Farm work was hard, but having Shane at home made it so much easier. It wasn’t just that he managed to take care of household tasks with an surprising level of efficiency, it that he had a way of wanting to be with you that gave more than it took.
Like on a Thursday night in spring. Your body ached from planting, and even after an extended shower you still felt like there was dirt engrained in your pores. Your nails were broken, lips chapped, skin covered in seven different levels of farmers tan, but still Shane looked at you like you were the hottest thing alive.
Before Shane, sex could often feel like a chore, an obligation, something that had to happen to avoid pouting or a fight. It was energy you had to spend at the end of an already exhausting day. But Shane would just pat his lap as he sat on the couch after dinner and let you collapse into his arms.
There’d always be something playing on the TV, some gridball game or a movie that came out a decade ago. It never mattered. What mattered was how it felt to sink into Shane’s hold. You’d straddle him, lay your face in the crook of his neck, feel his heart beating beneath his stubble and skin. You’d melt by degrees, his hand wandering up under the back of your shirt, his thighs shifting to help you fall deeper in.
And sometimes that’d be it. No sex, very little talking, just Shane holding you while you let your body recover from what you put it through day after day. It was safe, comfortable, undemanding: just you and the person you loved, together in a way that made sense.
But sometimes the shifting of Shane’s thighs would grow a little more pointed, and you’d lift your hips up so he could pull your clothes down your thighs. He’d use his fingers first - teasing, readying you - and then he’d help you lower yourself onto him. He’d hold your hips as you sank down, encouraging you as you stretched around him (that’s it baby, just like that, fuck, you feel so good, just go slow, you got it, feel so fucking good for me…)
And then…
Nothing.
Just you. Just Shane. Just the two of you connected. He’d wrap his arms back around your waist, let his lips rest on the side of your neck, and go back to watching his show. As the minutes passed you’d feel yourself sinking even further into relaxation: hips loose, eyes closed, hands resting on Shane’s sides. There was nothing you needed to do, no work to be done, just rest and connection.
The two of you could stay like that for long enough that you’d lose track of where you were. It’d have to end sometime, though. Sometimes, if you were up for it, Shane would help you move, pulling your hips back and forth as you’d grind on top of him. Sometimes he’d roll you over on your back and do the work himself.
Just as often, though, you’d find yourself drifting off with him inside of you. On nights like that, you’d blink your eyes open to find yourself being carried to bed. Shane would always laugh off your apologies, brush away any attempt to open yourself back up to him. (You couldn’t even stay awake long enough to get to bed - you think you got enough left in the tank to handle me?) Instead, you’d find yourself pulled into his arms, spooned up close as sleep found you again.
It’s why you had the energy for the work you chose to do, you figured. It didn’t matter how much effort poured out of you and into the fields. When the day was over, Shane would always be waiting for you, and the time you stole to spend with him never felt like labor.
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It was kinda hard to explain exactly why. Something about how thick they were in relation to the length of his leg, multiplied by the muscle beneath from all the lifting he did at work, exponentiated by some unknown factor you couldn’t name because you weren’t a fucking mathematician or anything. They just looked really, really good.
Not that he showed them off or anything. Nah, much to your dismay they stayed hidden under cargo shorts and saggy jeans.
(One time you bought him a pair of shorts with a seven inch inseam and he laughed in your face. Asshole)
But damn, were Shane’s thighs nice to grind against. Straddling one while he was playing a game. Him in his boxers, arms around your waist, hands on the controller, muttering his annoyance at missed shots while your hips rocked back and forth. His leg broad underneath you, hard and warm, just a layer of cotton separating your skin from his. You could just wrap your arms around his neck, push your face against his shoulder, feel the heat swirling in you, and just move.
Sometimes you’d come like that, the friction and closeness of it all overwhelming you and leaving you shaking and whining against him. He’d laugh low and mutter (fuck, you’re desperate for it tonight aren’t you?) as you drooped against him.
Sometimes he’d grab your hips instead, make you move faster, harder. He’d shift and haul you so you were riding him, the hair on his thighs brushing your calves, his grunts punching into your ear each time you bottomed out, until he was sinking his fingers into the flesh of your ass, feet flat on the floor, hitching up into you with every ounce of power he kept locked away behind those poorly fitting shorts.
hiiii if you’re looking for more requests i would love to see your take on the older bachelors in a dom/sub dynamic (maybe see them as both? 👀) no rush or pressure tho just craving more of my favorite old men as told by my favorite fic auth <3
Heyyyyyyyyyy friend!!
