#the smut pile western collab

[chiwhorei]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭

cross-posted to Ao3!

pairing: issei “horse cock” matsukawa x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ mdni

word count: ~4.4k

tags: stripper!issei, stripper!seijoh, roommate!oikawa, tendoukawa (bc @heauxzenji said it an it’s now the only ship in my head) dry humping, lap dance, a little corruption, spitting, public, alcohol and recreational drug consumption (weed and coke), spanking, degradation, hardly edited

a/n: howdy! this is my contribution to the smut pile’s western collab and it is so incredibly late but what the hell else is new. the masterlist for the collab can be found here! @messwriting and myself, in true chaotic duo fashion, built an absolutely depraved multiverse of seijoh strippers: the lawbreakers. lee, i love you so much. this journey we’ve been on the past few months has been chaotic and beautiful, and there’s plenty more to come. 

the multiverse: hanamaki || iwaizumi || kyoutani

hymn: save a horse (ride a cowboy) by big & rich

and all the girls say— save a horse, ride a cowboy

A fog of smoke burns in your eyes. The room around you feels like it could curl in on itself, four walls marked sparsely with dusty furniture, the smell of weed and cash. 

You fix your gaze onto a long, diagonal tear in the leather couch across the must and g-strings, the rip in upholstery is stuffed with wrinkled one dollar bills. 

It feels like observing an exhibit at a museum, or a zoo. Lines of coke, random dustings of pot and discarded swisher tobacco, too many open handles of liquor. Sitting on an end table is a bright pink teddy bear with a cowboy hat on it’s head.

How the fuck did you get here?

***

You shift your weight on either foot, arches aching already. The pair of jeans and top you had planned on wearing tonight were all but ripped off of your body, casual boots thrown down the hallway with sadistic glee and replaced with heels that are taller and a dress much too short.

“Damnit, you’re walking too fast.” Your appointed captor turns around dramatically, stopping in his tracks to watch you catch up. The cigarette pressed into his mouth cards in two fingers and extended towards you as a peace offering. You take the half gone stick and bring it to your lips.

Tendou’s mission was simple, drag his boyfriends roommate and best friend-- possibly kicking and screaming-- out for a night she won’t soon forget. 

“Were those really necessary, Satori?” You point with the remnants of his cigarette and he feigns a kicked-puppy expression, looking down dramatically at his all black outfit contrasting drastically with a flashy pair of brownish-red cowboy boots. 

“I am being a supportive partner. Plus Tooru and I wear the same shoe size.” His hair is bright outlined by the neon sign above the building.

You inhale smoke and nicotine, eying him over once again before continuing. 

“Does it bother you when he’s dancing on all of those horny women?” The cigarette butt falls to the ground, you snuff it out while exhaling remnant smoke from your nose, the bachelorette party walking towards the door in a parade screaming emphasizes your question.

Tendou pulls you close, mouth pressing against your neck to bite against the skin. You jerk away from his embrace, with a feeble push against his chest to match the scoff scratching against your throat. The tall red head above you, currently leaned into the dip on your neck, always has an air of vulgar humor and zero personal space. 

“Watching my pretty little boyfriend grinding on women that would never stand a chance with him,” he pulls away just in time to catch another eye roll before grabbing your wrist to pull you inside, “I think it’s hot as fuck.” 

You stumble behind him, the doorman recognizing your friend immediately and lets the pair of you through tacky saloon doors. You catch a glimpse of the tattered sign standing right next to the entrance. 

Lawbreaker’s Presents: The Guys of the Wild West

The club is drastically warmer than outside, the chill in your barely covered limbs thaws in a mixture of stage lights and body heat.

 You sigh deeply as the sound of country music fills your ears, seemingly in rhythm with the squawking of drunken hens sipping on tall flutes of champagne. Thinking back briefly to when you first signed the lease with Oikawa, you remember he wore glasses and a sweater vest. 

He said he worked as a “fitness instructor.”

“Ah, my two favorite people in the whole world,” Tooru’s ears just have been burning at your recollection, as your roommate appears in front of you in nothing but white spandex shorts and a pair of shiny boots to match, a tray of drinks is placed to the side on an unoccupied table. The white cowboy hat on his head gleamed in the low light of the club, rhinestone star shimmers-- you want to shy away from the bright refraction hitting your eyes.

He looks in his element, completely confident and cocksure as he walks around in only underwear and body oil. 

“Aren’t you glad you came out tonight? I promise, you’re going to have a great time.” Oikawa melts into Tendou’s side, he looks just as content in the current atmosphere. Tendou seems at home in any ecosystem he wanders into.

“The show starts in 15, go get yourself a drink and try to pull the stick out of your ass. I’m going to, uhm, wish Tooru an extra special good luck.” 

“I really didn’t need to know that, thanks. Tooru, break a leg.” You turn around at the sight of the wandering, tattooed hand on it’s journey south on Oikawa’s abdomen and retreat to the bar. You aren’t shocked by the display, not hardly, not with the two of them using almost every surface in your apartment as a debauched playground.

The space around you is emptier than you imagined it would be, but there is still time before the night actually starts. The bartender approaches just as you sit down on one of the wooden stools, every fixture around you is designed to look like an old saloon-- save for the strobing lights and dj booth.

You order something strong and amber, partially to stay in-theme, partially for the nerves settled in your stomach that draft beer wouldn’t be able to curb.

The woman smiles brightly and turns to pour your liquor, leaving you to pick at a cocktail napkin and await your friend’s return.

“You’re Shittykawa’s roommate.” A stranger's voice is deep and bellowing, sounding high above your ear. You swivel in your seat, gaze meeting a tanned chest instead of a set of eyes. Trailing upwards past thick black tattoos and an unavoidable pair of silver nipple rings.

You can feel the muscles in the back of your neck as they strain to meet his chocolate brown stare, he looks amused as you all but gawk at him.

“Yes, uh, I am. And you’re, uhm--” the train of thought you try to hang onto derailed completely by a devastating smile, “one of Tooru’s co-workers?”

If his smile wasn’t enough, his laugh could level the building around you. Your new friend taps the black Stetson against the bar top before putting it back on his head. He gestures broadly to his attire, or lack thereof, with another disarming and smooth chuckle. 

“What gave that one away, darlin’?” You realize how stupid your question sounded, mentally kicking yourself but trying desperately not to show it on your face.

Long, thick legs are wrapped in a pair of leather chaps, the tight fabric hides nothing even if it covers most of his lower half. A matching vest hangs open on his chest, the muscles in his arms look bigger than your head. He seems huge in presence and physique, your own form is a shrinking violet below him.

“Your drink, dear. Double Jack n’ Coke.” The bartender slides a glass towards you, and you accept it with a gracious smile. The distraction is definitely appreciated, any excuse to break the eye contact that has you dissolving like lye.

“Jack n’ Coke, a gal after my own heart.” You choke, a coupling of small coughs break out of your chest. You curse your bodies reaction, you don’t even know--

“You’re name, uh, w-what’s your name.” Casual conversation seems like the best option, because it’s only been two minutes with the almost-naked Casanova and there’s a gnawing feeling that you don’t want him to walk away.

You blame it on the alcohol not yet even running through your veins. 

“Call me anything you want, pretty girl, but my name’s Issei.”

A smile creeps from one end of your mouth to the other. His presence is jarring to say the least, but there’s something about the way his teeth peek out past curled lips that makes you want to lean in instead of away.

Tendou calls your name, effectively pulling you out of Issei’s orbit and reminding you where you are. Heat flushes in waves on your face as Tendou wraps his long arms around your shoulders from behind. Acknowledging your new friend with a pointed, “Howdy partner,” before turning to order his own drink.

“Something sweet please, and strong.” You hear his voice singing to the bartender but still face Issei, having his attention is more intoxicating than whiskey. You want him to talk to you, to ask you questions, to grace you with that smile over again.

You feel the ability to breathe escaping when Issei leans into you impossibly close, his hand enclosing around your back and pulling you in so slightly you could swear you imagined it.

“It was nice to meet you. Make sure I hear ya’ out there, darlin.”

You’re left almost falling from the bar stool, watching as Issei strides toward the back. The way his hips sway is unfair in every--

“Hey,” Tendou’s fingers come up to snap in front of your face, “Didya hear me? Let’s go take our seats.” 

That’s right; you feel like you’ve just run a marathon, heart beating erratically at the briefest interaction, your night hasn’t even started yet. 

You’re dragged directly towards the front of the stage and sat in a small two person table. You agreed to the night out between gritted teeth, hauled to the uber with absolute defiance; but most of your protest has fizzled away-- definitely not due to a pair of deep brown eyes and planes of perfectly tanned skin-- as you get comfortable next to the boisterous bridal party. You can hear their idle, drunken chatter at your back. 

“I heard they call one of the dancers ‘Mad Dog’. Apparently he’s totally feral.”

“One of them is nicknamed the ‘Big Tease’, he really likes the pretty little brides~” 

“Oh yeah? Well there’s one dancer called ‘Horse Cock’. I’m going to go home with him.” 

The women behind you howl with laughter, enjoying their friend’s last night of freedom. The straw in your drink twirls idly, thoughts drifting with each turn of the plastic against your liquor. Surely, Issei had just intended a friendly introduction, he wouldn’t be raking in tips by being unapproachable.

Friendly, you decide, repeating it to yourself until the lights drop and a black curtain is pulled up, he was just being nice. 

* * *

The show starts out mostly how you would expect. Through a few sets, toned, beautiful guys take their clothes off and fling articles at the screaming, panting crowd. The table next to you gets the most attention, bridal parties, you assume, would be the prized cash cow.

