Such is Life.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

After care? Clark took care of you just fine when he filled your pretty pussy up with his cum, what more could you want?

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His cock, obviously. He’s never had any complaints, and the girls who had suggested he wasn’t any good were just lovesick over him. 

He’s obsessed with pussy. It’s the best part or every woman. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Clark is altogether too generous with his cum. He’ll really fuck it into anybody, and he knows he’s got a handful of little ones running about. He’s a great papa, so it doesn’t matter. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t have any. There’s a deep, gnawing, insatiable hunger for affection that he won’t acknowledge, but who the fuck cares about that? 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

There isn’t anything Clark hasn’t done. He’s the king of everything, you know? He’ll have you in any position, guiding you into the shapes he wants. 

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy style, all the time. He just loves to deliver sharp smacks to your ass and watch it bounce against him, and he’ll reach over to pull your hair so you arch your back just right. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Clark doesn’t take anything seriously, not really. He’ll crack jokes before, during and after, and when he makes you laugh your pussy clamps down on him so good he sees stars. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s the sixties, sweetheart. Nothing is groomed, and that’s just groovy. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Clark is the best actor in the world. If you’re feeling vulnerable he’ll hold you close, whisper praise against your mouth as he grinds slow against you and reminds you that he’s all yours. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Clark has no need of it, when every girl in Sweden wants to fuck him. But despite that he is trying to be good for you, so he’ll jack off to Polaroids of your tits to avoid temptation. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He has a mommy kink. Calling him a good boy will elicit slutty moans from him, and letting him call you mama as he cums has him falling in love. 

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Clark is in prison more than he’s out, but the guards look the other way when you visit. Clark will eat you out under the table two minutes before his mother visits and he doesn’t care at all. Besides, is there supposed to be a location he doesn’t want to fuck you? 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Clark wakes up hard most mornings, thinking about you. And any time you tell him how clever he is or how pretty or how well he makes you cum, he’s impossibly feral over you. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Clark won’t hit you. He’s seen enough of that to last a lifetime, and the thought of a man putting hands on a woman reminds him of his own mother. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Shit, älskling are you really going to make him choose? He absolutely loves the feeling of pushing his cock into your throat, and you look so good on your knees. 

But there’s never been a situation he couldn’t eat his way out of, and Clark’s wriggling down between your thighs every time you’re pissed at him. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Clark would say he’s the master of both, but in reality he’s rough and rapid and hungry, pounding you into the mattress or against the wall or over a table until it’s close to breaking, every time. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Why waste extra time if you can get the job done in two minutes? Clark is the best at sex, the winner of every round. But this bothers you for some reason, so he’ll always make you cum on his fingers or his tongue first to keep you happy. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Are you kidding, älskling? Clark is the greatest bank robber of all time, his whole life is about taking risks. You want him to finger you in the middle of the crowded disco? You got it. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Two words; Refractory. Period. Clark might cum quickly, but give him a minute and he’ll be ready to go again. He can go over and over. Your record is fourteen times in one night, and you’d struggled to walk the next day after that. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You bought Clark a cock ring to try and hold off his release. He’d huffed as you rolled the tight silicone over his cock, and he’d been a little bit proud at your frustrated scream when he came deep inside you on the fourth thrust, regardless. Nothing and nobody stops Clark Olofsson. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Clark likes to have you whimpering for him, because there’s nothing a woman can do that’s hotter than being completely obsessed with him. So yeah, he’ll tease you. He’ll work you up slowly, fingers circling you over your panties until you’re slick and whimpering, just to hear you beg. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Clark fucking loves fucking, and he isn’t about to pretend he doesn’t enjoy what feels good. He’ll moan when you let him fuck into your throat, and he’ll chuckle with satisfied bliss when he comes inside you. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Clark really just wants somebody to understand that he’s a good person on the inside. He wants a steady job and one woman for the rest of his life. 

… did you believe that, älskling? Clark Olofsson is the king of everything, including lying. Wild card? His whole damn life is a wild card, so lie back and enjoy the ride why don't you?

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t have time to worry much about it, but chicks always seem into him when they’re rubbing over his chest or licking the thick thatch of his pubes. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Clark’s sex drive is never ending. What better way to show you how much he wants you than to put your hand on his hard cock multiple times a day. Sometimes you’re too busy to indulge, but you stand still whilst he grinds against your ass until he cums over your pants. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Clark doesn’t have a home, so any time you let him stay with you he takes full advantage of your clean sheets and warm bedroom. That’s not to say he won’t spoon-fuck you if he wakes up in the mood though. 

He’s cute. That’s the first thing you notice about the man bound to the interrogation chair in front of you. You raise an eyebrow at Melanie, who despite being your boss is a red-blooded woman with a shitty husband, and she smirks at you. “Yes, I know.”

“He’s really the guy?” You ask, circling him slowly. “This guy?”

She huffs. “Gideon seems to think so.”

“Did Gideon fuck him up?” The man is bloodied, lacerations and bruises and swelling covering almost every inch of exposed skin, but you can still see the taught, tanned muscles beneath. He flexes his fingers above his bindings, and you note the protruding veins over his large, scarred hands.

Melanie makes a disgusted sound. “He tried to reason with him.”

“And how did that go?” You know how it went. There’s only one reason they call in you, after all.

“How do you think?” She steps forward, fisting the man’s short bleached blonde hair and yanking his head up. You blink in surprise at how young his face is. Little more than a boy, really. “He’s mute apparently. Likely deaf, too.”

You frown, your mind sifting through all you know about the shaman. Why would he pick a disabled boy to train as his super soldier when the city was crawling with less difficult orphans to target? You lift your hand to his face and click your fingers beside his ear. No recognition passes over his face, but he does turn his eyes up to you. A bolt of pure arousal shoots through your core at the depthless fury in his wide green eyes. Pretty, deadly boy. “So who tried the big stick approach?”

Melanie huffs. “June.” She doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need her to. In the holy triad of interrogations, you were the final point. Gideon had his words, his negotiations and his carefully scripted routines. June 27 had her blades and her batons and her endless thirst for violence. And then there was you, with your endless thirst for…

You tilt your head to the side, licking your lips slowly as you take in every rippling inch of the boy in the chair. “Not a peep, huh?”

“Not so much as a goddamn flinch.” Melanie sounds grudgingly impressed. “If it wasn’t so close to the show I’d say we should see if we could break him down for parts, but-“

“Sure,” you hum, lifting a hand to brush the hair back from his forehead. “If he’s been with the shaman all this time… I think my methods will be suitably disarming.”

Melanie rolls her eyes as she turns on her heel. “Just… clean up when you’re done. I don’t wanna hear the details.”

You don’t bother to say goodbye as she leaves the room. The Boy drops his head back to his chest as though defeated, but you know better. Every inch of him is taut, practically vibrating with energy. You were going to have your work cut out for you draining every last drop out of him.

You head to the far wall for a washcloth and fill a shallow bowl with warm water. You put this beside his chair, and the boy nudges his foot towards it as though he’s trying to kick it over. You can’t help the delighted smirk that spreads across your face at his defiance. He’s going to be so much fun to play with.

You pull up the other chair beside him and sit, soaking the sponge in water and drawing it across a deep cut on his thigh. He does flinch then, from the shock more than the pain, and you use your other hand to pinch his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

His face doesn’t change at all, and you wonder whether he can read lips. You’d only ever known one deaf-mute before, a girl from your home village, and she’d been able to.

“I need to clean these up before infection sets in.”

The boy hesitates, his eyes dropping to the sponge in your hand. You don’t appear to be armed, and there’s a gentleness to your face that he hasn’t seen on anyone since he stepped foot in this goddamn fortress. He nods, just once, and you smile.

“Good. Tell me if it hurts.” You lick your lips, and the boy’s eyes drop to your mouth. Good. “Or, you know. However you communicate.”

The boy reads the words on your lips before dragging his eyes back up to yours. You’re pretty. You might be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. And that makes sense, on Van Der Koy soldier wages and Van Der Koy soldier rations. You’re not suffering from the famines and water contaminations of the outer sectors, because you’re the enemy. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he pulls his face out of your loose grip as you glide the wet sponge up his thigh.

“That’s okay,” you coo, dropping your hand to your side. “I’ll be gentle.”

He closes his eyes as you glide further up, the stained shreds of his cargo shorts barely concealing the muscles of his thighs. Your fingers brush against his skin every now and then, and Boy feels his cock twitching to life with a sense of inevitable dread. It’d really fucking hurt if you decided to hit him there.

You dip beside him to resoak your sponge, wringing bloody water out before returning your attention to his thigh. You roam higher, higher, your fingers just grazing over the rapidly hardening bulge in his shorts, and you suppress a smirk. You’d barely touched him and he was already almost ripe for the taking. Nobody had ever been this easy, this sensitive. It was like he was desperate, like he’d never been touched so intimately, like he was a…

You pause, raking your eyes up his body as your hand settles over his erection. “Are you a virgin?”

The boy says nothing, of course, but his cheeks stain a deep red and his hips lift against the light pressure of your hand.

“Oh.” Oh, you were going to hug Melanie Van Der Koy. Not really, because she’d have you fired, but this was a fucking gift. This was better than paid time off or a pay rise. This was the best perk of the job anybody had ever fucking had. You press your palm flat against him, rubbing over the rough fabric of his shorts, and the boy makes a tiny, gravelly sound in the back of his throat.

You reach for his face again, cupping his jaw gently and tilting his head to yours. “Have you ever been touched here?”

And The Boy knows he should do nothing. He knows he should freeze, should retreat inside himself and wait for this to be over as he’d done so many times before under threat of violence. But your hand feels the opposite of violent, there’s a dull throb of pleasure building in his stomach and his cock aches.

He shakes his head, and the slow smile that curves over your mouth fills him with a heady mix of arousal and dread.

“You’re so pretty,” you coo, deftly unbuttoning his shorts and reaching inside for his cock. Your lips part on a moan as you wrap your fist around him, noting with a thrill that he’s both long and thick, the skin on his shaft smooth and warm and perfect. You feel arousal slick in your own underwear as you squeeze him, and The Boy’s mouth falls open as his head drops to watch the motion of your hand in his underwear.

He’s touched himself there before, obviously. He’d been thirteen the first time he’d woken up in the middle of the night with his cock sticking straight up, and he’d panicked as he tried to push it back down again. But the motion of his hand pulling on it had felt phenomenal, and he’d wrapped his fist around the length and dragged his hand up and down, up and down, the pressure building until he’d spurted goo and the stiffness had gone away. It had become close to a nightly ritual after that, because the hard ground at his back felt less uncomfortable when his body had released the pent up tension. And because jerking his cock felt good.

But now, with your hand pumping his length, The Boy wonders if he’d ever even done it right. Because there is nothing, no feeling he can name, no word in his dictionary that compares to the sheer, electric bliss of being touched by another person.

You run your thumb over the head of his cock, collecting the sticky precum oozing from his tip, and rub it into the underside of his head.The Boy whimpers, biting hard on his bottom lip as his hips lift off the chair to chase the friction of your palm against his length.