Freestyled a bit on this under the cut.
Thank you for asking!!
Elliott
Elliott liked to be in charge.
It wasn’t a control thing, really. It was more a combination of a vivid imagination, excellent verbal skills, and the confidence to go into an encounter with the assumption that you wanted to please him.
You do want to please him, don’t you?
Don’t you want to make him smile? Make the backs of his fingers stroke down your cheek? Make him murmur about how lovely you’re being for him, how you’re being just the sweetest little thing, the stuff of his fantasies, looking up at him all wide eyed from down on your knees?
Yes. He knows you do. And he’ll reward it for you soon, you just have to wait a little longer. Just a little longer, darling. You can do it. Because he loves watching you squirm against the ropes around your wrists. Loves the sounds you make as he strikes his palm against your ass. Loves how eagerly you follow his instructions.
Come sit on my lap, darling.
Open those sweet lips for me. Ah - ah… I didn’t say to close them. Keep them open for me. That’s a love.
Keep those eyes on me, honey. Don’t look away. Right here. It’s all you need to see.
Elliott is good at knots.
Elliott is good with his tongue.
Elliott is good at knowing when you’ve had enough, and when you need him to push you a little more.
He likes to tell you what to say, feed you lines like you’re a character in one of his stories.
“Tell me you want my fingers inside you. Tell me you want them deeper, harder. Oh - oh - oh… that was a lovely noise. You made it when I did… this. Ah, there it is again. Keep making it, darling. It’s transcendent.”
Elliott is all slow movement, drawing things out, making you tremble and whimper and beg before finally, finally giving you what you both want.
And when you’re done, all fucked out and sore in the best kind of way, all spacey and relaxed and looking up at him with that look that makes him shiver, he’ll kiss you on the mouth and draw both of you a bath.
On the flip side, Elliott has a hard time letting you be in charge.
He’ll do it for you. Eagerly, even. He likes new things. He wants you to be happy. But oh man, whether he realizes it or not he’s going to fight you for it.
He’s not trying to be bratty. He’s not trying to be annoying. He just has ideas, okay? Suggestions. If you’d just do this, then that could happen. If maybe you’d shift this thing, then he could do that. All in his head, all unable to get out of it.
Then you order a ball gag and it all kind of clicks into place.
He’s patient as you practiced your knots. He shivers as you run your hands over his chest. He’ll look up at you with dark amber eyes as you work at him. All sweet and pliant and quiet in a way that was still loud, somehow, because he was Elliott and even with something in his mouth he can’t help but give you feedback.
You like his muffled groans.
He likes it when you ride him.
He likes it when you degrade him.
He likes it when you pull the gag out of his lips and tell him to put his mouth to good use.
Elliott is good with his mouth.
Very, very good.
Tell him that and watch him flush and work harder. Grab him by the back of the neck, but be gentle with his hair. Rock your hips a little, he can take it.
Give him all the care in the world when he’s done. Kiss his neck and hold him close in the bath. He’ll be quiet then, fingers tracing over the faint marks left by the ropes on his wrists. Tell him how proud you are of him and feel him shake. Tell him you love him and watch as he melts into you.
Elliott has a hard time letting you be in charge, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it. Once you get him there you’ll find that every ounce of effort is worth it.
Harvey
Harvey is there for you.
He can read you like a book. He knows exactly what you need from the second you walk in the door.
If you need him to be in charge, that’s what he is. All calm, mild voice telling you exactly what to do.
Go wait for me in the bedroom, sweetheart.
Take off your shirt, then come over here.
Touch yourself, honey. A little slower. Well done, just like that.
All big, steady hands on your body. Cupping around your throat. Grasping gently at your hair. Maneuvering you underneath him. Teeth scraping against your neck, a belt around your wrists.
He likes to tell you no. Click his tongue in gentle condescension when you whine. Tell you that you need to try harder, to be patient. Tell you to be good for him.
Harvey isn’t the type to punish. He doesn’t like to inflict pain. But frustration is a different thing entirely, and he loves having you under his hands, gasping and arching and pulling against your restraints, only to back off at the last moment and leave you gasping his name.
Or the opposite: too much touch, drawing you up and over, again and again, until your body feels like one exposed nerve and pleasure is flirting with pain and finally, finally he’ll sink into you all heavy and full and warm and deep and good.
He’ll praise you, then, as he takes his turn. Tell you how incredible you are, how lucky he is to have you there like that. How crazy you drive him, how distracted you make him, how you’ve changed his life so completely.