Oikawa comes out in the most obnoxious, white and teal outfit and strips into nothing but a thong and boots. Every inch of his skin sparkles, the cause becoming obvious when he jumps down to the audience and swivels his hips and ass right into your lap. Your hand comes up to his hip reflexively to brace yourself-- of course, body glitter.

You watch on at the sweaty writhing of the most beautiful men you have ever seen in real life. The atmosphere around you is absolutely contagious, it’s impossible not to fall into the rhythm, losing inhibitions with every stray piece of fabric as it’s tossed into the sea of women.

Just as you lean over to Tendou to admit that you’re enjoying yourself, the next song blasts loudly from the speakers. The beat vibrates your table, soaking into every nerve, but is almost drowned out completely by the shrieking from every patron around you. They must know what’s coming. 

 Looking back up front, you realize why the crowd is losing their minds. The man that commanded your attention at the bar is even more alluring now. His strut to center stage is deliberate, flashing smiles and winks to no one in particular and hypnotizing every person in his reach.

Issei is stunning in his element, soaking in the reaction with a humble tip of his hat. You could swear, though you’re sure that it’s just your imagination, that he’s looking right at you.

His performance starts out like the rest of them, but each movement of his tattooed hands as they travel over his chest is spellbinding. 

Issei discards his leather vest and tosses it to the side, it feels like you’re watching him in slow motion. He’s gorgeous, skin tanned and tight over thick muscle, arms wrapped in black ink and shining with sweat.

His chaps are next, ripped from his legs just as music behind him picks up. The wedding party next to you so loud you swear the laundromat next door can hear.

 All that’s left is a thong that’s barely covering his cock. You try desperately not to, but all your eyes can focus on is the bulge under a tiny piece of black leather. Your thighs rub together in search of any relief to the feeling growing hot and slick in your stomach.

He moves like liquid platinum, every long, deliberate swivel of his hips and overt palming over his crotch is enough to cause delirium. He soaks in every whistle and shriek of his name, vibrating on the high of squelching attention. 

Issei is a natural. He’s a wild animal, and, along with every other woman there, you wish he would tear you apart with his canines. 

He descends the short staircase with a quick stomp of his boots, now making rounds through the crowd. He stops in front of tables at random, invading the space between strangers and collecting wrinkled one dollar bills.

Why does something so blatantly performative feel voyeurous?

All you can do is gawk, ignoring how every time another woman’s hand runs down his abdomen you heat with envy. As he turns away from the bridal party neighboring you, your blood turns ice cold.

Issei has you, unmistakably, in his sights. His eyes pin you, holding you down tightly in your chair as he struts forward. Tendou whistles loudly as the brunette approaches your table. You wonder, in your last moment of cognizance, if Saroti and Tooru had planned your evening in more detail that you originally thought.

“Long time no see, darlin’,” Issei stands over you, and all you can do is stare dumbly up at him, “do ya trust me?” 

You don’t answer, not with words, not like he would even hear your quiver over Big & Rich booming through the speakers. His question is stupid, to trust someone you just met so vaguely?

You do. Against any better judgement, you do. 

He doesn't give you the chance to ask what he means, stuck in the gooey feeling of his attention. Issei reaches behind you, picking up your half empty glass. He swirls the drink with an almost evil smile before bringing it up to his lips and draining the last bits of whiskey and coke. 

Your face reads confused, not putting his intentions together until you feel his thumb pressed against your chin. Issei’s eyebrow quirks, eyes trained on your reaction. You’re options are to shy away, turning back in your seat, running for escape in the bathroom, or--

The gloss on your mouth is sticky as your lips part in obedience. Issei tries to hide his elation, but it’s difficult to remain aloof as your tongue lulls out and your eyes beg him.

Issei’s hold on your chin tightens, nudging you to lean in so he’s only inches away. Your eyes shut lightly, the shouting surrounding you sounds little more than a whisper with the blood rushing in your ears.

You swear you can hear him groan above you as the sharp taste of liquor hits your tongue. Willing your body to cooperate, you swallow the drink with only a small cough. 

His face dips down, it seems like a habit now, to brush his promises against the shell of your ear once again.

“You’re an agreeable little thing, I think you can take it.”

His hands are on either side of your chair in a flash, lifting you up with trained, bulging muscles. You fall forward in your seat, bracing against Issei’s chest. Every cell in your body is tight with tension, if you lift your head up to meet the audience’s eyes, you’re sure you’ll crack like glass.

He steals you from relative comfort, shifting your weight in his arms as he ascends back onto stage. You’ve gone limp in his hold, pliant to his will. The unfamiliar presence at a dusty bar top has turned into more than a front row seat to depravity.

You’re thrown off balance as he sets you down, eyes adjusting to the white hot stage lights. You’re exposed to every set of eyes in the building, even if you can’t see him-- you know Satori is smiling from one sharp cheek to the other. Wherever Tooru is, he’s most likely sitting in the same satisfaction.

Aren’t you glad you came out tonight? I promise, you’re going to have a great time.

Issei rounds the back of your chair so his actions are hidden from your view. The brim of a leather cowboy hat breaches your field of vision, much too big for your head.

His hands come down onto your shoulders, snaking down your bare arms. His touch leaves a scorching fleet of chills. Issei runs his finger tips upwards, tracing against your collarbone before wrapping his grip lightly around your neck. 

He can feel it, he has to, the racing pulse right under the surface of your skin.

The music transitions effortlessly, going almost unnoticed. The next song, still sharp with a cheesy country twang, is slower, deeper.

Issei’s thumb brushes against your cheek, your body wants to relax into the touch before it remembers how public the gesture is.

You hold in a shaky breath as he comes to stand in your eyeline again, you might as well be bound to your chair with rope. He looks larger than life-- in both stature and presence-- in front of you. His skin is glistening, refracting from the harsh lights with sweat and oil. 

He is an unstoppable force against your will. Your desire to hide from the blinding attention is nothing compared to the desire to please. To please a stranger, to please the man you met only an hour ago. 

To please Issei.

He flashes you another wink, taking a moment to rake his stair down your body. He memorizes the outline of your cute little dress, red is definitely your color. 

Issei slides across the smooth surface of the stage to meet where you’re perched. The barreling, almost naked body now impossibly close to where your knees are pressed together.

He starts at your ankles, tracing the soft skin of your legs until his palms press flatly against your lower thigh. Issei savors the moment for a beat longer before prying your legs apart.

The crowd below you is loud and hollow in your ears, the shame bubbling up against your cheeks and nose is nothing compared to the pressure between your legs. 

Issei’s hands wander up and under the hem of your skirt, scratching his nails on the vulnerable skin before they find his prize in the form of thin lace.

The “Wait” and “Stop” sitting on your lips shrivels up and dies as your panties are ripped off. You see the bright color, the last remnants of opposition twirling around his pointer and middle finger.

The crowd goes wild, watching as your body is made a fantasy that they can all live vicariously by. all you can do is watch as the fabric is stuffed into the side of his thong to accompany fistfuls of singles.

* * *

You’re still in shock by the final dance, still under a trance as Tendou pulls you towards the back. Stumbling behind him to catch up, you’re given no time to think about what you’re about to walk into. 

A fog of smoke burns in your eyes. The room around you feels like it could curl in on itself, four walls marked sparsely with dusty furniture, the smell of weed and cash. 

You fix your gaze onto a long, diagonal tear in the leather couch across the must and g-strings, the rip in upholstery is stuffed with wrinkled one dollar bills. 

It feels like observing an exhibit at a museum, or a zoo. Lines of coke, random dustings of pot and discarded swisher tobacco, too many open handles of liquor. Sitting on an end table is a bright pink teddy bear with a cowboy hat on it’s head--

“I didn’t go too far did I?” Snapping back into reality, you hear Issei call to you. You’re vaguely comforted by a familiar voice before remembering the man attached had spat whiskey into your mouth and stolen your panties just 30 minutes prior. You heat up at the tips of your ears at the recollection of two things you had let him do, that you had wanted him to do. 

Your eyes find Issei sitting on the couch on the opposite end of your freshly showered roommate, seemingly unbothered as Tendou flops down against the middle cushion and drapes both arms across the back. 

“Don’t worry partner, our girl doesn’t startle easy.” Oikawa laughs, adjusting to sit across his boyfriend’s lap.  Issei’s all leather outfit is replaced with a pair of grey sweats. He looks relaxed, effortlessly handsome. 

What was it like, you wonder, before you knew how it felt to look at him? Life past the single night feels grey around the edges. 

When was the last time you felt this alive? 

He takes a sip of a water bottle, wiping off his chin with the large rose tattooed on his hand. You can’t stop staring at them-- the ones that roamed your body in front of a club full of drunk bachelorettes, the ones that traced your skin like he already had the map. 

And now you watch those same hands, so new but so inviting, as two fingers curl inward. They pull you as if tightening a rope around your waist. You wade past tall sweaty men and freshly caught audience members as they tangle across dusty furniture.

You scoot by your best friends from where they sit next to Issei, ignoring the slap to your ass and the following laugh from Oikawa in between loud, sloshing kisses.

“Well, little one,” He pats his thigh, inviting you to the spot on his lap rather than the empty seat next to him, “you’re not gonna run away are ya?” 

Every nerve in your body is twitching, you’re not sure if you could run if you wanted to.

You don’t.

Issei takes in your small nod of confirmation, pulling you into his hold. The position is awkward at first, perching on his knee as you try to keep your balance. He laughs, his arm snaking around your back so you relax into him. You fidget with your fingers as they lie against your lap, watching the bustling around you. A cloud of smoke settles in the air, you wonder if it’s a permanent haze of tobacco and pot-- the scent is probably painted into the walls. 