“No, no.” You chide, releasing him completely and pulling your hand out of his shorts. You lick your palm, tasting the musky salt of him, and The Boy watches with helpless desperation as his aching cock falls back against his stomach. “Not like that.”

You reach for your own belt, unhooking the complicated series of latches and letting it drop to the floor. You kick it away, and The Boy is reminded for a brief, sickening moment of the fact that he’s tied to a chair and you’re a fucking Van Der Koy soldier, but then you shove your pants down and step close enough for him to see the wet patch on the front of your panties and the slight sheen of slick on your thighs, and he decides maybe he doesn’t care about any of it right now.

“You’re a tough guy, huh.” You say, climbing into his broad lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. The Boy yanks hard on his restraints, the muscles in his arms rippling under the strain as his cock twitches against your core. “Wouldn’t break for Juney.”

The boy pulls his top lip back in a sneer, and you roll your hips down to drag your wet center over his cock. His lips pop open in an ‘o’ and you do it again, rocking back and forth against him.

The rough drag of your wet panties against his bare cock is both maddening and unbelievably hot, and he has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip just to stop himself from silently begging for more.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning closer to push your tits against his chest and tracing your tongue over the closed seam of his mouth. He parts his lips and you lick into his mouth, prodding against his teeth and further to the empty space where his tongue should be.

You pull away from the kiss, your fingers pushing into his mouth, and The Boy considers what would happen if he bit you as you reach back and brush against the scarred stub of his tongue.

“What happened?” Because you know this isn’t a birth defect. Rumors of The Shamans cruelty may have been exaggerated in some stories, but he was a demon capable of true evil. You imagine him pinning a small boy to the ground and hacking out his tongue, and a shiver of revulsion runs through you.

The Boy sees the change in your face, and shame washes through him even as you grind over his cock. He wraps his lips around your fingers, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, and the disgust on your face morphs back into that strange, hungry look that fills The Boy’s stomach with butterflies.

You hum, and The Boy feels the vibration in his chest through yours. He wishes he could touch you. Even more than he wishes he could get out of here. Maybe even more than he wants to kill Hilda Van Der Koy, at least right now. Your breasts feel soft and warm against him, even with the little peaks of your nipples pressed to his vest.

“You don’t need a tongue,” you say, pulling your fingers gently from his mouth and tilting your hips back. The boy watches your eyes flutter closed and then he drops his gaze to where your own fingers have disappeared into your panties, your hips jerking softly against your hand as you touch yourself.

This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to The Boy. Well, okay, it isn’t. The execution of his mother and sister, the near-death experience of his own hanging and the many, many beatings he’d taken from The Shaman were arguably worse. But watching you fuck your own hand whilst sitting in his lap, so close he can smell your arousal and he can feel the dampness on his thighs is torture. He’d been taught to take a beating, but he hadn’t been taught how to handle this.

“You get me so wet,” you mumble. The Boy doesn’t really know what you mean, but he knows how the words make him feel. He strains harder, the ropes cutting viciously into his arms and legs, and you pull your hand out of your underwear and press your sticky fingers against his lips.

The Boy doesn’t hesitate to suck them into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the digits and drawing the essence of your arousal towards the back of his throat to pool on the stub of his tongue where he can still taste. You’re tangy and delicious, and his mouth waters in a demand for more.

Christ this is the best day of your life. The Boy is a mess beneath you, his hard cock leaking precum against your stomach where it’s trapped between your body and his, and he sucks on your fingers and looks at you with such pathetic desperation that you almost come, just from that.

“I wanna see what you taste like.”

You slide off his lap, settling onto your knees between his legs and wrapping your fist around his cock. He’s already very clearly uncomfortable, the head is an angry, swollen red and he’s leaking bead after bead of glistening precum. You trace your tongue over his slit, relishing the salt of him and the way this enormous man tries to jump out of his chair at the feeling.

“Hold still.”

He shakes his head, trying again to jolt away from the awful stimulation of your tongue lapping over his exposed, over-sensitive tip, but there’s nowhere to go and you’re just getting started. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and suck hard, and the chair actually does skid back an inch with the force of him throwing himself backwards. You release him with a pop and narrow your eyes up at him. “Don’t make me bite it.”

The Boy does hold himself still then, because whilst your lips and your tongue feel agonizing, he knows your teeth would hurt so bad he’d blackout, and he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this time with you. You run a hand up his thigh, skipping over the deep laceration you’d pretended to clean earlier and creeping your hand into the leg of his shorts to tickle against his balls.

The Boy’s jaw goes slack as you lower your head, drawing his cock over your tongue and further, further into your mouth until his sensitive tip nudges against the pulsing wet resistance of your tonsils. You hum then, and The boy feels the vibration so intensely that he swears he can hear the melody of it singing through his blood as his hips buck up against your face and his cock is squeezed into the tightness of your throat.

He makes a sound then, a beautiful, strangled yelp, and fresh arousal slicks in your underwear as you begin to bob your head in time with his erratic little thrusts.

You feel the tightening in his balls as he nears his orgasm, and you squeeze his balls a little too harshly as you pull off his length and let his cock slap back against his stomach.

The Boy could cry. He feels like he might, at the sudden loss of your mouth and the actual ache in his cock when he was so, so close to a release.

“Not like that,” you say again as if it explains anything. He glares at you, bottom lip jutting into an absurd pout, and you climb back into his lap and bite his lip into your mouth. The Boy feels the shift as you lift and resettle, but he’s too focused on the way you’re sucking his lip to really notice what you’re doing until –

You sink down on his cock, taking him in one long drop, right to the hilt, and The Boy gasps so sharply his lip is sucked right out of your mouth. His eyes drop to the point where his entire cock has disappeared inside your body, and he looks back at you with wide-eyed alarm.

But then you move, and The Boys entire reality shifts. If he’d thought your hand was good, your mouth had been phenomenal. But if he’d thought your mouth had been phenomenal, your cunt was transcendent. Nothing could compare to this. Nothing. Not even seeing Hilda Van Der Koy’s head on a pike.

“You’re so big,” you coo, rocking your hips back and forth as you’re stretched around his thick cock. “Feels so good, huh?”

He can only nod, his jaw tense and his heart thundering against his chest as he bucks up to meet the languid rolls of your hips.

You wrap your hand around his throat, pressing enough to restrict his airflow, and The Boy’s lips part on a soft gasp as he tries desperately to suck in a breath. “You’re so perfect,” you coo, your breath ghosting over his lips like a taunt as you plant your knees on the seat either side of his thighs and lift yourself off him only to bounce back down.

It’s new and it’s terrible and The Boy is close to his release with just a few sharp bounces. “Your body was made for me.” You moan, tightening your grip on his throat as you ride him. At this angle his length grazes against your sensitive walls with every drop of your hips, and you reach your free hand down to rub your clit as the cord of arousal in your stomach tightens.

Much too soon you see his eyes glazing over and feel the tell-tale twitching of his cock inside you, and you drop your hips to hold him deep and freeze, stilling your movements completely and stealing the moment of his orgasm from him for a third time.

The Boy’s head drops forward, his shoulders shaking with silent, agonised sobs as you squeeze harshly around his cock without providing any friction at all.

You press your fingers to his chin and tap, and he looks up at you with wounded puppy-dog eyes. You want to kick him. You want to ride him until he sees stars. Instead you rise up onto your knees and let his cock slip out of you, relishing the little gasp he makes as his sensitive tip brushes against his vest.

“Not like that,” you coo, and his pretty face contorts into a black fury that has you so feral you almost abandon the routine and drop to your knees again. He watches you step out of your panties, holding them close to your face as though you’re examining them before you catch his eye and hold his gaze. A thick, foamy glob of spit drops from your lips into the already slick fabric, and you approach him with lithe, predatory intent.

The Boy tries again to jerk away, already knowing that the feeling of the wet fabric against his cock is going to be the worst kind of torture when he’s already so oversensitive, but although the chair skids back another inch your fist is wrapped around his cock just moments later, and The Boy makes an audible sob.

You hum, lifting your free hand to card through his hair, scratching your nails lightly against his scalp as you drag your soaked panties over the head of his cock and rub your cotton-clad thumb over his slit. He sobs again, hips spasming helplessly against the intense stimulation, and it’s music. It’s off-key, strangled music to your ears.

You tighten your grip, jerking him fast and rough, feeling the drag of friction against his length and wincing a little at how uncomfortable it must feel. Not that you care, of course. You’d done far, far worse to other toys, though maybe none quite so pretty as this Boy.

The hand carding through his hair tightens into a fist, and you pull his head up. He swallows, the thick bob of his Adam’s apple making your mouth water as he looks at you with pathetic, defeated misery. “Oh, you wanna come so badly.”

He doesn’t even nod. Just keeps looking, his hips fucking gently up against your fist. He’s right on the edge. Right on the edge of being broken, and you think maybe it’s time to let him come. The release will be so sweet, and you think about the sounds he’ll make when you finally drag him over the edge, the way his face will go slack with pleasure the-

You’re so preoccupied with the own genius of your plan that you’d missed it. That The Boy had wriggled his fingers around to the pocket on his cargo shorts. That he’d found a thin, sharp-ended object. He remembers the moment Gideon had leaned close and brushed his fingers over The Boy’s thigh, and he’d assumed the guy was just a pervert. But no. Here it was.

He’d held himself still, let you coo and caress and torture him as he’d slipped the scalpel against the rope on the inside of his wrist and begun to work at the fabric until it frayed enough to break.

Your eyes go wide as he brings his arms up, the rope dropping to the ground and the chair buckling as he stands. You turn to run, and he hooks an arm around your waist and throws you to the ground. Your head hits the concrete floor, dazing you for a moment, and The Boy keeps one eye on you as he saws away the ropes tying his legs to the chair.

You aren’t moving, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t care about that as he frees himself and rummages in your cabinets for weapons. He glances back and sees you rolling onto your back, your hand lifting to your head and coming away bloody. He launches across the room, dropping over you and pressing the scalpel to your throat hard enough to bead a line of blood across your skin.

Your breaths come fast and ragged, your chest heaving with it, and The Boy can’t stop himself from looking. Your nipples are hard against your shirt, and he brings his free hand up, brushing his fingers against one stiff peak and then the other. Your lips part on a soft moan, he feels it through your throat where his hand rests, and you lift a leg to hook around his waist.

His cock is still out, still painfully hard, and he lowers himself against you, already gravitating towards the tight, wet heat of your bare core.

“Go on,” you whisper, “Take what you want.”

The Boy knows he should run. Should knock you out and get the fuck out of here before the culling is over and he misses his chance. But you lift your hips, and the tip of his cock is nudged against your slick folds and he can’t. He growls, grabbing both your hands and pinning them above your head with the press of one wide palm as he angles his hips down and pushes into you again.

Being fucked by The Boy is an entirely different experience. You were used to being in the driver’s seat, to teasing and torturing and taking what you wanted from prisoners. But this was different. The Boy fucked into you with raw, animalistic hunger, his hips snapping against yours so violently you’re certain you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

He bares his teeth, the scalpel pressing a little deeper against your throat, and you flutter your muscles around his cock in an effort to distract him. It works, his jaw goes slack and the pressure on your wrists increases as he leverages his weight against his arm and drives deeper into you.

