of nowhere. we were happy.”

gets himself set up with a proper bachelor pad just on the outskirts of the suburb where the family home is. the fridge is always half empty but always half full of beer. there’s an ever growing pile of socks starting to engulf the chair in his bedroom. the television never leaves sky sports- if it does, he’s flicked around to the end of cable channels to babestation or something of the sort.

when he does come to get the kids every second and fourth saturday of the month, he bullies his way into the house.

i paid off the mortgage, love. still my house.

he’ll take the kids out for a couple hours, trying to get his youngest into football or rugby and away from bloody ballet.

who does he think he is? billy elliot?

when they come home smelling of grass and cold air, he sits down for family dinner. says to the boys to pick out a film for them all to watch together. as a family.

as expected, the boys are dead asleep before the film’s even halfway finished. he’ll pick them up and tuck them in bed, promises he’ll see them soon.

and then he’ll stalk back downstairs to where you’re waiting. yank you from the settee down the hall to your once shared bedroom. shove you onto the bed and eat your cunt until your brain is leaking onto the duvet cover. he’ll sit up on his knees between your legs, towering over your prone form, tracing the burns and scratches on your inner thighs from his thick beard.

he’ll shove himself in your hole without preamble or care, wants it to hurt a bit. make you hurt like you’ve made him hurt. his thumb presses heavily on your clit, so much so it aches when he lifts the calloused pad and a string of slick comes along with it.

your tits are abused and red raw by the time his mouth is finished with them and he moves to your ear to growl filth to you whilst he pumps his hips shallow but firm

you miss this, yeah? miss my cock?

gimme another babe, doll. we were so good the first two times. gimme a third, come on.

by the time he pulls out, leaving a puddle of cum deep inside you that leaks when he pushes another finger to the first knuckle into your sore cunt, you’re both breathless and spent.

so spent you don’t bother shoving him out of the house. you allow him to wrap his arms around your neck, allow him to drag you into his sweat-slick body, allow him to position you on his hairy chest so you can clearly hear his steadily slowing heartbeat.

when you wake, he’s in the kitchen flipping pancakes for the boys- something he hasn’t done since your oldest was a wee babe.

you smell the freshly brewed coffee before you reach the last step and walk on still aching legs towards him and the boys seated around the breakfast nook.

“there she is- say g’morning to your mum, lads.”

you manage to kick him out a few hours later but not without him trying continuously to convince you to let him come back home.

after that, you barely see him for two weeks. not until he comes back to pick up the boys for his custody day.

you answer the door with shaking hands, eyes glassy, dressing gown tucked around your trembling frame.

he looks at you with faux concern, barely concealed smugness in his eyes and the slight upturn of his lips.

him smug smile only widens when you drag him into the kitchen, shoving a plastic stick in his hands.