“Is this what you expected?” Issei’s voice is low and close to your ear, you can feel the smile curled into his question. Your eyes are fixed forward, watching as Tendou pours a small white line into Oikawa’s collarbone and dives in nose first.

“Honestly,” you adjust, kicking your legs up over his other knee, “I’m pretty used to this kind of stuff.”

Even if your usual scene doesn't include a drug filled almost-orgy, you can’t say you’re fazed much. Not with the company you keep.

Even with the circus revolving around you, Issei is the only thing you can see. Everything else falls away but the smell of his body wash and the soft material of his sweats where they meet your naked legs.

His hand rests against your thigh, fingers just above then short hem of your party dress. The metal rings on each digit are cool against your burning skin. You’re sure Issei can feel the heat rising in your stomach as it spreads through your blood. 

You feel him lean back, fishing something out of his pocket to set in your hands. You feel every hair stand on edge as the thin cotton drops into your grip, heavy as an anchor.

“You know what I think, darlin’?” Your breath hitches, the room around you squeezing tight against your shoulders, “I think you’re a natural on stage. I bet you would have let me do anything up there.” 

A hand wanders down the path of your spine, rough fingerprints stroke past each vertebrae. You arch at the feeling, his skin is like a narcotic. The liquor still swimming in your mind is no match to this, to the heady smell of sex and sweat as it cuts through your senses. 

Issei’s right, you’ll let him do anything to you. You’ll beg for it like you’re trying to pass the gates of heaven.

Your body moves of its own volition, legs swinging to straddle his waist. The material of your dress bunches over the curve of your ass, completely exposed to the room around you before being eclipsed by steady palms.

You would be, should be, embarrassed by the display of public depravity. No one around seems to notice, half naked is still more modest than most everyone else. Tendou and Oikawa have dissolved into a pile of spit and clashing teeth next to you, saving you from any snide quips. There’s nothing but Issei, face an inch away from you and lips tempting you to lean forward.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I don’t usually do this?” 

Glassy eyes flick dumbly at the man below you. He sees the wobble of your lip, the glaze in your stare as you memorize every feature on his face. Any reassurance sitting on his tongue dies when you crash your lips against his, hips rolling down into him and knocking him off guard.

Your kiss is searing and drips with finality. You’ve decided what bed you’ll wake up in the morning with your tongue tracing against his molars.

“No, not really.” Foreheads pressed together, it’s your turn to laugh. If you’re honest, you probably made this decision while still sitting at the bar.

You dip back in, emboldened with the bruising fingers digging against the fat of your hips. The feeling of your cunt pressed against his crotch could bring a man to his knees.

He’s not opposed, he’s just gotta get you home first.

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[mixedhell]

y’all, this is my small contribution for The Smut Pile’s Western Collab! Loosened based on our good old Uncle Kenny for @pleasantanathema​ part, but I believe it delivers the idea of this whole collab.

Might make some more while these cuties are realeasing them. Stay alert, cowboys! 

Hope you all enjoy it. You can check the rest of the mood board at pinterest 🤠 . You can also see the all the other mood boards I made and how to request one here!

[pleasantanathema]

Dirty Old Man

Pairing: Kenny Ackerman x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Dubcon themes in the beginning (it’s later all consensual), Knifeplay (to remove clothing), Captivity/Kidnapping, Slapping, Daddy Kink, Some Assplay, Gagging (on fingers), Choking, One mention of blood, A little bit of bondage, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Age Gap, Kenny is a dirty old man.

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: It’s late, but it’s here! Here’s my part to the Smut Pile’s Western Collab! Please heed the warnings. Kenny is disgusting and I’m disgusting but here we are, fucking Kenny.

           “I told you to stop running away. I’m gettin’ real fuckin’ tired of chasin you down.” Kenny spit the words out like poison, crouching in front of you to place the tip-end of his knife against your corseted chest as a warning.

           You attempted a protest, but the makeshift gag made out of a torn piece of your skirts kept you virtually silent. Your wrists were burning, the rope around them scratching against your skin behind your back. The inn he’d taken you to for the night was damp and dirty, the floor you were tossed into reeking of piss and sour bourbon.

           He had come for you again. You’d had some wistful doubt that he wouldn’t, but like always, he’d tracked you down as easily as hunters do footprints in thick snow. He’d followed your trail and bound you with that thick rope of braided hemp he always kept at his side. Evading him was never easy, but you thought you’d gotten away with it this time when you’d found a meager orphanage to cook at. He hated children—you thought he’d never set foot in the place, but reckoning had come for you in the early hours of the morning, with a dark shadow moving in the corner of the kitchens.

           “You never fuckin’ learn. Maybe this time I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”

           The sharp point of his blade dug into your clothes, the cutting edge purposefully situated between featherbone channels so it could slice at cotton threads.

          You swore against the cloth in your mouth, your curses soaking into the spit-damp fabric. He hooked a finger under the gag digging into your cheek, pulling at the material with a smirk.

          “Got something to say, kid?”

          Slowly, he pulled the torn cloth from your mouth, your head twisting to shake away strings of drool that had attached to the textile.

          “Maybe I like the chase, Kenny,” you hissed out his name, not bothering with the Mr. Ackerman bullshit you’d called him at home.

          He had once been a rather removed presence in your life; he was just that outlaw in the corner who did the terrible things the rich families in your town had the money but not the gall to do. But now he’d become the bane of your existence, the dark thread that always pulled you back into the oppressive home life you were running from. He never seemed to care. If anything, he seemed to take a sick joy in finding you quicker each time you snuck out and ran in a new, farther direction.

          “So we’re on a first name basis now, huh? Good, cause we’re about to get real intimate.”

          “You could make this real fun and actually untie me.”

          “I’m not untying you, ain’t fucking happening. I didn’t spend weeks tracking down a stupid maiden for her daddy for you to run off into the woods the moment I turn my back to piss.”

          You winced a little at his harsh words, still very aware of the cold steel carefully skating through the middle of your chest. The threads of your corset were popping and curling back toward the bone linings.

          “I’m not some fragile maiden.”

          “I don’t give a fuck what you ain’t, what you are is a big pain in my ass. I don’t get paid enough for this shit, so I’m takin’ what I’m owed.”

          The reality of your situation settled in when you felt cool air sweep across your freshly exposed breasts. Your initial thought was to kick him, but when you felt him dig the blade a little too deep into the clothes at your belly, you hesitated. One wrong move and he could be slicing you open accidentally.

          Your wrists pounded with lack of blood flow as you painstakingly tested the knots for slack again. Of course, there wasn’t any. He’d probably tied up hundreds of unfortunate souls in his miserable lifetime.

          A thrill raced across your skin as you heard the knife clatter into the floor, Kenny peeling away the layers of split clothes on your body like he was prudently opening the petals of a rare flower.

          “Well, well, look at you, kid.”

          Grey eyes swirled with mirth and mischief under the brim of his hat, a wicked smile curling across bearded cheeks.

          You felt vulnerable and far too hot, the heat of embarrassment licking over your chest, up your neck, burning at your ears. Worse, blazing excitement was pooling between your legs, the dull thump of pleasure beginning to pound in your head.

          A calloused hand began to paw at the fat of your breast, testing the weight of it in his palm.

          “You’re a fucking pervert.”

          “Never said I ain’t.”

          He flicked your nipple with his comment, chuckling as you gasped. The slight twinge of pain sent a jolt of lightning down your spine, making your fingers dig into the thick rope at your wrists and your head tilt back against the wall. Kenny repeated the motion, rubbing his warm thumb over your nipple before flicking it again. You sucked in a quick breath, making your lungs expand and breasts inch closer to his hands.

          “You like that?” He teased, a finger tracing the sensitive underside of your breast.

          “No.”

          He laughed, “Liar. Your pretty nipples are harder than my cock.”

          Kenny proved his point by cupping both your tits and making you moan, back arching toward him instead of away. Seeing the opportunity, he moved in closer, making the remnants of your skirts bunch around your hips as he pressed himself between your legs. You turned your face away from him when he dipped down to kiss you, making his wet lips and wiry beard press into the curve of your throat.

          He sucked at the tender flesh of your neck, teeth and growls gently scraping against skin.

          “What’s my pa going to think about you taking advantage of me like this?”

          You knew you made a good point—unless Kenny had decided to pack some petticoats and powder into his saddle bags, he couldn’t cover up the carnage he was creating.

          “I’m your daddy for tonight, kid. Maybe if you’re good I won’t even take you home this time.”

          “Really?” You knew your voice portrayed your enthusiasm, but you couldn’t help it. You’d do anything to be free of your family and go make a life of your own.

          Kenny took his time thinking over his response, too busy licking and sucking at the delicate column of your throat. It felt good, too good, even the scratch of his beard had you holding back whimpers. His long fingers were still groping your tits, thumbs rhythmically petting over your peaks.

          You felt like you were engulfed in flames, like the hellfire and brimstone that bible-thumpers warned about were taking over your senses. All because of fucking Kenny Ackerman, the dirtiest old man you’d ever come across.

          Though you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined something like this before, it was hard not to when most of your time had been spent tied up on a saddle with him. The pervert always had the audacity to have his half-hard erection pressing into your lower back as you shifted on the smelly horse. It was difficult not to imagine how it would feel to have him inside of you when the horse’s trot had his cock sliding too perfectly against your ass. You’d spent a few nights imagining how he would manhandle you, rough and impatient, and far more skilled than the boys you’d fooled around with.

          Kenny was a dirty old man, but you had no doubt he could fulfill every naughty fantasy women like you weren’t supposed to dream about.

          You shifted forward a bit, draping your thighs over his so you could get closer, press your aching core against that familiar stiffness in his trousers.