You feel the dull sting of his tip slamming into your cervix and you whine. It’s that – the rippling pressure of reaching the limit of your insides and the little whine that quivers out of your lips that sends The Boy hurtling over the edge. It’s the sweetest, most painful orgasm of his life as he shoots his load into you. His hips still against yours, grinding desperately down as his cock twitches and spurts and pulses and aches. It seems to go on for hours, and you watch in rapt fascination as his pretty face contorts with the agony of a long-denied release and he just keeps fucking cumming.

You squeeze around him, milking his sensitive cock for every last drop of his orgasm, and The Boy winces as he finally pulls out of you. The scalpel clatters to the floor as he rolls onto his back, chest heaving and mind completely empty of all thought. He feels weightless, boneless. He wonders if he’s dead.

He feels the shift beside him, and turns his head to see you on all-fours, crawling slowly towards the door. Your hips sway with the motion, your ass looking soft and supple as you move, and his cock twitches with fresh interest as he reaches for your ankle and tugs.

You go sprawling on the floor, the wind knocking out of you with an ‘oof’, and you barely have time to register the movement before he’s on top of you again. His rapidly stiffening cock presses against your ass as he leans down, the hard planes of his torso pressing against your spine as he nuzzles the sharp tip of his nose against your shoulder and plants his hands on your hips, digging his nails into the meat of them as he ruts against your ass.

The Boy reaches down and grips his cock, dragging it down the crack of your ass and finding the slick, wet hole that’s still leaking his release, a steady stream of it slicking on your thighs. He pushes into you, releasing his base as he bottoms out, and your back arches at the renewed stretch. The Boy wraps an arm around your throat, holding you tightly against him as he snaps his hips down against your ass over, and over, and over.

You can do little more than moan, drool spilling from your lips as the air is pressed from your lungs. There is a sharp sting as he bites down hard on your shoulder, and you clench around his cock. He’s much too sensitive for that, and he comes again with a broken moan against your neck as he buries himself inside you.

This time, you don’t try to move. You listen as he pushes to a stand, hearing the sharp intake of breath as he tucks his cock away, and you wait.

The Boy knows he should kill you. He twirls the handle of the scalpel in his fingers, watching his cum leak out of you and willing his cock to stay soft this time because he really, truly can’t do it again right now.

He knows the best chance of him getting out of here without anyone raising the alarm is to kill you, but he can’t do it. When he thinks about painting the floor with your blood it just seems like such a fucking waste. You’re too pretty. Too soft. Too his if he were capable of wanting things. He rounds your body, dropping to a crouch by your head and tapping your jaw. You lift your head, pushing weakly up on your arms until you’re resting on your knees. The Boy cups your cheeks, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips before pulling back and mouthing “don’t be one of them.”

You watch his lips form the words and you meet his eyes as you bring your fingers to your own mouth, pinching your thumb and forefinger together and drawing them across your closed lips in a zipper motion. The Boy smiles, a genuine, bright smile that steals your breath, before turning the scalpel in his expert grip and running for the exit.

You sigh as you watch him go, knowing in your gut that you’re letting the best toy you’ve ever had walk out on you.

You give him a five minute head start before sounding the alarm.

You can see his baby blue pickup parked across the street, and you hold your head high even though your hands shake badly on the bar of your shopping cart. He’s always there, though he doesn’t sit outside the house so much since your daddy levelled a shotgun at his cab and commanded him to stop.

Bobby doesn’t take no so good, never did. It had taken six months of misery for you to realize you deserved better, and it had taken him wrapping a hand around your throat and choking you until your vision blurred for you to realize you had to leave. And it had been ugly. It had been the ugliest thing you’d ever seen, the way Bobby Weston had devolved into frenzied madness. He’d threatened, he’d pleaded. He’d smashed through the windows at the schoolhouse where you taught second grade. He’d yelled at you in the street, tried to drag you back from the doors of the church on Sunday the first time you’d ever tried to go inside, figuring a little time with God might soften him to your cause.

The reverend had intervened, and even bobby Weston knew better than to hit a man of the cloth. It had been almost a year since you’d severed his hold on you, but the ghost of his possession remained. You hadn’t had a date. Not a single one, despite the hungry stares and the anonymous whistles sent your way anytime that blue pickup wasn’t around. You knew why; Bobby had put the word out. That you were off-limits. That you were still his, despite the pretty little fiancée he’d picked up three towns over.

You glance towards the street as you load your groceries onto the counter, and Pam gives you a sympathetic smile. “He out there again, hon?”

You nod. “I switched my shoppin’ day. I don’t know how he figured it out.”

“You want me to talk to Mac?” Pam’s husband was the deputy sheriff, and he’d spoken to Bobby on his wife’s request once before. Your families labrador had gone missing the next day, and turned up drowned at the bottom of the creek with a stone tied to his collar.

“No. Won’t do no good anyways.” You don’t say the other part, that the only thing that’ll stop Bobby Weston is your surrender or your death. People didn’t much like to hear that, even if it was true.

“There’s a parade this weekend for the boys who just got back from the islands.”  

“Yeah.” You muse absently. “Mama’s baking pound cakes like she’s personally responsible for feedin em all.”

Pam laughs. “My mummas had the stove on for three straight days. Guess she thinks they been on rations too long, need some southern hospitality.”

Your smile is more genuine as you think about a flock of fussing mothers force-feeding stew and cornbread into the exhausted boys. “No fightin; that, I suppose.”

The boy bagging your groceries dips his head as you hand over several bills. “Can I walk these out to your car, ma’am?”

You want to say yes, because the sun is beating down on the street and your bags are heavy, but if Bobby Weston sees this boy walking beside you he’ll shatter his kneecaps and that wouldn’t be fair at all when he was just being sweet.

“I got it. Thanks. See you, Pam.”

“See you at the parade?”

You shrug, hefting your bags against your chest. “Maybe.”

Maybe means no, it always means no. Being out in public, so exposed to a crowd with his hateful eyes on you just wasn’t worth it.

You almost make it to your car. You’re just a few paces away when the bag laden with perspiring bottles of milk and juice breaks open, wet paper splitting and your groceries spilling across the sidewalk.

“No, no, no,” you groan, placing your remaining bag down upright and scrabbling to collect the bottles as they roll away. You scramble forward as one makes for the road, stopping abruptly when it is pinned beneath a worn leather boot.

Your eyes travel up a leg, your stomach flipping over with anxiety until you meet the wide, green eyes of a stranger.

“Uh, thanks.” You mumble, reaching for the bottle beneath his shoe.

“No bother.” His voice is a low rumble of southern honey, and you swallow as you push up to a stand. He reaches out to steady you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist as he helps you to your feet, and you jolt at the contact, pulling out of his grip.

“I have to go.”

“I didn’t mean to…” he breaks off, agitation flashing across his features. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You force your breathing to regulate, meeting his piercing gaze again. “You didn’t. I just… need to go.”

The stranger picks up your forgotten bag, hooking his long fingers around two stray bottles on the ground as he follows you to your car.

“The bag boy will load your trunk for you. I don’t know much but I used to do that, and not just for the pretty girls.”

You flush, taking the bag from his hands with more force than you mean to. Your eyes dart to the side, to the pickup parked across the street. You can see his tanned arm hanging out the window, his fingers closed into a fist.

“Guess I ain’t pretty enough to qualify.”  You snap, and the man blinks at you, the soft smile on his face dropping.

“Now hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you’re pretty. You’re awful pretty.”

You swallow thickly, fingers brushing his as you take the bottles from his hand. “Well now you really are making me uncomfortable. You don’t know I’m not spoken for.”

The man’s eyes drop to your hand, the bare, delicate fingers. “No ring.”

“Don’t mean nothing.”

“No.” He agrees, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand and you feel heat curl in your core at the contact. His eyes never leave yours, holding you hypnotised in his wide, unblinking stare. “You have a nice day, ma’am.”

You snatch your hand back, hurrying around to the driver’s side and climbing into the cab with your heart hammering against your chest. Your hand shakes as you reach for the key and turn it in the ignition, the familiar rumble of your daddy’s car helping to ease some of your anxiety. You lift your hand, examining the faint sheen of his spit on your skin, and you lift your hand to your own mouth to press a kiss over the phantom mark.

Willard watches you do it, watches you shake your head a little as you pull out of the spot and head down the street in a car old enough to have seen a time before the wars. He thumbs a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one, licking over his lips once before taking a drag. His head had been full of gunfire for months, and he’d seen the bleeding, burned crucifixion of Miller Jones every time he closed his eyes until he’d learned to drink himself into unconsciousness. But now his head was full of the melody of your voice, and when he closed his eyes he saw your face, and it was the closest thing he’d felt to peace since before he’d enlisted.

A woman he vaguely recognizes steps out of the market, tugging a nametag off her blouse, and Willard flicks his cigarette to the ground. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

She looks up, eyes flashing with alarm before she squints at him. “Willard Russell? Emma’s boy?”

Willard ducks his head, though it’s strange to be called a boy by a woman he’s pretty sure was in the grade below him at school.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You back from the front?”

Willard nods, impatient to bypass the pleasantries and the inevitable questions about his time in the war. He doesn’t wanna talk about that. He doesn’t ever wanna talk about that, but certainly not right now.

“There was a girl just came outta the grocery store. Dropped her bags. He produces the singular jar of preserve he’d slipped into his pocket when it had rolled out of your sight. “She left this behind. I’d like to return it to her.”

The woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes lifting to the street, where the blue pickup that had so captured your interest still idles. The man inside leans out of the cab, staring right at Willard, and the woman sighs.

“You give it to me, I’ll make sure she gets it. I see her for sewin circle at the church on Thursdays.”

“I wouldn’t mind stoppin’ in on her.”

The woman’s smile tightens. “It isn’t a good idea, Willard. You don’t wanna be getting mixed up in that.”

Willard feels a tightness in his stomach as his eyes flick again to the man in the truck. “She spoken for?”

“Not anymore, but it don’t matter much. You just got back to town and that’ll earn you a little leniency, but not much. That one is a nasty guy. He thinks you’re sweet on her, he’ll make you pay for it.”

Willard sees the terrified set to your pretty face as you’d looked past him at the truck, and an awful wave of deadly calm settles over him. “I see.”

“Good.” The woman relaxes. “There are plenty of girls lookin for a guy with some war glory attached. You’ll do alright.” She holds out her hand for the jar, and Willard slips it back into his pocket.

“I’ll be holdin’ on to this, thanking you kindly.”

“Willard.”

“You have a good day now, ma’am.”

He tips his hat in her direction before turning the opposite way. His route takes him across the street, and he passes the pickup slowly, getting a good look at the greasy little man inside. He doesn’t look so threatening up close, and though he doesn’t drop his eyes from the challenge in Willard’s he doesn’t make a move to step out, either.

Willard runs his thumb over the label on the jar in his pocket, rubbing at it like a lucky rabbit’s foot as he makes his way home and tells his mama he’s got the urge to pray again.