And he’ll stay there when you were both done, holding you close, checking your wrists, making sure you’re okay. And of course you’re okay, he always makes it all okay, and the only thing better than his hands on you all strong and sure is the way he’ll tuck you under his chin and let you drift off into sleep.
But…
Sometimes he needs to let go of that control.
You’re always more than happy to oblige.
You can tell by the set of his shoulders when he needs to be told what to do. To be questioned, to have his desires dragged out of him.
“Do you want to put your mouth on me, honey? I bet you do. Look at you. How do you want it? Hard or soft?”
He always wants it hard. Always wants your fists in his curls. Always wants to be on his knees, looking up at you through his glasses. He’ll groan when you press a finger into his mouth, watch you as he sucks. And then when you pull him in he’ll make a sound like relief, all deep in his throat, all hands grasping around your thighs, glasses pressing into the bridge of his nose, long lashes fanning on his cheeks.
He uses his mouth like a man starved.
Or push him back on the bed, lash his hands down. Watch his hips shift. Straddle his chest and make him watch while you touch yourself. Or settle over his mouth. You’ll love the sounds he makes.
Maybe you’ll let him come too. Or maybe not. It’s up to you. He wants it to be up to you. He’s very patient. He likes to be told no. He likes to be told wait. He likes to be told oh, you want to come? You think you’ve earned that? Really? It’s so cute that you think that.
Watch him work even harder after that.
If he finishes or not, he doesn’t care. All he cares is that when he’s done you’ll pull him to your chest, hold him close. Let him listen to your heart. Run your fingers through his hair. Press kisses to his forehead. Tell him what a good job he did.
Because don’t forget: Harvey is there for you. If you’re getting what you need, so is he.
Shane
Shane’s just happy to be there. There with you. There with you beneath him, all soft skin under his hands. Letting him move you. Letting him see you move.
Shane knows where he wants your body to be.
He wants it where he can get at it. He wants it loose and relaxed and yielding. He knows where to put his hands to make that happen. What part of your hip to press. Where to grab on the back of your arm. Just how hard to push your face into the bed to make you cry out and squirm.
He likes the squirming.
He doesn’t have the patience for knots.
He doesn’t care about you being good.
He doesn’t want you to be good.
He wants you pushing back, rolling out from under him so he can pull you back in. He wants your hands grabbing at his hair so he can grab your wrists and press them back into the bed. He wants you rearing away from his kiss so he can grab you by the jaw, pull you back in, get his mouth on you all rough and hot and perfect.
You fucking love it.
Love how easy he is to goad, how strong he is, how he doesn’t hold back when he cracks his palm against your ass. The things he says. No one has even spoken to you like he does, never, you’d kick them out in a heartbeat, but once Shane got going it left you breathless and whining and begging and desperate to please him.
(Fuck, look at you baby, so fucking needy for it, aren’t you? You’re practically drooling. Fuck, you are drooling, aren’t you? Yoba, aren’t you embarrassed by yourself? Squirming around like that? Bet you’d beg for my cock, wouldn’t you? Gonna beg for it? Open up that slutty little mouth and beg for me. There you go. Fucking knew it. Don’t stop. Keep going. Tell me how bad you want it.)
You want it real bad.
And he’ll give it to you, all unrestrained movement and heavy grip and that mouth still going, telling you exactly what to do, exactly who you were, exactly what you were doing to him until it was all too much and it was just movement and force and his face buried in your neck as he groaned your name and melted.
Or…
Maybe you don’t let him do any of that.
Maybe you get your hand in his hair and watch his eyes go blank.
Maybe you pull, get him down on his knees.
Maybe he looks up at you, lips parted, breathing hard.
Maybe you pull again, harder.
Maybe you like the way his pupils dilate.
Maybe you like the way he groans.
Maybe you tell him to touch himself.
Maybe you don’t.
He’ll do what you tell him regardless, especially if you tell him he’s being a good boy.
He really, really likes it when you tell him that.
He’ll keep his hands on his thighs if you tell him to.
He’ll go without air if you tell him to.
He’ll kiss the ground you walk on, if that’s what you need from him.
Just keep him there. Keep him near you. Between your hands. Between your legs. Between your foot and the floor.
(fuck, baby, baby, fuck, if that’s what you want, fucking anything baby, I’ll do it, just tell me, anything anything anything.)
He is extremely eager to please.
He does an extremely good job of it.