          “I’ll be a good girl, daddy,” you let the name roll off your tongue as you tilted your face down to his, “I promise.”

          You sealed your vow by pressing your mouth to his, a victorious frisson tingling at your nerves when he groaned into your lips. His kiss was rough, one of his hands snaking up to your neck with a vice-like grip to keep you from changing your mind. It made your vision go blurry behind your eyelids, grey spots dancing in the corners of your lashes. He tasted like booze and smoke, remnants of his addictions tainting your tongue. But you kept up with his pace, eager to show him that you would be good, that you wanted this, that you’d let him have you. Even if he did take you back home anyways, at least you’d get a thrilling fuck out of this arrangement.

          “You ain’t never been a good girl,” he rumbled against your lips, “daddy’s gonna have to teach you how to behave.”

          You gasped when he used his leverage on your neck to push you farther into the creaking boards of the wall. Your wrists were trapped between your back and the floor, going more numb by the second. He caged you in completely, had you sitting in his lap with his cock pressed against your damp drawers and one hand tangling into the mess of your skirts.

          “Women and all their fucking clothes,” he snarled down at your half-dressed body. Your eyes went wide as you noticed him reach back for the discarded blade, his other hand still content to press against the sides of your neck.

          “W-wait, I don’t have anything else to wear!”

          “You ain’t going to be needin’ em anyways, kid.”

          Time slowed down like the creeping slush of molasses as you watched Kenny begin to slice through your dress and petticoat, each tug of his wrist sending cotton fibers spilling into the floor. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest and sweat beading on the back of your neck every time the spine of the knife grazed the freshly exposed skin of your thighs. You struggled against the rope and the hand holding you back when he began to cut through the length of your drawers. The blade was too close to your intimate places, grazing against your sweltering flesh and making you whimper.

          “I ain’t gonna cut you, darlin. As much as I wanna carve my name into your skin, I couldn’t stand hurtin’ you.”

          You swallowed thickly and he must’ve felt it, his thumb petting at your neck like he was trying to soothe a scared animal. He stopped cutting at your clothing, lifting his pointed chin so he could look up into your face. He grinned, soft but still wolfish, wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes.

          “Gimme a kiss, it’ll make you feel better.”

          You complied, perhaps too happily, slanting your mouth against his and moaning at the rough feel of his black hairs against your cheeks.

          Kenny ripped the rest of the threads from your body with his strong fingers, finishing the work that the knife had started. A weight was lifted off of you when your heavy skirts and the skeleton of your corset finally slipped into the floor to be forgotten. He took particular care in relieving you of your cotton drawers, the shadow of his hat obscuring his face as he marveled at the juncture of your thighs.

          “Look at that pretty pussy, all wet and sloppy just for me.”

          You cried out when he brushed a knuckle between your dripping folds, finger slowly uncurling so it could prod at your tight hole.

          “You always get this wet when you’re around me?”

          “Hard not to when you’re always groping me like some animal.”

          His gaze flickered back up to you, the mixture of a frown and a smirk tugging at his lips. He pressed his palm more firmly against your windpipe, making you choke.

          “Don’t know why I bothered to ungag your smart mouth.”

          “I’ll be goo—” you didn’t have the chance to finish your plea, his long fingers uncurling from your neck only for two of them to abruptly slide past your open lips. Your eyes watered a bit from the thrusting motion of his digits and you could feel your moans vibrate against his skin. He started to push his fingers farther into your mouth, seeing how far he could go before your throat tightened, smirking the whole time. His skin tasted like rawhide and copper, like leather and blood, and you breathlessly traced your tongue along his slim knuckles.

          “Your mouth looks better stuffed,” his other hand resumed teasing your lower lips, “Let’s see how many fingers you can take.”

          You almost bit the knuckles in your mouth when he shoved his middle and index fingers into your tight cunt. You muffled out a squeal, eyes rolling shut when a wave of pleasure splashed over your body with the timing of his fingers pushing inside of you. He wasted no time in stretching you, spreading his strong fingers as he withdrew and pressed back inside of you over and over again.

          Your tongue went still and flat in your mouth, spit pooling around slim fingers that still pressed farther back into your throat with every thrust of his hand between your legs. You could practically hear him grinning like a madman with both of his calloused hands pressing into two of your wet holes. You sucked around his fingers when he touched a sensitive, fleshy patch inside of you, fingers curling against your walls and stroking the spot repeatedly.

          Weightless, you felt weightless in Kenny’s lap, like each thrust of his fingers into your mouth and pussy was sending you higher into the clouds. Even your own fingers had gone limp behind you, no longer clinging to their binds.

          “Not bad, kid. How about another?”

          You screamed around his hand when his ring finger stretched your opening wider, your pussy burning from its invasion. He laughed, a sadistic rumble from his chest that vibrated against your tits. At the feel of your cry, he pushed the fingers against your tongue even farther down to the back of your mouth, making you fight your gag reflex and sputter. Spit was falling from the corners of your mouth and you could feel your slick drooling down your thighs and onto his pumping wrist between your legs.

          “Good girl,” he praised, picking up his already merciless pace, “daddy’s got a big cock, need you to be ready for it.”

          Kenny groaned when you nodded your head, eyes fluttering open to catch his gaze. Some twisted pleasure brewed in your lower stomach as you noticed his lopsided grin, pearl white teeth bared over his full lips.

          “I bet you look so fucking pretty when you cum. Think you can? Can you cum from an old man stuffin’ you full of fingers, darlin?”

          You shivered at his words, your thighs shaking as you felt like you were being pulled apart. The three fingers inside of you knew exactly how to make your head go fuzzy and your nerves wild with pleasure, and it only got more intense when his thumb began to circle your already aching clit. You whimpered around his fingers, finding a momentary reprieve when he pulled them from your lips and admired the drool flowing over his knuckles. But he slid them back in after you caught a quick breath, pumping them at the same speed as the fingers buried into your cunt.

          It was like you were brimming and boiling over with the taste and feel of Kenny. Your mind could barely keep up with the shots of ecstasy stemming from your belly, your toes curling against the cold floor, your wrists rubbed raw from rope. Your lower muscles were starting to clench, spasm, shake, and he groaned.

          “Fuck you’re gettin’ tight. But I’ve got one more place to try.”

          Your brows scrunched together when you felt his ring finger slip from your pussy, only to feel his slim pinky finger prod at the tight pucker of your ass.

          “Kemmy, mf, umph,” you struggled to speak with his fingers stuffed in your mouth.

          You finally bit against his skin when you felt the length of his smallest finger slither into your ass.

          The new sensation rocked you, had you gasping and leaning forward and gagging on his fingers and cumming all at the same time. You screamed as you felt your asshole tighten around his digit, the pleasure of it sending you raring into bliss at full force like you’d just been slammed into a wall. It felt so fucking good, every hole stuffed with him, every muscle clenching and unclenching as he had the nerve to laugh at how easily you came from feeling a finger in your ass.

          “Heh, seems you like that, don’tcha?” He let you ride out the remnants of your orgasm for a few moments, fingers still and just feeling you contract around him.

          Finally, he worked on setting you free of his hold. He took his time with it, each finger sliding out of you painfully slow like he was slowly uncorking a pent-up bottle of champagne. With your mouth free first, you took your time breathing and gathering your wits, looking down into the floor as shame crept over your body. It was all so nasty and dirty, and when he pulled his fingers out from between your legs, you knew all you wanted was more of it.

          “Fuck,” you breathed, surprised when he lifted your chin and placed a rather chaste kiss against your messy mouth.

          “I take it you’ve never had somethin’ in your ass?”

          “N-no, but it…”

          “Feels good, yeah?”

          You shot him a suspicious look, “How would you know?”

          “I’ve been around, kid.”

          Kenny groaned as he sat back, moving you off his lap.

          “My knees are too fucking old for this. Get on the bed.”

          You didn’t know how you could. Your legs felt like pudding and your hands were completely numb behind your back. Kenny walked to the corner of the small bedroom, pulling his suspenders down so he could toss his shirt into the floor. You struggled to move, eyeing the knife in the floor carefully so you didn’t accidentally cut yourself as you fumbled like a little fawn gaining her legs.

          You enjoyed the feel of standing for a moment, leaning back against the wall in all your sloppy nakedness as you watched Kenny dip his hands into the wash bin.

          This was the last thing you expected when you woke up this morning. You’d been free, ready to get started on a cornbread and bean breakfast, only to be kidnapped before you could even lace up your shoes. Now you were watching Kenny Ackerman get undressed and hang that signature bowler hat on the back of the door.

          He looked better without the hat. In fact, he looked so much better naked.

          He had sun kissed skin on his arms and neck from working in the sun, lean sinews of muscle carved over his chest, his thighs. He was dusted in wiry black hair, like someone had taken ash from a fire and doused him in it. And his cock was hard and proud between his legs, long and curved up toward his stomach. Your ego spiked at the thought that you’d made him that way; you were the reason his swollen head was leaking and twitching.

          “Can I touch you now?”

          “What?” He looked puzzled, running a hand through his dark, shoulder length hair. It looked longer than when you last saw him.

          You moved toward him on still shaky legs, making a show of pulling at your hands bound behind your back.

          “Shit, I forgot you were tied up. But you gotta promise me when I cut you loose you ain’t just gonna sprint out that door.”

          “I don’t have any clothes, Kenny.”

          He laughed genuinely at that, scratching at the back of his neck. He’d have to remedy that tomorrow, go out and buy you something to wear so he didn’t parade you around town naked as the day you were born.