*

The heat creates an unbearable pressure-cooker of perspiration and dead air inside the church building, and no amount of sweet, iced tea makes so much as a dent in it. You fan yourself with the folded pattern for a new dress, your hair sticking to your face in little tendrils as you blink through the salt in your eyes.

The lively chatter of gossiping women breaks off as the doors to the church open, wafting a hot breeze through the room as a man steps inside. Men don’t go to sewing socials, preferring to stop in at the bar down the ways while they wait to pick up their wives, but this one strides in with purpose and judging eyes follow him as he stops right in front of you.

He removes his hat, and your breath hitches in your throat at those beautiful, big green eyes boring into you. “You’ll forgive my intrusion.”

You nod mechanically, politely, dazed as he produces a little jar of apricot jelly from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Your forgot this, outside the store. I wanted to return it to you personally and apologize again for my behaviour.”

This was bad. This was the worst thing that this peculiar, beautiful stranger could be doing right now. Because word would spread, ohh how it would spread. And Bobby Weston would pay him a visit and it would be all your fault.

“There was really no need, we don’t know each other.” You say loudly. “You coulda just put it in at the store.”

The man licks his lips, a small smile quirking at the corners. “If I did that I wouldn’t have got the chance to see you again.”

You can hear the collective intake of scandalised breath as the boldness of his words richoches around the room. You look helplessly to the side, catching Pam’s eye. Her shoulders slump, and panic straightens your spine. “There was really no need, I… we’re strangers to one another. Plain and simple.”

“I’m Willard.” He says softly. “Willard Russell. My mama Emma usually comes here but she’s still bakin for the parade. I got back from the Pacific Theater this week.”

You swallow, eyes raking over him again. He’d been to war. He had no way to know about Bobby Weston, no idea that you weren’t worth the risk or the hassle. “Well I’m awful glad you made it back in one piece. Glad for all the boys who made it back.”

Willard nods dismissively. “I guess I’ll be up on the grandstand on Saturday night, but I wanted to know if you’d do me the honor of bein my date anyways.”

You want the ground to swallow you whole. You want every single woman in the room to suffer a bout of collective amnesia so they don’t go home and tell their husbands and their sons about this. You want pretty, stupid, stubborn Willard Russell to take it back and skip town.

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Willard’s smile falters only a little. “Well, that’s alright. I got time and patience. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”

You swallow thickly, feeling your cheeks heat. “Whole town is goin.”

“Yeah but I’m askin if you’re going.” He winks, and a curl of unfamiliar warmth spreads through your lower belly.

“I… yeah. I’m goin.”

He scoops your hand off the table, pressing the back of it to his lips in another kiss that sears its way into your memory forever as he holds your gaze in his. “Until Saturday, then.”

You watch him leave, noticing the broad expanse of muscles across his back under the stretch of his linen shirt, and you press your thighs together under the table unconsciously. You’d see him Saturday, if Bobby Weston hadn’t put him in the hospital or worse beforehand.

*

Willard combs his hair whilst his mother nags and nags and nags from the washroom door. “It just isn’t proper, Willard. Goin up like that in front of everybody. I’ve had three callers just this morning, and lord knows what people are sayin’ behind our backs.”

Willard hums, spinning on his heel and crossing the room to wrap his arms around his mother. She slumps against him, folding into the warmth of his touch as she’s always done. “I’m sorry for the scandal, mama. But I ain’t sorry for doin it. She’s the one.”

Emma Russell pulls back and fixes her only son with an exasperated look. “Willard, she’s the first girl you set eyes on since you’ve been back. Not to mention she’s trouble.”

“The ex, I heard.”

“No, you didn’t.” Emma shakes her head, nudging her nose against his chest before stepping out of his reach. “Bobby Weston’s put people in the ground over her.”

“She ask him to?”

Emma’s brows shoot into her greying hairline. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.” Willard says. “If she wants him to do it, then alright. I’ll step down. But that’s not the way it looks to me.”

She sighs, resigned. She knows her boy, and he’s stubborn to a fault. “She broke things off with him a long time ago. He used to beat her something awful, so I hear. He didn’t take kindly to her ending it, and he hasn’t let her go.”

Willard’s hands curl into fists. He thinks about you, about your wide eyes and the soft curves of you as you shrank low away from the man in the blue pickup, and rage hardens in his guts. “Well, I’m throwin my hat in the ring on this one. If he wants to tussle, I’ll put him down myself.”

He means it. Emma watches her son duck out of the doorway of his childhood bedroom, wondering when he got so tall and how she’d missed him becoming a man, and she wrings her hands with the heart-wrenching worry that only a mother can truly understand.

Willard doesn’t like the spectacle of it all. That the town wanted to do something nice for the boys coming home, he could abide. Many of the guys needed that, needed smiling faces and handshakes and validation that the horrors experienced in the cesspit of war weren’t for nothing. Willard knew better, and he didn’t want to shake the hand of the mayor or eat cotton candy hand delivered by a giggling high school girl. His eyes scanned the packed town square, looking for you amongst the crowds.

It takes him entirely too long to find you, long enough that disappointment is churning his guts to silt and he’s considering heading home when there you are. Standing with the cashier from the grocery store, holding a softball in your hand as you eye the bottle pyramid in the game booth. You stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth in concentration before flicking your wrist, and the pyramid topples with one hit.

Your friend claps and you grin at her, the smile so breathtaking that it steals the air right from Willard’s lungs. He’s picking his way through the crowd before he can think about it, ignoring the well-wishes and welcomes of town folk as he fixes on you.

“That was quite a shot.” He says when he’s close enough, and Willard is pleased to see that whilst your grin shrinks, you don’t stop smiling altogether.

“I got some practice in this area.” You say with a shrug.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you for your service.” You say, your cheeks staining with blood as you blush. It’s the prettiest thing Willard’s ever seen, and he feels butterflies beat in his stomach at the teasing edge to your voice.

“I know about Bobby Weston.”

The smile does drop from your face then, the color draining from your skin as you knot your fingers together. “Then you know why I… why I can’t-“

“I’m not afraid of him. If that’s why you’re sayin no to me, I want you to hear it. I’m not afraid of him, and I wanna take you out on a date. On a whole lot of dates.”

“He put a guy in the hospital for sitting by me at church.”

“Let him try that with me. Let him try.” Willard steps closer, taking your hands and untangling your fingers. “I know we just met and we’re practically strangers. But your mama knows mine, I grew up here just the same as you. You’re the prettiest girl I ever seen in my life and I’m not in the habit of letting things I want slip away without a fight.”

You drop your eyes to the point where you’re connected, his big hands dwarfing yours completely. “Why me?” You ask quietly.

“Excuse me?”

You lift your eyes to his, biting your bottom lip in a way that sends a bolt of arousal straight to Willard’s cock. “I’m nothin special. I’m a little too plump and my hair never stays right and I got an ex boyfriend who’d rather see me dead than happy without him. You should find somebody else.” It’s the truest, most terrifying thing you’ve ever said out loud, and your hands shake with how scared you are.

Willard’s fingers tighten around yours, his thumb finding the point of your pulse against your wrist and tapping it in a steady rhythm. “You’re the prettiest girl I ever saw and that’s that. I respect your right to an opinion, and I know women are usually right bout pretty much everything, but I’m sticking firm on this one, darlin.”

Your core throbs at the use of the endearment, your palms slicking with sweat against his cool ones. Willard licks his lips, watching you squirm and blush for him, drinking in every blissful moment of it even as his cock thickens and presses against his…

He drops your hands suddenly, taking a deliberate step back and praying that the structure of his pants will hide the worst of his growing interest in you. It wouldn’t be proper, wouldn’t be remotely fair to you to make you look at that when you were being so soft and vulnerable with him.

Your eyes drop, following the path of his hands as he steps back, and your eyes widen a fraction when they come to rest on his crotch. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles, adjusting the fabric around his cock. “That isn’t… you’re just so pretty.”

You lick your bottom lip slowly, deliberately slowly, and Willard is fixed to the motion as his cock throbs and leaks. “Maybe I’m startin’ to believe you really think that,” you say, your voice breathy. Willard thinks about what you’ll sound like moaning his name, and the thought is almost enough to make him come without touching himself.

“Let me take you for a drink. Just a cup of coffee.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice, and you feel your underwear slick with arousal at the sound of it.

“He’ll break your legs. Or worse.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

“I’m not worth it.”

Willard smirks, shaking his head. “I disagree.”

You sigh, resigning yourself and him to the inevitability of your fates. “Alright. A cup of coffee. But you can call it off if you change your mind and I won’t be offended. Much.” You flash him a shy smile and Willard’s heart flutters in response.

“I ain’t gunna change my mind about you, darlin. You can count on that.”

*

You could count on Willard Russell. He’d shown up precisely when he said he would, helping you into the cab of his black truck and keeping one eye on you the whole ride into town. He seemed nervous, chewing absently on a little pick of wood, and you found yourself watching his mouth more than you should, imagining those lips on yours, that tongue…

He jogs around the car to open your door for you, offering his hand and not letting go of yours even after you’ve climbed down. He laces his fingers tightly through yours and tugs you towards the diner, and you feel the pulse of your panicked heart in the heat between your palms as people look up and stare at you.

“You two need a table?” The waitress asks, eyes dropping to your joined hands for a fraction too long before looking back up at you.

“Sure do. Something by the window if you don’t mind.”

She nods and scoops two menus from her station, and you follow her into the diner. Willard dips his head, lips almost brushing your ear. “Your hair looks so pretty in the sunlight. Forgive a man his pleasures.”

His voice is a low rumble of silk that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core, and your eyes flutter closed as Willard guides you into one side of the booth and reluctantly detaches his hand from yours so he can sit opposite you.

“Can I get you some drinks to start?”

“Coffee, black.” He says, scanning the menu. “What’ll it be, darlin?”

“The same.” You say, looking at Willard and not looking at the waitress. You recognise her, and that’s a bad thing. It’s not a remarkable thing in a small town, but it’s a bad thing today because she’s dating one of the boys in Bobby’s crew, you’re pretty sure.

She offers Willard a tight smile before heading out the back, and you know there’s a payphone in by the store three doors down and you know you’re screwed.

“So tell me a little about yourself. You teach over at the school?” Willard, steeples his fingers below his chin.

“That waitress is gunna go tell Bobby we’re here.”

Willard frowns. “So?”

“So he’s gunna come here.” Your voice raises in pitch even as a whisper, and Willard reaches across the table for your hand.

“If he does, I’ll deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, a scoff pushing past your lips. “People don’t… deal with him. He deals with them.”

Willard’s fingers tighten on yours. “I may seem a way to you.” He says quietly. “But I seen things that’d send other men mad. I done things that’ll put me in the hellfire when the time comes. I ain’t afraid of your ex, darlin. I know you are and you got reason to be, but I ain’t. And he won’t touch you again. Not while I’m breathin, you understand?”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. “I wanna believe it.”

“Then believe it.” Willard says with a shrug and a smile. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles and you lift his hand to your face, pressing a short, sharp kiss to his fingers in a gesture so bold you shock yourself.

“Well isn’t that nice.”