Because Shane’s just happy to be there with you. You’re the only person who makes sense in this shitty, shitty world. Anything he has to give, everything he has to give, anything you want and are willing to take, is entirely, unendingly, eternally, emphatically yours.
Shane has days where he is bright. He’s awake and alert, curtains thrown open, bustling in the kitchen when you come in from morning chores. Arm around your waist, voice fond and teasing, kisses good morning and pancakes on the stove.
But some days he’s not so happy, and the curtains stay closed. He’ll still be in bed while you make yourself breakfast, and you’ve learned that it’s usually best not to press him to eat. You’ll press a kiss to his forehead instead, and maybe he’ll murmur a sleepy goodbye as you go back out for the day.
Often when you get back he’ll be on the floor in the living room, video game controller in hand, sitting propped up on pillows and blankets and watching the screen.
When he’s like that you can strip off your work clothes, settle into his lap. He’ll be warm and rumpled, arms going around you easy, and if you straddle him he’ll settle his face into the curve of your neck, keep an eye on the TV from over your shoulder. It’s nice to sit there with him like that, letting your tired body melt into his by degrees. He’s quiet, on days like this, and there’s an intimacy that comes from just being two bodies together.
After a while, though, you’ll notice him starting to move. Just a little, his hips moving upwards, his arms pulling you in a little tighter. And the scratch of his chin will shift to the softness of his lips as they press kisses against your skin. Slow at first, the sound of his game still active behind you, then a little faster, a little more open, moving more as he puts his controller down and squeezes you tight.
“Missed you,” he’ll mutter. Or maybe just “baby,”breathed out low and lingering, the air puffing cool over the wet spots left behind from his lips. He’ll shudder as he pulls you in even tighter, and suddenly you’ll be on your back, pillow under your head, floor under your hips, Shane’s warm weight moving above you.
And yes, of course you loved it when Shane had good days, loved to see him happy, loved to see him interacting with the world as though he wanted to be in it. But there was something about the way he moved in you on those darker days. A certain need communicated through the way his thumbs pressed into your hips, as his lips and tongue turned to teeth and groans. The way he’d shake when your nails dug into his back. The way slow moved to fast, to rough, to overwhelming and demanding and desperate. A reminder that dark or light, good or bad, his constant was you, and nothing in the world was going to make that change.
Shane wasn’t the most talkative person. It’s not that he was silent, he just took time to open up and was generally happy to let other people do the talking. This made things a little tricky as you were first getting to know him, especially with how unapproachable he tried to make himself, but once you got past his initial reticence you found yourself with a friend who used his words carefully.
Was Shane chatty? No. Was he fun to talk to? Absolutely. He had a sense of humor so dry it bordered on caustic and an observant eye that picked up on subtleties you’d overlook. The two of you were a good pair: he liked to listen to you talk, you liked his occasional observations and clever teasing.
He was just a quiet kind of guy.
Until he first got his hands on you.
It was like a circuit was connected when his skin met yours. Something clicked in his brain. Words started to pour out.
"You taste so fucking good." His hand on your jaw, voice ragged. Leaning in for another kiss, open mouthed, tasting, pressing his body against you, only breaking away to draw a breath and say "I knew you'd taste amazing. Knew you'd have to, looking the way you do. Fuck, baby, I need more."
And he wasn't kidding. Mouth on your skin, hands wide and stroking over your torso. The scrape of teeth, the hint of tongue, pressing you up against the wall. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna be all mine after this, aren't you?"
And his hand playing lower, lower, moving, stroking, drawing you up. "Look at you, you needed this, didn't you? Just like I thought. How long have you been needing this so bad, baby? As long as I've been needing it? Because I've been needing this a long fucking time."
And moving in you, over you, mouth by your ear, breath hot, voice breaking. "Yoba you are fucking incredible. Feel so fucking good. Fucking made for me, weren't you? You're not going to be getting rid of me after this, that's for fucking sure. Yoba's Light, you're so. Fucking. Perfect."
And when you were done, lying together, loose, close, there was still a little while where his words would come easy. Where he'd tell you what you meant to him. Where he'd tell you he never thought he could feel this way. And even though you knew he'd eventually grow quiet, fall back into that biting humor, those long silences, that quiet stare, you'd have his words in your mind now. You knew how to make him speak, and you knew it wouldn't be long before his words were pouring out for you all over again.
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Cozy things you and the older bachelors do when the weather starts to get cold:
Harvey:
Jigsaw puzzles: Like model planes, but he’ll actually let you participate! You never were much into puzzles before you met Harvey, but something about how soothing it is to put the pieces together with him while you watch the snow fall outside has made you a believer.