          You stayed still as he reached for that big knife of his on the floor, settling up behind you to start gnawing the blade through the thick rope. Your shoulders felt at ease when you felt the slack begin to set into your binds, the last bit of hemp audibly slicing away. You pulled your hands in front of you, immediately rubbing at the raw spots on your wrists. They’d be bruised tomorrow, scab over by the next day.

          Kenny wrapped his arms around you from behind, hands first skimming over your shoulders and upper arms.

          “If you didn’t have such a bad habit of runnin’, I wouldn’t have to do that to you, kid.”

          “You’d run away if you had my life, too.”

          You knew you didn’t need to fill in the blanks for him. He’d been around long enough to know the ins and outs of your story.

          “Suppose I would.”

          He kissed your neck as he walked you to the bed, turning you around so he could crawl up the naked expanse of your body as you laid back against the hay stuffed mattress.

          “Someone as pretty as you don’t deserve someone like me chasin’ after you.” But his confession didn’t stop him from settling between your thighs and bending down to suck one of your nipples into his eager mouth. You moaned, elated to have your hands free so you could tangle your fingers into his long hair.

          “I told you,” you gasped when he bit into your skin hard enough to leave marks, “I like the chase.”

          He licked a long, hot stripe between the valley of your breasts before bringing his face back to yours. You kept your hands in his hair as he leaned down to kiss you, all brute force and greedy tongue like you’d gotten used to before. You were just as hungry for him, your body feeling fresh and ripe after your orgasm and ready to be filled again. You bit at his lower lip, smirking when you got a reaction from him. Your tongue began to map the insides of his mouth, letting the taste of him overwhelm you.

          Kenny was impatient, gripping your hips and spreading you apart again.

          “I like you better when you’re submissive.” He murmured into your mouth, skilled fingers spreading your pussy so the fat head of his cock could rub against you.

          “I said I would be a good girl, daddy.”

          His head dropped to your shoulder with a groan, “I can’t fucking handle you calling me that, kid.”

          “Oh yeah? Is me calling you daddy going to make you cream early, old man?”

          He slid his cock inside of you rough and fast to shut you up. Your head fell farther back against the pillow as you mewled, his fingers still having not prepared you for the feel of his stretching you open. Your walls were snug against him; you could feel every throbbing vein under his silken skin dragging against your insides as he pulled out and pushed into you slowly.

          Each thrust had euphoria blooming from your stomach and spreading across all your extremities. It was like you could suddenly feel everything, the pleasure making the world around you sharpen. Kenny was breathing hotly into your neck, your nipples were painfully hard and sliding against the dark, downy hairs of his chest. Your fingers were coming back to life, your nails scraping against the greyed roots of his hair. Your toes were curling in the air, your thighs and hips burning from bearing the heaviness of Kenny between them. Both your heart and his were beating fast, blood pumping as if in the same drumline together.

          “Fuck you feel so fucking good,” he drawled, “s-so fucking soft, so tight.”

          Little sounds were leaving your parted lips, eyes struggling to stay open as each plunge of Kenny’s cock was engulfing you with ecstasy. He was starting to get a bit punishing with his movements, moving hard and fast inside of you and making you forget yourself. His nails were biting into the fatty flesh of your hips, where half-moon marks would surely adorn your skin in the morning. You’d have hickies on your neck too, especially now as he sunk his teeth into the tender spot where your throat met your shoulder.

          God it felt good to be used, to be wanted. And you knew Kenny wanted you, he’d even said he wanted to carve his name into your skin. Something inside of you told you that he’d want to own you, if you’d let him. You caught a lot of his longing gazes before, whether in the back of the saloon he frequented or the ridiculous dance halls your family drug you to. You’d often wondered if he would fuck you against a wall if you tempted him to, and now you had your long-awaited answer.

          “Oh daddy,” you purred, both purposely and not, little oh’s and mhm’s following behind.

          The name spurred Kenny into a new gait. He shifted back onto his knees swiftly, the same hand from before resuming its chokehold on your neck. You moaned at the familiar contact, the sound trapped behind his spread fingers. He had more power behind his hips from this angle, sending his cock deeper into your depths and into places his long fingers couldn’t reach from before. Your eyes squeezed shut, tiny gasps all that could be formed behind the wall of his hand.

          “Who knew you were such a little slut, darlin. Might keep you around after all.”

          Your tits were bouncing in rhythm with his relentless assault, your hands now fisting into the feather pillow next to your face.

          “F-fucking shit, I—” you were going stupid, is what you were. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth and your brain felt foggy in your head.

          “You’ve got such a dirty mouth on ya,” Kenny put more pressure behind the fist around your neck, the lack of oxygen making it even harder to think than before, “you really do need a daddy to teach you some, fuck, s-some fucking manners.”

          All you could do was nod, completely lost to the feeling of him encompassing you, filling you.

          His free hand pulled at one of your limp legs, hoisting it up and over his shoulder. He smothered your skin with wet kisses, nipping at your ankle and chuckling when he felt the bubbled squeal beneath his palm. The hair on his torso tickled the back of your thigh, adding a new layer of sensation that you didn’t think you could handle. It was too much—Kenny was too much, fucking into you like a feral beast that just got his first taste of sweet flesh.

          “You’re never gettin’ away from me again,” he hissed out between gritted teeth, “you’re mine now.”

          You couldn’t think to respond. Kenny unwrapped his hand from your throat, letting that blood flow return to your head.

          “You hear me?”

          You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. All you could focus on was the drumming of his cock hitting your insides, the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy sucking him in.

          The sound of him slapping his hand across your check registered before the pain did. You gasped as your head swung with the force, the side of your face smarting with a throbbing sting.  

          “Say you’re mine, kid.” Seriousness laced his tone, those dangerous, long fingers grasping at your jaw and pulling you to look at him. He leaned forward, curling your leg with him, making you groan at the pleasure and pain mixing as he tested your flexibility. He kept moving inside of you, pace never faltering.

          “Fucking. Say. It.”

          Your heart was racing with adrenaline, a strange concoction of fear and bliss spreading over your consciousness.

          “Y-yours,” you croaked out, wetting your lips with your tongue, “I’m yours, Kenny!”

          You didn’t mean to scream it, but it seemed to please him, that lecherous grin of his spreading over his lips.

          “That’s fucking right. I own this tight, pretty little pussy.”

          He released your jaw only to slap you again, quicker and softer this time, and you moaned the moment he made contact.

          “You like getting slapped around?”

          You turned your face back to him, smirking through the sting, “yes, daddy.”

          The devilishness that swirled in his eyes made your stomach flip. He paused the movements of his hips, letting your cunt flutter and clench at his stilled cock. Your breathing picked up as you registered what was about to happen.

          Kenny hit you with the back of his hand this time, bony knuckles thumping with the quick flick of his wrist. Without his cock moving inside of you, all you could do was bask in the stinging pain left behind on your cheeks. It felt so wrong, but it made the coil in your belly tighten like never before.

          “F-fuck,” you moaned, your balled fists releasing the pillow.

          Without a second thought, you grabbed at his hair, jerking him down to meet your mouth.

          “You better cum inside me after that, daddy, I think I deserve it.”

          “Oh, you deserve it darlin,” he started pumping inside of you again, sending your head flying back and his mouth landing on the pulse of your neck, “gonna fill you to the fucking brim.”

          His movements were cruel, fast, cock ramming inside of you so harshly that you felt it all the way in your throat. Your hand slipped from his hair and found purchase on his back, nails scraping against sweaty flesh. You could feel his rough skin splitting, but you didn’t care, all that mattered anymore was the way his cock slid in between your gummy walls, the way he was moaning your name like a fucking prayer against your skin.

          Kenny’s thumb found your clit, swirling quick, brutal circles over your swollen bud. You could feel yourself clench around him, the sharp pleasure almost painful. You were going to explode. You were going to topple over in ecstasy and it was all because of the wickedness of the dirty old man inside of you.

          “K-Kenny, holy f-fucking god, I-I—”

          He must have felt it before you did. Hot ropes of cum were seeping inside of you the moment you hit the high point of orgasm. Your nails slid down the entirety of his back, slim, warm rivulets of blood following in their wake.

          It was like the bliss never ended. You were caught in the waves of it, each one cresting and falling over and over again as you milked his cock dry, slick and cum pooling between your thighs and soaking the linens.

          Your heart was hammering in your chest. Kenny placed a delicate hand between your breasts, like he was trying to slow it down for you. His small act made the world narrow in around you; the remnants of stinging pain and excruciating pleasure still hummed, but you fell into the quiet of just listening to the two of you breath for a few moments.

          Eventually, your toes went numb. You’d fully forgotten the poor leg that had been curled over his shoulder. You shifted to move, and Kenny got the hint, finally pulling his spent cock from inside of you and rolling over on his back.

          “Shit,” he hissed through his teeth, hand reaching over his shoulder as he met the mattress, “you’ve got fucking claws.”

          You had half a mind to apologize, but you didn’t bother, still basking in the afterglow of sex. Your body was tired, wrists still aching, thighs shaking.

          “You alright?” A warm hand found your cheek, even hotter lips pressing to yours in a soft kiss.

          “Mhm, more than alright.”

          “Didn’t know you had that in you, kid.”

          Kenny pulled you into his chest, long arm curling around your back. His fingers traced soft, swirling patterns on your hip, and you nearly shuddered as you remembered those were the same movements he’d used to abuse your clit. You curled one of your legs over his, needing to get closer, those pesky after-sex hormones and needs clawing at your instincts.

          It felt oddly like home to be pressed up against him, your face against his chest, one of your hands mimicking his and drawing circling in his damp chest hair. He smelled like home, anyways, like earth and spices.

          “You gonna take me home?”

          He was quiet for a second, pressing his lips into your hairline.