The voice slows the blood in your veins to an icy sludge as you turn to face him. Bobby looks murderous, his dark eyes rimmed in shadows as he sneers at you. “You goddamn whore.”

Your mouth opens as you drop Willard’s hand, and he lets you extract your fingers and drop your hands into your lap.

“Now there’s no need for that.” Willard says pleasantly.

“You’re new in town fella, so let me give it to you this once and we’ll say no more about it. You don’t want her. Shit, nobody wants her.”

“Seems like you want her awful bad.”

Bobby grits his teeth. “She tell you that? Delusional bitch. I got me a pretty young thing up in Sweetwater, ring on her finger and everything. What would I want with a fat old whore?”

“My experience folks always want what they can’t have. She ain’t yours no more and that kills you.”

The diner is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You can hear the rough grating of Bobby’s breath wheezing through his chest. He only sounds like that when he’s really mad, like an engine about to explode. You shrink down in your seat.

“I’m bein as cordial as I can be,” Bobby says slowly. “But if you’re set on being a dumb fuck then I’ll make my point another way.”

“Not in here.” The diner’s owner and lead cook steps out from the kitchen, brandishing a frying pan like a weapon. “Not in my diner you don’t Bobby Weston. You never paid me back for the damages after last time.”

Bobby huffs a laugh, holding up his hands. “Alright Mac. Alright. Not here.” He turns on Willard, fixing him with a glare. “I’ll be seein you, boy.”

Willard’s blood heats at the challenge, and he almost gets up. Almost follows that piece of shit outside, but then you say “don’t” in a voice so small and desperate that he sits his ass back down and reaches across the table to take your hand. Your fingers shake against his palm, and he squeezes tighter. “None of what he said is true, you know.” Willard keeps his own voice soft and low, doing his best to soothe you as your bottom lip quivers like you might cry. That shouldn’t turn him on, but your big watery eyes turning up at him has his cock thickening in his pants and Willard knows he’s in deep. Way too deep, for a first date with a girl who took more than a little convincing.

“I don’t know why he can’t leave me alone,” you whisper. “If he thinks… all that.”

Willard hums. “He don’t think it. His pride is hurt by you movin on is all. Men are worse than little babies when their pride gets hurt.”

You nod, sipping black coffee so strong it coats your throat in tar. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it, Willard.”

Willard. His name had never sounded so good, so pretty, so pure as it did coming from your mouth. “You go to church with your mama on Sundays?”

You look up then, brows furrowing at the change in direction. “Sure.”

“I been thinking I might do the same. My mamas been praying for my eternal soul more than usual, would be nice to give her knees a rest.”

You giggle, and the sound kicks up those damned butterflies in Willard’s stomach again as he grins back at you. He’d like to make you laugh like that every day for the rest of his life, if you’d let him.

*

The windows stand open and the doors ajar on Sunday morning, but the August heat leaves nothing at all unscorched and you’re practically sliding off the church pew as your mother huffs and puffs beside you. “Too hot,” she mumbles as she fans herself with the little bible she’s kept since she was a child. “They should hold church in the evenin’ when it’s this hot.”

You nod, because you do agree, actually. Weather like this is meant for walking in the forest or swimming in the creek, though you hadn’t done that so much recently. Not with the memory of your dog being dragged out of the shallows. Not with the threat of Bobby Weston lurking in the trees, waiting to pin you down and cut you or worse.

There’s a commotion at the end of your row, and you look down to see Willard having an animated disagreement with his mother. She tugs on his arm, trying desperately to pull him towards her usual pew where another girl sits waiting alone, but Willard doesn’t so much as glance in her direction. His attention is fixed on you, crinkles appearing around his pretty eyes as he smiles and begins picking his way over and between legs and bags until he’s squeezing himself into the little gap beside you.

“Ma’am,” he ducks his head to your mother, who stares at him slack-jawed. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Your mother just blinks at him, utterly lost for words as he takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth to press a chaste, lingering kiss against your skin. His lips sear hotter than the dusty heat outside, yet a shiver runs down your spine and prickles on the backs of your thighs.

“You know what you’re doing?” You whisper, leaning in just close enough for your breath to ghost against his neck. Willard tightens his grip on your hand, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of being so close to your mouth. He could turn his head and connect your lips to his, and wouldn’t that be something?

“Declaring,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing circles against your hand. “Church ladies’ll get the word out.”

You sigh, slumping a little lower against the bench like it’ll do any good, and Willard chuckles under his breath. “You could at least pretend to be flattered.”

You don’t respond with words, but you part your legs enough to press your thigh flush to his own, and Willard stares at the soft spread of your skin moulded against his for so long that the sermon is over before he’s even registered it’d begun.

Willard doesn’t release your hand. Not when people start to shuffle out of their seats, greeting one another with handshakes and half-embraces, and not when his mama brings that poor girl over and presents her to him like a gift. “Willard, I want you to meet Helen Hatton. She’s been sitting with me all this time whilst you were away, keeping me company. I thought you might wanna thank her.”

Willard gives his mother a stern look like he’s about to argue, but you take one look at poor Helen’s scarlet face and extract your hand from his. “I need to say my goodbyes to a few folks anyway.” You slip away, and Willard looks longingly after you for a moment before his attention turns back to his mother.

“Well, I do thank you for minding mama for me.”

“It was my pleasure, of course. You were doin something so important.” Helen is soft-spoken and gentle in every sense of the word, and Willard can see the cogs ticking behind his mother’s calculated smile. She wants him to court Helen, and maybe if he hadn’t met you he might have done it. But his fate was sealed the moment he’d laid eyes on you and that was that.

“Well I do hope you’ll continue to sit with her from time to time, when I can’t make it to church.”

Emma’s smile tightens. “I thought we’d invite Helen back for lunch. Willard, you could take her in the truck, couldn’t you?”

“I got plans, mama.” He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but he does mean to be firm.

“With that girl?” Her voice is sharp, and Helen squirms like she wishes she were anywhere else at all. “I don’t think it’s wise to-“

She’s cut off by the sound of a scream, and Willard’s mind goes blank at the sound. He doesn’t know how he knows, but you made that sound. He shoves through the milling crowds, barreling down the steps and into the churchyard. His blood boils, his fists already curling into blunt weapons. He sees your bare legs scrabbling against the dirt, your dress torn and your palms split open from a smashed bottle littering shards of brown glass across the grass. He doesn’t remember much after that.

You wish you could forget it. You wish you’d stayed inside, stayed close to your mama or better yet that you’d never let go of Willard’s hand. But the air was stifling and you were sure there was a breeze outside, sure you could hear it creaking against the shutters. So you’d slipped out and stepped into the churchyard, just to breathe a little.

And that’s when you’d heard him, like a demon from the beyond as he stepped out around a tall headstone with a terrifying smirk on his face. “There’s the little jezebel.”

Your knees had buckled, and you’d looked frantically back at the church, but you’d have to pass him to reach the gate and you’d never get that far. “Please. Please don’t.”

Bobby’s smirk splits into a gloating grin. “You should hear the things people are saying about him.”

You blink, actually surprised. “Willard?”

Bobby flinches. “The other guys. You know they all get together all the time, got real close out there. Not him though. Russell’s weird. Unsettling. I mean he’d have to be, to take up with you, wouldn’t he?”

You bite your bottom lip, and Bobby’s eyes darken. “He’s been nothing but nice to me.”

“Yeah,” Bobby huffs a nasty laugh. “Only cuz he heard you’re easy, I’d bet. Word on him is he’d fuck anything that moved out there, man, woman or child. That he killed one of his own men, too.”

It’s your turn to flinch then. “If that were true they’d have marshalled him.”

Bobby shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way, and it kinda doesn’t. The court of public opinion would crucify him regardless.

“I don’t like seeing you paradin about town with him. Leaves a bad taste.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting to the church again, but nobody’s looking for you and Willard hasn’t come out yet. Maybe he’s being charmed by the delicate, demure Helen Hatton after all. “Maybe you should stop looking, Bobby.”

He steps closer, each long stride narrowing the gap between you until he can seize your arms and shove you to the ground. “Maybe you should gimme something sweeter to chew on, huh?” He rips at your dress, the fraying seam unravelling at terrifying speed as you thrash against his body. Your foot connects with something fleshy and he grunts before dropping his weight on top of you, pinning your arms above your head as his furious face looms over yours. “You worried he won’t want you if he knows what a little slut you are for me?” He spits, saliva flying from his mouth. “Cuz you been ruined since long before I came along and you know it. His hand leaves your wrist to fumble with his zipper and you suck in a lungful of air and scream.

He cuts you off with a sharp press of his hand to your throat, and your vision explodes into a fantastic kaleidoscope of color. You think about how you never got to kiss Willard Russell, not even once, and that’s the saddest thing you can think of as you dip in and out of consciousness.

You’re weightless, limbs light as your eyes flutter open. There’s a dull, meaty thudding sound coming from somewhere, and you wonder if it’s the last beats of your own heart in your ears. But then your eyes focus, and you see Willard sitting astride a bloody, pulpy thing, and the thing whimpers like a wounded animal.

You drag yourself up, forcing words through your ruined throat. “Stop! Willard stop, you’re killing him.” Willard doesn’t stop, doesn’t even seem to register you’re there as he drives his fists into the unrecognizable slab of meat over and over. His eyes, those beautiful forests of endless green, never blink. Not until two of the men from the church drag him off, and he looks down at his ruined knuckles and then up at you, and the forests swirl into darkness as he drops to his knees.

Under the circumstances, the Sheriff determines to let Willard Russell go. Bobby Weston isn’t pressing charges, mostly because he doesn’t have enough teeth left to properly articulate an accusation and he’ll be eating through a tube for the foreseeable future. The town whispers about him, and about Willard, and about you. The blame, it had been decided, laid squarely with you for pitching two men against each other.

With your reputation in tatters anyway, you knock on The Russell’s front door in the middle of the afternoon, when just about anybody could see you doing it.

Emma Russell doesn’t smile when she opens the door, and she has half a mind to kick you to the dust when her son’s voice calls for you down the hall. “I saw her from the window, ma. Let her in or I’ll go out.”

Emma doesn’t want to be reminded of how awful he looks in the daylight, so she steps aside and lets you over the threshold.

Willard looks worse than you’d imagined. His hands are a mess, stained bandages tied roughly over his swollen, split knuckles. His bottom lip is little more than a fat bruise, having been forced into his teeth when Bobby had managed to get a couple of hits in early on in the fight. But he smiles when he sees you, his split lip weeping ghoulishly.

“You saved my life.”

He swallows, shaking his head. “Anyone woulda done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t. And they didn’t. You did.”

“And I’d do it again. A hundred times over.”

You cross the room then, cupping his cheeks in your hands and pressing your mouth to his in a soft kiss laced with the metal of his blood. “I thought I was gunna die, and the worst tragedy in my mind was that I was gunna die without kissin you, Willard Russell. Had to make it right.”