Winter walks: Grab your hat and mittens because the cold is no excuse. Harvey loves wandering around town when the leaves have all fallen. Stop into the saloon for a cup of coffee. Once you’re back outside, watch the way your breath intermingles when he leans in for a kiss.
Mulled wine: An absolute must after a nice cold walk. Makes the farmhouse smell heavenly, and it’s fun to watch Harvey’s cheeks turn from “red from the cold” to “red because he’s tipsy.”
Elliott:
Parallel play: He’s got his book - what are you bringing? Your own reading? Maybe some knitting? Your fully charged Switch? You do you, he’ll do him, and you’ll both share the blanket.
Baking: Elliott’s a bit of a disaster in the kitchen, but the clear instructions that come with baking help tremendously. He likes recipes that take a long time. His adventures fail as often as they succeed, but when he actually pulls something off it’s guaranteed to be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
Clothing Swap: Once it gets cold, you’ll find Elliott packing away his summer clothes and getting out his winter ones. You’d think they’d be a little musty after being packed away, but when you snag a sweater and pull it on you’ll find it still, somehow, smells like him. That’s your sweater now: congratulations.
Shane:
Screen time: Oh nooo, it’s all cold and inhospitable outside! What else are you supposed to do but hunker down on the couch and watch movie after movie? Sure sucks that Shane is such a great cuddler and always brings the snacks. It’s hard to be you.
Cooking: Baby, once it gets cold he’ll have a stew going. Day long events here. Gotta cook that meat nice and slow, let the broth reduce just right. Can’t figure out bread for shit, though, so you’ll have to provide the sides.
Card games: Don’t knock them til you try them. Shane doesn’t give a shit about board games (buh, too many rules), but a nice simple card game? Hell yeah. Watch out: he’s competitive. Expect to keep a score running until the snow turns into mud.
I see Shane as a very observant person. When he’s sitting at the saloon nursing his drink he’s not just wallowing (though he’s absolutely doing that too), he’s watching and cataloging.
Your favorite drink? He knows it.
The way your face moves when you laugh? Got it memorized.
Your favorite shirt? He could tell you your top three based on how often you wear them.
And it’s not like he does anything with the information, he just likes having it. He’s going to be focused on you anyway, might as well store some tidbits away for later.
Like for when he’s at home, in the shower, hard and stroking, thinking about you.
About how your body moves over the course of the night, starting out straight and alert at the bar, then slowly softening the further you get into your drink. His mind fills in the rest, how you might feel softening under him, his hands making you so much more pliant than a drink ever could.
About your mouth, the way you smile at him dispite his best efforts to turn you away. That fucking smile, so freely given. Those fucking lips, and how they might feel wrapped around him.
About the cadence of your voice, how it changes based on who you’re talking to. How it changes when you talk to him. How it might sound if his hands were on you, coaxing out sounds he’d yet to hear.
He watches you.
He sees you.
And no matter how he may act, you’re never not on his mind.
Okay so the other day the guy in the meat section of the grocery store flirted with me, like straight up winked at me while cutting the meat behind the counter.
Though I didn't walk away with a discount on my meat, I did walk away with a concept to explore, which happened to be Butcher Shane. Do with that as you will, but I thought of you my dear </3
Anon, you have no idea what you have unleashed.
Joja opening a meat section and Shane being like “hell yeah” because it’s so much better than stocking shelves
Trades out his work suit for a t-shirt and apron. Both quickly get FILTHY.
Out back hauling huge slabs of meat around like it’s nothing. Just picking them up and throwing them on the table.
Little plastic gloves can barely fit over his hands. Biceps straining at his t-shirt sleeves while he’s swinging the cleaver around. The THWUMP of the knife covering up the way he grunts with each cut.
When you ring the little bell he saunters up. “No, you don’t want that one,” he says when you point at a steak in the case. He leaves without saying anything, then comes back with a package wrapped in white paper.
He might sneak an extra sausage in there if he likes you.
Lewis never gets a cut of meat that isn’t filled with gristle, though.
And of course he’s king of the grill. He prefers charcoal, but he’s a wizard with whatever he’s working with. He’s got a smoker, and if the wind blows right you can follow the scent of what he’s cooking down from your farm.
Don’t ask him about beef jerky unless you want to be there all day. The man has OPINIONS and they are all correct.
Yeah. Shane would make a real good butcher.
Thanks to @frienduccine @visionofthebees and @fionasangster for cooking with me on this one 🫶