          “Nah, I’ll take you someplace safe. Maybe buy you a fucking train ticket so you can get out of this part of the world.”

          “You sure you don’t want to keep me?”

          “Now don’t fucking tempt me with that, kid.”

          “I wouldn’t mind being yours, you know.”

          “You don’t wanna be mine, even if I make you say that shit when I’m fuckin’ you.”

          You knew he was right, but you didn’t offer him an affirmation.

          Maybe you’d let him fuck you for a few more days before you ventured off on your own, maybe you’d convince him to chase you down a few more times just for the thrill of it. Maybe you’d wrap your fists around his suspenders and convince him to run away with you.

          You did like Kenny, after all. Even if he was such a perverted, disgusting old man.

[whats-her-quirk]

Midnight Ride

jean kirstein x reader 18+ warnings: late 1800s misogyny, angsty pining, mentions of virginity, mentions of alcoholism, unwanted advances/assault by minor character, explicit gun violence, blood, explicit sexual content, intercrural sex, breeding wc: 16k+ a/n: Insert every horseface joke ever. This was written for the Western collab by The Smut Pile server, and you should make sure to check out everyone’s wild west pieces on the masterlist here.

It’s windy outside today, occasional gusts blowing clouds of dirt into the air before it settles back onto the grass and the wildflowers that grow in the pasture on the other side of the corral. False sunflowers and milkweed bend at the stems before straightening again, reaching up toward the blazing late-spring sun. You watch them out the window, staring through the glass as your mama sits behind you, brushing and braiding your hair in a halo around your head. You sigh, impatient at the time it takes her to create the intricate crown that pulls at your scalp when you’d rather just twist it all to one side and be done with it.

She hums as her fingers cross and pull, and she explains the unfamiliar patterns so that you can pass them along to your own daughters someday. When she finally reaches the ends of your hair, she takes a ribbon and ties off the braid at the nape of your neck, tucking any flyaways under. “So pretty,” she muses, more to herself than you. “I wager any man would think the same.” Then she sighs. “Well, not too pretty I hope. Your Pa should be back soon with the new ranch hands he hired. Hopefully they’re well-behaved. Wear one of your plain dresses.”

It’s precisely what you’ve been watching the hills past the pasture for, waiting for your first glimpse of the hired help that would be staying for at least the cattle breeding season, if not longer. It’s already mid-May, later than usual if Pa wanted his calves by February so they could be weaned and sold by next spring, but a lot is different this year on the ranch. The past year had been rough, between a harsh winter that killed nearly half the herd and the vices your papa fell to in order to deal with the hardship while mama remained silent about it all. After much scheming and scraping, however, Papa thought he had a foolproof plan to turn things around this year.

After purchasing as many heifers as he could, Papa quickly realized that calving would be more work than he’s able to handle on his own. Normally, there would be a few hands around to help, including yours, but Papa’s connections with the neighbors were severed after last year’s disaster (and the fact that he couldn’t pay back the debts he owed them until after this season). You’re an only child, your parents’ last after others had died in infancy and childhood, so you have no brothers to take up the job. With no other options left, Papa searched for weeks to find ranchers willing to help in the barn for what he’s able to pay. It’s less than any seasoned rancher would accept, but it was just enough, along with the promise of hot meals and a loft in the barn to sleep in, to finally draw in three younger men who were willing to learn the ropes.

You will not be permitted to work with the animals this year, despite the hard spot your family is in. It’s the final component of Pa’s plan: to marry you off to some rich man from the city, yet to be determined, to make up for any shortcomings at the end of the season. Though you never spent much time in town, Papa did, and he insisted that those gentlemen didn’t want a wife who wrangled cows and got their hands dirty. They wanted someone who knew how to run a homestead, raise children, and look beautiful, and you’d spend the summer learning it all in a hurry. There would be no time for you to work outside, he insisted, even going so far as to forbid you from riding your horse.

Slowly and then all at once, four figures appear, riding in a group through the pasture. You hold your breath as they approach, curious to no end about these mysterious young men. After all, you are a girl of nineteen, and you’ve been led to believe that they’re roughly your age; it’s only natural for you to wonder, even if you can’t admit as much to either of your parents. As the strangers approach along with your pa, Mama rushes to the front door to greet them while you remain at your bedroom window and watch.

The three of them tie up their horses at the hitching post, and as they approach the house, you get your first good look at them. They don’t resemble each other at all, clearly not brothers or even cousins, you’d guess. One is noticeably shorter than the others, with a wide smile and a close shorn haircut under his hat. The next is taller, darker, and brunette, with big green eyes and a face that would be pretty if he wasn’t scowling.

The last is the tallest of the three, bringing up the rear with an easy, confident stride. He’s broad chested but lanky, and a long, pointed chin juts from under the black hat pulled low over his eyes. When he takes it off, fanning himself with the brim as he’s introduced to your mama, you’re both surprised and not that the rest of his face is just as handsome. His eyes are narrow  and his cheekbones high on his face, giving him the appearance of looking down over his nose even when he’s not.

The wooden window frame creaks under your hand, and his head turns your way. The wind whips his long chestnut hair around his face as he catches your eye, lips parting slightly before you gasp and step aside, putting your back to the wall. All it takes is one look, and you know it: you’re infatuated, and you don’t even know his name yet.

It’s a shame that by the end of the summer, you’ll belong to someone else.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It’s difficult not to sneak too many glances at him across the dinner table when you all sit down to eat together.

You spent the last hour in your room, fretting over your hair and dress or staring out the window while Papa showed the young men around the ranch and likely explained what tasks they’d be expected to carry out every day. It was hard to keep your imagination from going wild, wondering about the tall man who caught your eye. The spell was only broken when Mama knocked on the door. “Make yourself decent and come help with dinner.”

You tie your best apron over your dress, and when you step into the main room, the men are already seated around the table. It’s too small for six people, but you’ll make do for the night. After tonight, they’ll probably take most of their meals in the barn, but tonight is a special occasion.

Papa nods in your direction. “Fellas, this is my daughter.”

Your clasp your hands in front of you and offer them your name, feeling strange with the formality of it all. They may be practically strangers, but they’re also guests in your home. You might as well get to know them, at least a little.

The dark haired boy turns around in his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. “Eren,” he grunts: no more, no less.

The short one speaks up next. “Connie, ma’am, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He’s chipper and friendly, and you wonder if he could teach Eren a thing or two about manners. No one has ever called you ma’am before, but you suppose you’ll have to get used to it.

You turn to the last man, a slight but expectant smile on your lips. His eyes flick up to yours before dropping back down to the table, watching his pointer finger trace the grain of the wood. He clears his throat before speaking in a soft baritone, “Jean. Howdy, miss.”

Your heart flutters, content to have such a lovely name to put with his face. Then your papa speaks up. “And you best all treat her like a proper lady and nothing more, you hear? She’s spoken for.”

“Papa,” you scold. Not only is it embarrassing hearing him imply that any of these men might try to take advantage of you, but you’re not engaged, not yet. You know that, and he knows that, but these men don’t. Jean doesn’t, and you hate for him to think so, even though you don’t have a good reason to. It’s as good as true, you suppose, but not yet. You still have a little time.

You chance another look at Jean as you cross the room, joining Mama to the stove where stew is bubbling in her biggest kettle. His eyes remain cast down, lips pressed into a hard line, and it stings like the prick of a thorn. You don’t allow your eyes to linger as Mama pulls you to her side over the kettle.

She gives you instructions quietly, showing you how she fixes a plate, ladling the stew alongside the cornbread. You carry the first to the table and set it down in front of Papa, who smiles proudly at you, his only daughter—pure as a mountain stream, a little housewife in training. You smile tightly back before returning for the other plates. You rush more than you should to be the one to serve Jean’s plate. He doesn’t look up at you when he mutters, “Thanks.”

You sit between your parents with your own dinner, chewing quietly and listening to the conversation without offering much in the way of opinion. This was one of the first lessons you’d had to learn: a woman should be silent until called upon, or so they said. Connie prattles the most, telling you how the three of them had grown up together before Eren cuts in to argue about how many miles they rode to get here. Town is about a few hour’s journey on horseback, but they’re from a place several miles on the other side of town, Eren says.

Jean doesn’t say much throughout the meal, but his lowered eyes mean that you can watch him, picking up on the subtleties of his face: his hollow cheeks, the sandy stubble on his chin, his bottom lip that’s slightly fuller than the top. You shouldn’t allow yourself to look at him like this, to pore over his features so indulgently, but you can’t help it. Considering that he doesn’t look back at you, you feel it’s safe to assume that he has no interest in some farmer’s daughter who’s as good as married, in his eyes anyway.

After dinner, you wash dishes with Mama as the farmhands retire to their loft in the barn and Papa sits in his rocking chair, looking very pleased. You return to your tiny bedroom after everything has been cleaned, where you undress and take down your hair, shaking out Mama’s hard work. It will be redone in the morning anyway. Before you fall asleep, your eyes wander out the window again. You discern the shadow of someone leaning against the barn, the tip of a lit cigarette glowing like a star against the midnight sky.

You roll away from the window and shut your eyes. The tall shadow can only belong to Jean, and you know if you watch him any longer, you’ll become too attached to something you can’t have, no matter how much you want it.

After lying for ages, waiting for sleep that never comes, you roll back over. Jean has disappeared, and the moon is hung higher in the sky, telling you it’s been at least a few hours. Flopping onto your back, you know you have two choices: you can toss and turn for the rest of the night, settling for a fitful bout of sleep, or you can get up and do something about this restless melancholy before it seeps any deeper into your tired bones. The answer is clear and obvious as the full moon outside the window.