Willard lets out a strangled little moan, his injured hands lifting to rest on your wide hips as he tugs you closer. “Dangerous thing, to give a man a taste of something like that,” he murmurs, leaning in to inhale against your shirt. “Could get addicted.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” you whisper, dipping your head to kiss him again. Willard presses up into you, his lip bleeding steadily against your chin as he deepens the kiss and licks his tongue into your mouth. Your knees go weak and the hands on your hips brace to support you, even though doing so sends a sharp pain through his damaged fingers. You abandon reason, climbing into his lap instead of stepping back, and Willard makes a surprised little sound in the back of his throat as your hand finds his growing hardness through his pants.

He breaks the kiss, licking his blood from your bottom lip before dropping his eyes to watch your hand work against him. “You sure?”

“So sure,” you whisper, wrapping your hand around him through the fabric and squeezing. “If you’ll let me.”

Willard huffs, eyes fluttering closed as his hips lift against your palm. “I never wanted anything so much as I want you.” His words are a rough growl of sound, thick with arousal, and your own core pulses in response as you finally slide your hand into his pants and grip the silky, stiff flesh of his cock.

He moans then, the sound sending a bolt of heat to your core as you reach up to rub your thumb against the sticky head of his cock. “You’re leakin for me,” you murmur, tapping the pad of your thumb lightly against the slick. “I’m leakin for you too.”

Willard’s fingers tighten against your hip for a moment before dropping to cup your puffy, wet pussy through the cotton of your panties. “God,” he whimpers, pressing his lips back to yours. You moan against his mouth as his lip splits again. You shouldn’t like the taste of his blood in your mouth. It shouldn’t be slicking arousal in your underwear right now but it is, and you wonder whether anything Bobby Weston had said was true, and whether you cared if it was.

“Need you to touch me,” you whimper against his mouth, and Willard’s fingers slip into the waistband of your panties without hesitation. You gasp at the sensation of his long, bruised fingers gliding against you, seeking out the bud of your clit and rubbing it in slow, pressurized circles.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice like molasses dragging over your skin and heating through to your blood. “Every damn inch of you.”

You swallow thickly, squeezing Willards cock before jerking him lightly from tip to base and back up again. “I’m nothin special.”

Willard clucks his tongue before pulling his hand from your underwear, lifting you off his lap and tossing you onto his bed. You squeal in surprise, and he covers your mouth with his palm as he presses his knee against your core. “You gotta stop sayin that, darlin.” He chides, peeling your panties down with his other hand and dropping them onto the floor. “There isn’t a thing I’d change about you.”

You whimper as his fingers glide over your folds, the sound of your slick lurid in the quiet of the room. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me so much.”

Willard drags his eyes away from your core to look at your face, licking over his wounded bottom lip. “I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop…” he pushes his middle finger into you and you suck in a breath as your muscles flutter around him. “Touchin you.”

You bite down hard on your bottom lip to suppress a whimper as he settles between your legs, lowering his head to press his lips to your clit. “Tastin you,” he mumbles against your folds, the sound vibrating through you and curling your toes.

“Oh God,” you whine, pressing your palm over your mouth where his had been moments before. His tongue pushes your folds apart and circles your clit in agonizing, slow strokes. Your hips lift against his face, soaking him in your slick, and Willard moans.

The split on his lip burns as he sucks your clit into his mouth, but the pain only serves to heighten every moment, every brush of his finger inside you and every throb of your aching, needy pussy against his face.

There’s a sharper stretch as he adds a second finger, but then he curls them against you, massaging the sensitive flesh of your walls and your back arches off the bed as a surprised groan spills past your palm. Willard looks up at you, his big green eyes hazy with lust as he laps at your clit and drives his fingers into you over and over again, and you come undone with a sob as your body writhes beneath him.

Willard laps up every drop of your release, extracting his fingers from inside you and dragging his swollen lips over your clit until you're whimpering with overstimulation. He rolls your underwear back up your legs and presses a single kiss to the damp fabric before helping you to sit up.

"I should-" you reach for his pants, and he takes your hand.

"There's no need for it."

You frown, trying to untangle your fingers from his grip. "That isn't fair, and besides I want to-"

"Darlin," his voice is low and strained. "You got an effect on me. Don't make me say it out loud."

You glance down, noticing for the first time that the front of his pants is a shade darker than before, and your eyes go wide. "Oh."

Willard leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth, and then a second and a third. You lean into him, a moan rumbling up from your throat and into Willard as you deepen the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hand is still resting on his crotch, and your own core rekindles at the feeling of his cock stirring to life beneath your palm.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Emma says from the door, and you about jump out of your skin as you jump off the bed. She’s tight-lipped and firm, and Willard’s shoulders sag as he wipes his still-wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“There’s no use arguin with her on it darlin. I’ll call on you soon as I can, I promise.” You hover, and Willard pushes up from the bed, revealing the stiff tent of his new erection. His mama gasps, turning her face away as Willard cups your cheeks and presses his mouth to your own. “I’ll call on you.”

You swallow hard, curling your fingers against the hard muscles of his arms for a moment as you savor the feeling of his body against yours. “You’d better, Willard Russell.”

You’re escorted from the room and marched off the property, and you’d feel ashamed of it if not for the lingering tingle of Willard’s kiss on your mouth and the giddy, churning flutter of release in your stomach.

*

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to untangle the scent of popcorn from the scent of blood. “Possession is nine tenths of the goddamn law, motherfucker!” Willard hisses, his thumb pressing too far against the windpipe of a boy you maybe recognize from high school. “You see my jacket on her shoulders? See my goddamn hand on her waist? She’s mine. You don’t look at her and you sure as shit don’t touch her, you understand me?”

The boy makes an awful gagging sound, choking against the bruising in his throat as Willard finally releases him and pushes seamlessly to a stand. His eyes are hard chips of emerald and he’s clenching his jaw so tightly you worry he’ll crack his teeth, so you let him take your hand again, and if he notices the shake in yours he doesn’t comment.

“Willard,” you try quietly, coaxing him towards the parking lot at the back of the fair. “Lets go home.”

“He was gunna cop a damn feel.” He spits, cracking his freshly healed knuckles in a nauseating series of clicks. “I gotta protect what’s mine, don’t I?”

You hum in agreement, luring him through the turnstiles and onto the gravel beyond. “Let me have a look at those hands. Lets go to the truck so I can see em better.”

Willard follows you until you reach it, and then he stops. “You were enjoyin the fair.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I was just enjoying being with you. Don’t need all those lights and people to do that.” You tap the cab. “C’mon, open her up. It’ll be quiet and just for us inside.”

Willard walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door, helping you up into the cab. There’s fresh blood smeared over the splits in his knuckles, and he smudges it on the skirt of your dress as you settle into the seat. Willard had been in no less than a dozen fights in the three months since you’d met him. All over you, and all started by him. You were tired of wondering when he’d snap. You were tired of reassuring him on things in his head. And tonight? Well, that was the last straw and you were going to fix it.  

He drives out to the forest, to the little dirt lot by the clearing where you’d taken him for a picnic on your third date. His shoulders heave with exertion, and his fingers curl so tightly on the steering wheel you’re afraid he’ll break it in half. “Willard, honey.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t. I swear you didn’t. You just… you gotta cool off.”

He turns his head then, eyes burning into yours. “There’s a lot of no good sons of bitches out there. I got a… a right to protect what’s mine.”

“You said it,” you say softly, reaching across the seat to splay your palm on his thigh. “I’m yours. Nobody else matters.”

Willard looks down at your hand, the smoothness of your skin and the warmth of your palm, and he shifts. “You ever go with Bobby Weston?”

You swallow, but you don’t withdraw your hand. “If you’re asking if he… if we…-“

“I shouldn’ta asked, I’m sorry.” He chews his lip into his mouth, damp hair falling over his forehead, and you crawl over the seat and push him back so you can squeeze yourself into the gap between his body and the steering wheel.

“You can ask me anything. You can have anything, Willard. I never liked anybody the way I like you.”

His hands drop to your hips, kneading against your soft flesh. “I don’t think I was always like this.” He says quietly. You can feel the gentle stirring of his cock against you, but you resist the urge to grind down against him. “You got my head all messed up, darlin. Can’t eat or sleep or do anything without thinkin bout you.”

You cup his jaw, tilting his face up to look at you. “I’m nothin special.”

You watch his pupils expand, feel the twitching of his cock beneath you as a muscle in his jaw ticks. “You know how I feel about hearin you say that.”

“Yeah, I know.” You tease, finally letting your core drag over his erection. “You gunna do somethin’ bout it?”

A slow smirk spreads over his face. “You got ten seconds.”

You grab for the door and throw yourself out, launching into the woods with a breathless laugh. You hear the slam of the door behind you, the heavy thud of his footsteps, and adrenaline turns your blood to electricity as you race through the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest.

He whistles, low and long, and your heart pounds in your chest as you pelt towards the clearing you know is just up ahead, where the moon shines through the thinning trees. You can almost hear the sound of the rocky falls beyond, can taste the cool kiss of the water. An arm as hard as steel winds around your waist and you scream as the air is knocked from your lungs by the force of the impact. He hauls you against his body, your legs kicking out at him without ever making contact as he drags you into the clearing and drops you onto the ground.

“I win,” he says quietly, a dangerous, sinful smirk on his face. “You gunna give me my reward?”

You swallow, licking your lips as you scramble to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. “You gunna take it, Willard?”

Willard growls low in his chest as he reaches for your hair, tangling his fingers in the strands and dragging your face against his covered cock. “You’re mine, darlin.” He mumbles, the thick southern drawl of his accent turning his words to a slur with his arousal.

You reach for the buttons on his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric and wrapping your fist around the base. It isn’t the first time you’ve taken his cock into your hand or your mouth, but the sheer size of him sends a little jolt of anxiety through you every time anyway. It’s worse tonight, with the plan you have in mind. You’re not sure how all of that is supposed to fit inside of you, even though Pam had told you that men can always make it fit. If a baby can come out, a man’s thing can go in. You’d wrinkled your nose at that, but you believed her. It felt different when the thing was inches from your face, though. You wrap your lips around his tip, flicking your tongue against the salty stickiness beading at his slit, and Willard moans.

“That’s it,” he whispers, canting his hips forward to encourage you to take more of him into your mouth. “That’s my girl.”

You look up at him as your eyes water, Willard’s cock pressing against the entrance to your throat with agonising pressure, and you moan against his length.

Willard’s whole body freezes up at the vibration shooting through his cock, and he feels his balls tightening when he’s only had the pleasure of your mouth for a few moments. “You’re too much,” he whispers, a wry chuckle escaping as he pulls out of your mouth. “I need a minute.”

You sit back, licking his slick and your spit from your lips. “Willard.”

He doesn’t exactly answer, but he looks at you with pure, unadulterated hunger as he teases his fist up and down his own cock.

“I want more.”

His hand stills, and he cups your chin to bring your face up to his. “What do you mean by that?”

“I want… all of it. I wanna be with you like I never been with anybody before.”

Willard doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “You can’t take a thing like that back.”

Your stomach flips over with embarrassed indignation. “Who says I’d wanna take it back?”

“Darlin,” he sighs, caressing his thumb against your jaw. “Don’t take this to mean I’m saying no. I don’t reckon I’m capable of denying you a single thing.”