You toss your feet over the side of your bed but move quietly to the trunk that holds your clothes. Since the stifling summer heat hasn’t quite set in yet, you switch your airy nightgown for a heavy cotton dress, one petticoat, and a shawl to wrap around your shoulders. As quietly as possible, you reach under your bed for the felt hat you keep there. It’s a man’s hat, stolen in return from a boy who stole a kiss from you behind a great pine tree at the foot of the mountain. The last things you grab are your worn brown boots, but you carry them in your hands to the front door.

In a practiced fashion, you set your boots on the porch outside the door while you pull a long piece of yarn from around the brim of your hat. Your method, carefully developed over the past several months, has never failed you yet. Nimbly, you loop the end of the yarn around the handle of the door latch—the one that can only be closed from the inside. Lifting as you go, you pull the door shut behind you before dropping the latch shut. You leave the free end of your string dangling outside, your only ticket in when you return.

After hastily lacing up your boots, you head to the stable, a smaller building that stands next to the cattle barn, and saddle up your beloved brown horse, Maria. She seems happy to see you, perhaps wondering where you’ve been the past few weeks since you last had the urge to ride in the middle of the night. You pet and shush her, doing your best to keep her quiet as you lead her out into the yard and past the corral. Once you feel like you’ve put enough distance behind you, you hitch up your skirts and throw your leg over her back, and with a little kick, she’s off and galloping through the pasture and toward the woods at the base of the mountain.

You can’t see it, but as the farm fades from view behind you, a figure sits at the window at the top of the barn, watching you disappear over the hill at the edge of the property, into the darkness.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

You feign a headache in the morning when you’re too tired to get up and help Mama make breakfast. Instead, you bask in the extra hours in bed, catching up on the sleep you lost the night before. Besides, you’re not quite ready to face everyone, to face Jean, just yet. You snooze lightly until the sun is high in the sky, beaming in your window so brightly you’re not sure you could sleep even if you wanted to.

Your head feels clearer when you finally rise, rested and less heavy than the day before. You dress and tie your hair back—a simple low braid is more than enough to keep it out of your face. Knowing Mama expects it, you tie on your apron over your skirt before pausing by the window. You scan the horizon, the swaying grass and the cloudless sky, before you see it sitting there: a tiny purple flower—a prairie violet—sits delicately on the white painted wood on the other side of the glass pane. Your head tilts, enchanted and confused.

You almost reach out to touch it, not thinking about the barrier between you and the world outside. The stem is clean, clearly plucked from the ground with care and arranged neatly on the window sill for you to see. Not a soul can be seen outside, everyone either in the house or in the barn, hard at work keeping this place running. You scratch at the side of your head, mulling it over. Mama likely hasn’t left the house all day. Would Papa leave you a flower if he heard you were “sick” with a headache? Probably not; he never had before. That left only three other options, ones who had been warned against making any advances toward you. But it had to be one of them, didn’t it?

Quickly, you turn away from the window and walk to the kitchen. You didn’t want your thoughts to linger too long, hoping for something that seemed too unlikely to be true. It was a dangerous thing for someone in your situation to do: to hope.

Mama keeps you captive inside for most of the day, showing you how she cooks a roast in the Dutch oven and mends holes in Papa’s shirts. You’re still sewing, fingers full of needle pricks, when the men come in for dinner, their faces tanned and sweaty from a day in the sun. You set down your sampler, flipping it over so no one can see your clumsy stitches, and plate up the food for them. You’re not sure what propels you out of your chair before Mama even asks, but you want it to be you who hands them their hot meals after a long day of work.

Eren nods at you curtly when you hand him his plate, and Connie thanks you about four times, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you didn’t really help much with the cooking.

Jean approaches last, his face unreadable. He didn’t put his vest back on before coming into the house this time, and his white shirt is speckled with dust under his dark brown suspenders. Your eyes linger on the sliver of chest that shows at his open collar before flicking back up to his face. You meet his sharp eyes under the slope of his nose, pointed down to meet your gaze. He nods his head. “Thank you, miss.” There’s a softness in his voice you didn’t hear the day before, a linger in his gaze he didn’t allow himself at last night’s dinner, and it’s enough to get lost in. You nod back in acceptance, holding eye contact until his back turns to you once again.

Eren, Connie, and Jean take their meals back out to the barn, leaving you and your parents to eat alone in the house. It’s a quiet dinner; Papa seems tired, so it must have been a long day. You excuse yourself to your room after you’re finished, uninterested in stabbing yourself with a needle any longer and feeling exhausted despite your relatively idle day.

The sun is hidden behind the mountain, painting the sky complementary blues and oranges in the dimming light. You dip down to your knees by the window, resting your cheek against the wooden ledge on the inside. Against all odds, violet is still sitting there, undisturbed by the wind except to ruffle its petals lightly. It’s possible, you suppose as you ready yourself for a full night’s sleep, that Eren or Connie put it there. Possible, but not likely. Despite the fact that Jean has only said about six words to you since he got here, something in your gut tells you that you shouldn’t lose hope just yet.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

You make work for yourself early the next morning. After an entire day spent indoors, you’re desperate for fresh air and sun, and if you just so happen to get a little social interaction, well, that won’t hurt you either. You breeze through the main room of the house, pulling your soft straw hat from its hook on the wall and muttering something about feeding the chickens before Mama can stop you.

You strut across the yard to the stable, where you keep the barrel with the chicken feed. You only need to haul a small bag of it over to the chicken coop behind the house. Your family doesn’t farm chickens; you just keep them for the eggs, so feeding them isn’t a big job. It’s just enough for a woman to handle, you think with a sneer as you push open the stable door.

The top half is already unlatched and swung in. This should have been enough to tell you that someone else was inside—and that’s what you were hoping for anyway, wasn’t it?—but you’re still startled when you see Jean standing at Maria’s stall. Her muzzle is in his hands, and he strokes her and speaks so softly, you can’t make out what he’s saying. You’re not sure if it’s just the fact that you’re not alone in the barn or if it’s the tender moment you’ve caught him in, but you can’t help the surprised, “Oh!” that escapes your lips.

Jean looks up, his face dropping in shock. He clears his throat and steps away from Maria, who huffs and shakes her head, instantly missing the attention. You catch the smirk at the corner of your lips, forcing it away before he notices how your stomach flips when you see him. Jean stares back, mouth slightly agape, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot in his black boots.

You shift toward the barrel of feed. “Hello. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” Jean stammers. He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s fine, I—”

You reach for the feed bag and lift the top of the barrel to fill it with the scoop inside. It’s downright adorable, the way he loses his words in front of you. It’s a bad sign that you like it.

Jean clears his throat again, and you look up. “This your horse?” He points his thumb back over his shoulder to Maria, who shakes out her mane, like she knows she’s being talked about.

You nod. “Yes. How could you tell?”

Jean takes a few steps toward you, and you can see the blush growing across his cheeks. There’s something very innocent and boyish about it, much unlike the mature impressions you’d gotten from him so far, but you find it endearing. “Uh, just that she seems the perfect size for you, I guess.”

You close the feed barrel and lean your elbow on it. The chickens are waiting, and so is Mama, but you want to make this last as long as you possibly can. “I guess so,” you agree. “I’ve had her since I was a little girl.”

Jean shoves his hands in his pockets. “Your pa must have picked her out special for you.”

You shake your head, and Jean raises an eyebrow. You walk toward Maria’s stall, passing your Pa’s two horses on the way. Sina and Rose are turned toward the wall, uninterested in you if you’re not bringing food, but Maria waits patiently at her gate. You reach up to scratch her around the ears the way she likes. “She was a gift from a relative. It took a lot of convincing from Pa to let me keep her.”

“Why’s that?” Jean leans on Rose’s stall door next to you, crossing his arms at the elbows on top of the wood.

You smile in spite of yourself. “Not ladylike to be riding around in the dirt and the dust all day.” You run your hand down the white stripe on Maria’s muzzle.

Jean turns, a puzzled expression on his face. He drapes both elbows over the gate and leans back against it. “So you’re not supposed to ride?”

You shake your head. “No. And I miss it terribly.” It’s a bit of a secret, but you trust Jean to keep this conversation to himself. He nods solemnly.

“Too bad. Nothing beats the feeling.”

“You’re telling me,” you tease before giving Maria’s head a farewell pat. Swinging the feed bag in front of you, a thought occurs to you. “Would you take her out for me once in a while? She hates being cooped up in here all the time.”

Jean nods. “’Course. Must be awful boring being penned up day in and day out.”

“It is, trust me.” You don’t know why, but you smile at that. The corners of Jean’s pretty mouth pull up into a charming grin in return, and you suddenly feel much hotter around your collar. Before your face gets too flushed, you head for the door. “Well, I better get to the chickens. They’ll be wanting their breakfast, and then I need to go help make yours.”

“Need any help?” Jean offers, and your heart soars.

But you shake your head. “No, thank you. It’s about the only thing they’ll let me do around here.” You chuckle at the ridiculousness of it, such a simple task considered the upper limit of farm work you can handle. Jean seems to catch the humor in it, and when he tosses his head back and laughs along, the sound almost musical, you fall for him all over again.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Days pass and turn into weeks, bringing much more of the same along with a few surprises. The cattle breeding is going well, Jean tells you. You’ve declared feeding the chickens your daily chore, happy to wake up early if it means a few minutes to chat with Jean in the stable as the sun rises. He tells you about how Connie is getting better with a rope but got dragged across the dirt by a particularly stubborn heifer. He recaps the shouting match between Papa and Eren, both too bullheaded to step down until they were red in the face. You might give him a detail or two about your lessons with mama, but mostly, you talk about memories from when you were younger—when you could ride Maria for miles exploring the forest and the pastures beyond.