You turn your head to lick his thumb before taking it into your mouth, sucking gently against the iron of the blood on his skin.

“To ruin a thing like you.” He whispers. Your eyes narrow as you bite down hard, and Willard hisses as he withdraws. “Hell’d you do that for?”

He sucks his thumb into his own mouth, a bewildered expression on his pretty face.

You push to a stand, brushing dirt from your knees. “If you think that… that fucking me would ruin me then you’re no better than any of those other guys. Those… what’d you call em? Those no-good sons of bitches. You’re no better.”

Willard blinks at you, wondering how things had gotten so far off track so fast. “Darlin, I didn’t-“

“Save it.” You snap, turning on your heel. You’re not exactly sure which direction you’re supposed to go in; you’d run blindly into the forest under the certainty that Willard would catch you and he’d take care of getting you home. He would still, no matter if you’d bitten him and stormed away, but your pride is hurt and you won’t go back to him, not now.

You yelp in genuine surprise as you’re manhandled to the ground for a second time, but now you’re pressed flat to the damp earth, your cheek mashing into the first mulchy leaves of the changing season as Willard settles his weight over you and drags his hand down over your ass. “This is what you want?” He asks, cupping one generous cheek and then the other before delivering a sharp smack that cracks through the night like gunfire.

You make a keening sound at the sting, and Willard rubs his palm over the hurt before lifting his hand and spanking you again. “You want me to take you?”

You bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but you push your ass up against his hand and you hear him chuckle as he delivers a third, blistering thwack to the fat of your ass. “Want it,” you sob, tears running to salt the earth beneath your cheek as Willard pushes your skirt up around your hips and drags your underwear over your thick thighs.

“Like I’d ever deny you.” He mumbles, dragging his thumb down the crack of your ass and round to press against your fluttering virgin hole. “Like I ain’t been thinkin about doin this since the first time I saw you.” He pushes his thumb into you, and you wriggle against the intrusion.

“Please,” you whimper, lifting your hips off the ground. “Please, I’m ready. I need it. Need you.”

Willard hums, withdrawing his thumb and sucking his fingers into his mouth to lubricate them. He pushes two into you, curling back against your walls to find your sweet spot. He has no intention whatsoever of just sticking it in you. Not for your first time. He works you open carefully, scissoring his fingers and trying very hard not to come at the tight, wet heat of you and the delicious little mewls and whimpers spilling from your perfect lips.

You’re a panting, groaning, drooling mess by the time he finally withdraws, and he kneels behind you, hands bracing on your wide hips and pulling you back onto all fours. Your legs shake with overstimulation, but you plant your knees firmly against the earth and brace yourself on your forearms as Willard drags the head of his cock through your folds, coating his length in your arousal before pressing it against your entrance. “This might hurt a little, but it shouldn’t hurt a lot. You’ll tell me if it does and we’ll slow down.”

You try to push back against him, try to force him inside you, but Willard taps your raw ass cheek in warning. “You’ll tell me.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whine breathlessly. “Just please.”

You’re not sure when the plan to make him feel better devolved into you becoming a desperate, needy little whore, but Willard’s perfect fingers and perfect mouth and perfect cock just had that effect on you.

He pushes in slowly, and you arch your back at the stretching. There’s a little bit of a burn at the thin skin around your entrance, but it isn’t really pain. Not like scalding yourself on a hot stove or steppin on a nail in the basement. You feel the press of his hips against your ass and the shuddering exhale of his breath over your back, and you flex your muscles around his length. He’s filled you completely, stretched you so tight that you can hardly breathe.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and reverent. “I ain’t gonna last with you feelin like this.”

“That’s okay,” you whisper back, wiggling your hips forward and back and feeling the fat head of his cock nudge against a spot deep inside you. “Just a little more. A little more, please.”

Willard huffs, flexing his fingers against your hips before pulling all the way out and pushing back in again. You groan, your forehead dropping to the dirt between your arms as he sets a rhythm. It’s slow at first, a comfortable, full drag in and out and you feel the coil of pleasure tightening gently in your stomach as the thick ridges on the underside of his length rub against your sensitive inner walls.

“I’m close,” he spits, his short nails digging into your skin.

“You gotta pull out then,” you mumble, remembering that piece of advice from Pam. The most important thing to remember, she’d said.

“Goddamn, you feel so good." Willard’s voice is little more than a strangled whimper, and he presses you further to the ground, your belly connecting with the dirt as he cages you in, his hips driving against your ass at a brutal pace that sets a dull ache in your stomach.

“Willard," you groan, "you have to pull out!”

He doesn’t listen to you, too far gone in the pleasure as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and buries himself deep, deep, impossibly deep inside you. “I can’t, darlin.” He sobs. “I’m gunna fill you up. Put a baby in you, sweetheart. Make you mine for proper.” His balls snap sloppily against the slick of your pussy with each thrust, your clit aching at the attention as he mouths over your neck. “Gunna put a ring on your finger. Biggest rock I can afford, I promise you. Gunna make you mine… my wife… make you a mama… fuck!”

 You feel his cock twitch and thicken as it hollows out a new space inside you, and then the searing heat of his seed as he comes. It feels good, the sticky warmth washing through you and sending pulses of arousal to your clit, but panic creeps in at the edges of your consciousness because he was supposed to pull out!

You shiver on the ground as he pushes up onto his palms, holding his weight carefully off you as you try and fail to drag yourself back to your knees.

“There you go,” he mumbles, hooking his arms around your waist and your thighs and pulling you up to cradle against his chest.

“You were supposed to pull out.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as hot, confused tears slip down over the full rounds of your cheeks.

“I never said I’d do that,” he coos, reaching between your legs to scoop up the thick ooze of cum sliding out of your hole. You whimper as he pushes his fingers back into you, dragging his release in and out of your body and pushing it in a little deeper each time. “We’re gunna be so happy, darlin.”

You swallow hard, clenching around his fingers, and Willard flexes his thumb up to rub at your clit. “We’re gunna be a family. You were made to carry my babies, you know that? God gave you this body. These hips, the soft safety of your womb. All for me.”

You feel your orgasm approaching at the rumble of words in his chest and the torturous stimulation of his fingers. “I… it’s too soon, we’re not…”

“I bought a little farm outside of town,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple as his pace quickens, his wrist tensing with the strain as he fucks his fingers into you harder. “Nobody will ever get to look at you again besides me. That’s a promise, darlin.”

“Willard,” you whisper as you come, shaking sobs into his neck and staining the collar of his shirt with your tears as your release slicks on his hand and your muscles quiver around his fingers. “I… I just-“

“I know it.” He cuts you off, withdrawing his hand and wrapping his arms so tightly around you that your mouth is pressed to his sternum and you can’t speak at all. “I know you love me. Know you’re grateful. Know you can’t wait to be my wife. I love you too, darlin.”

You sag against him, the weak protest dropping out of you with exhaustion and relief. There’s no use denying him, not when he’s right. You do love him. You’d dreamed of exactly this, of being his wife and having his babies more nights than you could count over the summer of courting. And he really had taken care of your problems, hadn’t he?

You let him soothe you, leaning into the caress of his strong hands against your skin, and you drop into sleep dreaming of your future as Mrs Willard Russell.

It’s been a long day. There isn’t really a better way to describe it, and the weight of intrusive reporters and bright lights and holding a smile on his face has Bill’s shoulders slumping as he kicks his shoes off by the door to his hotel room.

He’s so tired. He’s so tired, and he’s so homesick, and he misses his person. He misses you so badly he can almost imagine you’re here, can almost smell your perfume lingering in the air and the warm, slightly fruity scent of the tea you’re always drinking at bedtime. There are few things that he wouldn’t do to be home beside you right now, actually.

He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up, running his fingers back through his hair to tease out some of the gel his stylist had applied that morning. He winces at his own reflection, the deep purplish bags under his eyes and the shadow already blooming across his jaw. What a way to spend his fucking birthday.

His phone buzzes in his jeans, and he pulls it out with a soft smile as he reads the message from you: Grattis på födelsedagen, älskling!

Your Swedish is improving every day, and Bill is beyond grateful that you’re learning it for him. He speaks perfect English, but ever since you’d agreed to move to Stockholm to be with him you’d immersed yourself in his culture and his friends and his family and now? Now he couldn’t imagine you not being by his side.

He’s about to shoot back a reply when he hears a sound from further inside his hotel room, and he freezes. Pocketing his phone he creeps silently into the main room, ready to… what? Startle the intruder? Fight them? What if it’s a fan who has followed him back from the EW studio? What if it was an autograph hunter? Bill swallows his anxiety as he rounds the corner, and all the fight simply drops out of him.

He hadn’t been imagining a damn thing. There you are, perched on the edge of his bed with two fizzing champagne flutes in your hands. The cork lies on the carpet between you and him, the culprit of the sound.

“Happy Birthday to you,” you sing, crossing one leg over the other and giving him a fantastic view of your bare thighs. “Happy birthday, to you,” you sing again, putting on a sultry, pouty voice and leaning forward to flash your perfect tits in the little white and red corset you’re wearing. Bill feels his cock stir at the sight of you, of the intense, hungry bedroom eyes you’re giving him. “Happy birthday, Mr. Pennywise.”

He rolls his eyes even as a blush heats his cheeks, and you finally rise from the bed, padding across the carpet and stopping just in front of him. “Happy birthday to you,” you finish on a note so low it’s almost a whisper, and Bill’s knees are actually fucking weak with how much he loves you in that moment. In every moment.

“How did you get in here?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, because you know damn well his mouth is asking a practical question whilst his heart turns to mush. Endearingly, pragmatically Swedish.

“You should maybe buy your manager a bottle of scotch.”

Bill thinks about the smirk and the wink his manager had given him as he announced he was heading back to the room, and he shakes his head a little. “He’s a pervert.”

You bite the corner of your bottom lip, handing him a champagne flute. “You’re a pervert.”

Bill takes a sip and licks his lips, eyes dropping to where your breasts spill over the frilled edge of your corset. “This is new.”

Your corset is a slutty replica of his Pennywise suit, silvery-white silk with red pom-poms made of taffeta running down the center. If you wiggle your hips, little bells tying the matching panties together jingle. You wiggle for him, and Bill chuckles as he brings his free hand to rest on your hip and pull you closer.

“You thought I was gunna miss your birthday?”

He licks his bottom lip, lifting his eyes to yours and swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m never signing on to do press in August again. Ever.”

You reach up on your tiptoes, finally connecting your lips with his after six long weeks apart. “Baby goes where contract says.”

“Baby does not.” He huffs, before pressing his mouth to yours more firmly and deepening the kiss with a light trail of his tongue against your bottom lip. You wrap your free arm around his neck, holding him close whilst you try to not spill champagne on the carpet.

Bill is less careful, dragging you against him firmly and knocking his own drink onto your ass to drip down the back of your legs. You squeal at the sudden cold, and he smiles against your mouth as he kisses you through the shock.

You pull away first, fixing him with a pout. “I’m soaked.”

He hums, hand sliding down over your damp ass to cup a handful of your flesh. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

He walks you carefully back towards the bed, taking your glass with one hand whilst he pushes you gently down onto the mattress with the other, and you part your legs automatically. Bill stands between them, staring down at the damp patch on the front of your panties and wondering how he got so goddamn lucky.

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“It’s awkward.”

“It’s my birthday.”

You sigh, reaching a hand down to lightly rub yourself through your underwear. “Don’t you wanna unwrap your present, birthday boy?”

It doesn’t take more than that. Bill is on you in a second, fumbling with the ridiculous puffy pom-poms with a frustrated growl. You enjoy his shifting expressions of frustration for a moment before taking pity on him and revealing the hidden zipper underneath them. “Fucking genius.” He mutters as he yanks it down, your breasts practically bursting from their tight confines as you release the first proper exhale you’ve managed since you zipped yourself into the tightly boned garment. “There they are,” he coos, dipping his head to press a kiss to one nipple whilst cupping the other breast in his enormous hand. “My girls.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for his belt, and he flicks his tongue against your nipple in sharp little caresses as you drag his pants and boxers down. “There’s the little guy.”

Bill’s teeth graze against your nipple and you yelp as he lifts his head and glares. “Little? You wound me in this way on my birthday, älskling?”

“I’m sorry,” you coo, reaching for his cock and squeezing the stiffening length against your palm. “I’m being mean.”

Bill reaches down to hook his thumbs into your underwear and drags them down with a tinkle of bells, suppressing a moan at how slick and swollen your pussy is already. He’d like to take his time, to tease and edge you until you apologize properly, but he’s so, so desperate for you. His cock leaks sticky beads of precum, and he lowers over you and drags his tip through your folds, coating his length in your arousal. “You’re also being a liar.” He mumbles before pushing into you.

You gasp, the stretch bordering on uncomfortable after weeks of being apart. You’d had phone sex, but that had mostly involved your fingers or the hands-free vibrator Bill controlled with an app on his phone. You hadn’t had anything big inside you in six weeks, and Bill’s cock was big. “Shit,” you whisper.

Bill pulls back, his cock dragging half out as your muscles flutter around him. You’re a little tighter than he expected, and there’s a pinched look on your face that he absolutely does not like. “Too much?”

“Go slow.”

He bites his bottom lip as he pushes slowly back into you, ignoring his body as it demands he pound you into the mattress. The stretching burn changes slowly as you adjust to having him inside you, and it isn’t long before a dull pleasure begins to take its place. “Oh,” you moan. “Fuck, Bill. That’s it.”

Bill has never heard anything so beautiful in his goddamn life. He’s barely holding it together, he’s been desperate to come for what feels like hours whilst your perfect cunt tried to squeeze his orgasm out of him, but there was no way he was going to finish first.

“That feel good?” He whispers, jaw clenched tight as his thrusts become faster and he pushes a little deeper with each one.

You nod, mashing your bottom lip against your teeth as you reach between your legs to touch yourself. Bill knocks your fingers out of the way, pushing higher up onto his knees so he can watch you fall apart as he rubs your slick over your clit, circling the bud with just the right amount of pressure to make you whimper.

“Shit, Bill. Shit, I’m gunna come.”

“Yeah? Fuck, yeah. I wanna feel you come on my cock. C’mon, baby. You can do it.”

You whine as you come, your whole body locking up, your cunt locking him in as you flutter around him, and Bill couldn’t hold his own orgasm off if he tried. He spills inside you, hips bucking against you even though your body holds him prisoner inside you.

Your eyes lock onto his, pupils blown wide with lust and shock at the intensity of the feeling. With the way you’re squeezing around him you can feel everything; every spurt of his release and the throbbing of the vein on the underside of his cock and the ridge under his tip dragging against your sensitive walls.

“Fuuuuck,” he moans, unwilling to even blink so as not to miss a single micro-second of your beautiful, fuck-drunk face as you take his cock like you were made to do it.

Bill stays inside you for longer than is really comfortable, hovering over you on his elbows as he licks into your mouth and kisses you like you’re oxygen. Eventually your body starts to push him out, and he withdraws his softened cock with a little wince.

“I didn’t even bring you a birthday present.” You mutter, a stupid, pretty grin on your face as you stare up at the ceiling in your boyfriend’s hotel room.

Bill rolls onto his side, leaning in to press a kiss against your bare shoulder. “You are my birthday present. The best one I ever got.”

You hum happily, reaching for his arm and dragging it over your waist to settle as a comforting weight against your stomach.

“I really love you, you know.” You swallow thickly, your stomach flipping over with anxious butterflies. You’d said it before, and Bill had said it to you, too. But it felt different, your voice sounded different in the wake of you flying half-way across the world to be with him and in the aftermath of that sex. Bill lifts his hand from your stomach and cups your cheek, drawing your head to the side and pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my damn life.”

His eyes burn with the intensity of that love, and it’s the best moment of your life and it’s so charged you can’t stand it. “More than zyns?”

Bill huffs a laugh, leaning in and pecking your lips. “More than zyns.”

“More than black jeans and black tee-shirts?”

“Baby.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

He groans, rolling his eyes as he kisses you again. “I love you more than anyone or anything, inanimate or otherwise. Okay?”

You sigh, dropping your head back to the mattress with a smile. “Yeah, okay Bill.”

It’s so much easier to sleep with you in his arms, and Bill holds onto you like you’re a damned life raft in a storm. Tomorrow there will be more interviews, more press junkets, more stunts in and out of makeup. But if he gets to come back here to you? He’ll do it all with a smile on his face. You snore softly against his chest, and Bill closes his eyes. Happy Birthday Mr Pennywise, indeed.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Taking care of you is second nature for Willard. He’ll hold you until your breathing slows, and then he’ll clean you up himself, running his fingers over your muscles to see if he’s gone too hard. 

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Willard doesn’t like himself much, but you fell in love with his eyes so he’s grateful to them. He loves your hair, stroking it to send you off to sleep after he’s worn you out. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

All he thinks about is breeding you. About keeping you pregnant, over and over. So shooting his load, multiple loads even, into you and pushing the creamy slick back into you with his fingers sends him feral. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He watches you sleep. He’s been doing it forever, just to feel the settling of calm over him with every soft rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes when he’s sure you’re asleep he’ll slip his fingers up between your thighs and drag them lightly over your clit until you’re soaked and sticky. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

There was one girl, a local near where he was stationed who had a thing about deflowering soldiers. Willard had regretted it before she’d even gotten his pants off, but the other guys were waiting and he didn’t want them poking fun. He pretends he waited for you, because he so badly wishes he had. 

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Willard likes to breed you like an animal, watching your ass bounce against him as he impales you on his cock. But his favourite is a deep mating press, with your legs up by your cheeks and your pussy sucking greedily at every inch of him. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Willard can tease you a little when you’re so impatient and spoiled, but he isn’t goofy and he’ll stop if he thinks he’s upsetting you. His focus is always intense when he’s got you stripped down for him. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Willard doesn’t groom his pubic hair. That’s a weird concept, he wouldn’t waste a good razor on something like that when you like his face clean. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Willard struggles with intimacy, he’s just been through a lot and vulnerability doesn’t come easy to him. But he’s so insanely, hopelessly in love with you that he can’t help but hold you close, pressing his forehead to yours so he can absorb every breathy whisper of his name that passes your lips. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Willard is so hell bent on getting you pregnant that he doesn’t waste any of his cum on jacking off. But there was that week you went and to visit your mama, and you left him a soaked pair of your panties as a parting gift. He’d wrapped them around his cock every damn night, picturing how naughty you’d looked touching yourself to get them so filthy. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding, breeding, breeding. Goddamn, Willard wants to put a baby in you so bad it consumes him. He can’t think about anything but filling you so full of cum that it leaks out of you for hours, and he’ll whisper filth into your ear while he does it. 

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

The forest, at night. There’s the thrill of the danger and how pretty you look in the moonlight, and the way the dirt sticks to your skin and makes you seem like some wild thing for him to tame. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The way you peel your clothes off a layer at a time as the day heats up. Stepping into the kitchen to find you flushed and slick as you wilt in the steam from the stove in just your underwear, sweat sticking your hair to your face. He can’t stop himself from pulling you against him, licking the salt from your skin until your protests turn to moans.  

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Williard won’t hurt you. He’ll press his palm to your throat in an act of possession or bend you over his knee for a spanking, but he just can’t be really, truly violent. He’s seen too much of that. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

You’re so pretty on your knees for him. Willard feels a little like a God when you worship him, licking so sweetly at his tip and looking up with devotion in your eyes. 

But going down on you is the real sacrament. Willard will pin you down and feast for hours, tasting the sweetness of your arousal and the sharpness of your sweat even after a long day in the August heat. Especially then. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Willard mixes it up. Sometimes he’ll see you pushing your hair out of your face and fanning your pretty flushed skin and he’ll be powerless to stop himself bending you over the kitchen counter and taking you so roughly the dishes shake in the cabinet. 

But other times, when the night has cooled some and you’re soft and clinging to him, he’ll fuck you deep and slow, pulling back when he feels his release coming so he can prolong the experience. One time he did that over and over until the sun came up, and he suffered through a long shift with a smile on his face. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He works long hours, getting up before dawn and collapsing beside you after dark. Sometimes, especially when you’re fertile, a quickie is all he can manage. But he’ll always match it with a long session of taking care of you as soon as he has time. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Willard likes to take you out to the woods to commune with God. He likes to push you to your hands and knees on the forest floor and have you give thanks as he fucks you from behind. But if anybody ever saw you he’d have their eyes out, one for the violation and one for trespass. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Willard can go for hours. He’s used to denying himself even the most basic of pleasures, and no matter how much he wants to bury his seed inside you right away he won’t do it until you’ve come a good few times. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

No. Willard doesn’t have any knowledge of or use for toys. Where would you even buy something like that without going into the city, anyway? But when it’s awful hot he’ll buy a box of ice and trail cubes over the feverish curves of you, licking the wet trails from your skin until you whimper. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He teases you all the time. You just look so pretty when you beg for it, your lips quivering as tears fill your eyes. God knows he’ll never deny you a damn thing, but he lets himself drag it out sometimes for moments like that. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Willard is a man of few words, and he grits his teeth against the sounds he wants to make when he’s inside you. Even though you’ve begged him to tell you how good it is, he just can’t. Blame it on his religious upbringing. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Willard likes it when you take control. He’s so big and he’s used to being the man of the house, so the few times where you’ve gotten impatient and aggressive and taken from him have been some of the best orgasms of his life. He wishes you’d do it more often. He wishes you’d use him. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He works a manual job and it shows, because Willard is broad and dark, his torso and arms rippling with muscle from hauling meat. His cock is huge, and sometimes he has to look away when you’re choking on it to stop himself from sobbing. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Willard Russell invented yearning. He can’t start a conversation without saying “my wife” and he knows with certainty that if you died he’d simply cease to exist. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The nightmares used to wake him every hour, sweating and sobbing as the ghosts of mutilated boys haunted him. But with you beside him, your warmth and the scent of your lingering arousal on the sheets beneath him, Willard’s been sleeping as good as he did before it all.