When you can, you sneak out after midday to pick ripe plums from the trees around the pasture, and when he can, Jean comes around to help you, lifting you onto his shoulders so you can reach the higher branches until Papa scolded you for letting your skirts ride up around your knees. He won’t mention the fact that Jean’s hands were wrapped around your legs to hold you steady, but the fury is written on his face. Still, he won’t accuse you, won’t taint your chastity by giving Jean any ideas.

The days get longer as the year stretches into June, the spectacular sunsets coming later and later in the evening. When you can slip past Mama after dinner, you sit on the wooden porch with Jean, watching the fireflies come out. The crickets chirp and the coyotes howl on the mountain while you sit with your knees hugged to your chest. Jean tells you about his home, where he grew up with Eren and Connie as orphans. You ramble about the times when your cousins have come to visit, though it’s been a few years now since you’ve seen them. You don’t have to say it’s likely the fault of your parents and their troubles. You could talk to him all night, but you settle for until Mama comes out with a lantern and scolds you to get back inside.

And you continue finding violets on your windowsill, but Jean never mentions them, so neither do you.

You know you’re walking down a dangerous path, letting yourself get so close to Jean. Your future is equal parts decided and uncertain: Pa still hopes the summer will end with marriage, but you don’t know yet who will make you a wife. You refuse to talk about it. You know that Jean will be here until at least next winter, but after that, who knows where life will carry him. Without something to tether him to you, you don’t know how much longer this can last.

But you find joy in his laughter, excitement in his ruggedly handsome face, warmth and comfort in his work-worn hands. You couldn’t stay away even if you wanted to.

You wipe your hands on your apron when you finish the after-dinner washing. Mama and Papa are whispering to each other in their bedroom, about what you can only guess, but it gives you the opportunity to step out onto the porch. The air is just starting to cool off from the scorching midday sun, and you dab at the sweat on your forehead with the back of your wrist. If you didn’t have to wear all these petticoats—

Jean calls your name; you know it by the sound. He waves at you from the stable door, beckoning you to come over there. You panic for a moment, worried that maybe something is wrong with Maria, but then you see him smiling. Giddiness bubbles in your throat; you haven’t seen him all day. You grab the fistfuls of your skirts and run over to him, not caring about the dust you kick up with your boots. Eren and Connie are throwing horseshoes, paying you no mind as you practically throw yourself into Jean’s arms.

He catches you with a chuckle, embracing you swiftly before stepping back and looping his thumbs under his suspenders. He wears a mischievous grin as he says, “I have something to show you.” You link your arm in his and he takes you into the stable.

Maria stands in the middle, out of her stall but still. She’s always been well-behaved, but she always listened better to you than anyone else. As Jean approaches her, she shakes her head to get his attention. He pats her muzzle before scampering out the open double barn doors at the back of the stable that face the open pasture. “Stay there,” he tells you when you try to follow. When you raise an eyebrow, he adds, “Trust me,” so you do.

He runs several feet outside the stable, to the edge of the hill that dips down into the green pasture where the cows graze during the day. You can barely make out what he’s doing until he lifts his fingers to his mouth, poking them in the corners of his lips. When he blows, he makes the loudest whistle you’ve ever heard, but that’s not the impressive part; Maria turns almost immediately and runs to him.

She whinnies, obviously taken with him, and you think to yourself that perhaps she favors him as much as you do. Jean strokes her neck before telling her to stay. He returns quickly to your side, and you rush to cover your ears before he whistles again. Maria comes trotting in again, drawn to the sound, but you’re too busy watching Jean’s fingers as they slot into his mouth, so long and nimble that your head is filled with sinful thoughts for their use. It’s not proper to think that way, to imagine him touching you and holding you and kissing you, but when have you ever given heed to what’s proper? As long as you keep the thoughts inside your head, despite how easy it would be to pull him into one of the empty stalls and run your hands up his chest, you have nothing to worry about. But oh, how you wish it weren’t all just in your head.

Jean puts Maria back in her stall while you linger, waiting for him as he closes up the barn doors and latches the stable door shut. You nudge his arm with yours as he walks you back to the house. “I can’t believe you trained her to do that.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’m just that good.”

You laugh, finding him charming even when he’s acting smug. “A regular horse whisperer.”

He wraps a hand around his jaw. “It’s this long, ugly face of mine. They think I'm one of them. Makes 'em trust me.”

“You are NOT—”

You’re cut off by Papa calling for you from the front porch, and your face drops. The air between you and Jean suddenly chills, and you’re acutely away of just how close to him you were walking. Two figures sit on horseback near the corral; not Eren and Connie, but two men about the same age. Papa’s face is stern yet somehow blank at the same time, the color rushed out of it like he’d seen a ghost. “Come on inside the house, right now.”

You glance at Jean, who stands tall but rigid next to you. You give him a short nod before joining Pa on the porch. He sweeps you inside before you can glance back to Jean again, and you think, this is it. You’ve pushed your luck too far, and he’s going to forbid you from speaking to Jean again. Or worse, he’s going to tell Jean to leave, to go back where he came from, and he’s going to hire one or both of those men outside in his place. You should have been more careful, more subtle in your attempts to get close to him—

An approving hum from beside the hearth snaps you to attention. A fire flickers on the stones, lighting the dark main room, and an unfamiliar man stands with his elbow on top of the fireplace. You study him with dread in the pit of your stomach as he studies you. He has slick blonde hair and wears a black pinstriped suit as well as a perfectly round pair of spectacles. He smokes a cigarette, even though Mama doesn’t let anybody smoke inside the house, which he puts out on the stones of the hearth before crossing the room.

“You were right, my friend,” the man drawls. “She sure is pretty.”

You cling to Pa’s arm, cringing at the way the stranger circled the two of you like a buzzard, ready to pick the meat from your bones. And you had a horrible feeling that you might know why.

Pa guides you to a chair at the table and sits you down without introducing you. He and the stranger take the other two chairs and begin to speak like you aren’t even there. You don’t know where Mama is. The stranger pulls a book and a little pencil from a pocket inside his jacket. “Looks to me like you’re two hundred short. What are we going to do about that?”

“I didn’t know you’d come to collect so soon, Zeke.” When Pa’s voice shakes, your blood runs cold. You’ve never seen him like this: afraid.

The stranger, Zeke, chuckles. “Well, well, well. I didn’t realize you needed a handy little schedule to give me my money. I thought you’d want to pay off your debts sooner rather than later. Silly me.” Zeke unbuttons his overcoat and tosses one lapel to the side, showing off a shiny, silver revolver in a holster at his hip.

Suddenly smaller and defensive, Pa answers. “We’re still right at the beginning of cattle season. I just need a little more time.”

Zeke leans forward over the table. “Time? Where was that time when you were betting more than you had in your pockets on that game of poker, hm? Wasting my time, more like.”

“Please, there must be some way we can settle this.” Pa’s hand slides over the table to cover yours.

Zeke sits back and crosses his arms, rolling his eyes over to you, gaze appraising over this pointed nose. “So you want to strike a bargain?”

“Yes.” Pa pats the top of your hand with his while Zeke considers, bringing a hand up pensively to his bearded chin. Your breath catches in your throat as you understand: you’re the bargaining chip.

Zeke crosses one leg over the other and sighs. “I suppose I can make you an offer, all the cards on the table, so to speak.” He folds his hands together and places them in front of you, smirking. “If you can’t settle up by, oh, let’s say--since you’re such a stickler for schedules—the end of the summer, then I’ll forgive your debts in exchange for her hand in marriage.”

“Well...I…” Papa slowly removes his hand from yours, withdrawing in, what, shame? Cowardice?

Zeke’s hand replaces it. You want to pull away, but you don’t, remembering the gun on his hip. “Of course, you don’t have to accept. But it would be a shame if you still can’t settle up. Accidents are liable to happen.” He pats your hand twice before standing, rebuttoning his jacket, and strolling out of the house, letting the door slam behind him.

So this is to be your fate, to become some rich man’s wife in order to save your family from whatever Zeke is threatening. It would sound noble, you suppose, even self-sacrificing to do this for the people you love, if it were any fault of your own that you were in this situation in the first place. But Pa compounded back luck with crossing the wrong man, and now that he couldn’t pay the price, you would have to. You can tell by the way he speaks, the arrogant air with which he carries himself, that Zeke is a powerful man, one maybe some women would want to be married to, if he wasn’t so dirty and manipulative.

Pa knows what you’re thinking. “Darlin’, you know he would make a respectable husband—”

Before he can say anything else, you flee to your room and close the door. You’re angry and frightened and a thousand more things all at once, the emotions so overwhelming that you can only process by burying your face in your bed and crying until the sun has set and your eyes are ringed in red. You hear Ma and Pa muttering to each other, but neither comes to check on you.

When the house falls silent, you lie awake listening to the wind rattling the window shutters and the crickets chirping their nightly laments. Your body feels full of fire, like every word you’ve ever swallowed instead of spoken is being ignited. Your arms twitch; your legs are restless. You can’t lie down any longer, wrestling with the things you can’t change. Now that Ma and Pa are in bed, you have to get out of here.

You dress in a rush and slip out the door in a hurry, latching the door so it doesn’t swing in the wind. You practically stomp to the stable, but you soften when you see Maria, awake and fidgeting with happiness as you get her ready to ride. Once you’re saddled up, you tear out the barn door, hitting full gallop before you’re even off the property.

With the cool night breeze in your air and Maria bouncing underneath you, you start to feel like you’re coming back into your body instead of swimming inside your mind in some faraway place. You’re here, you’re alive, and you’re in control as you steer her to the edge of the sparse forest beyond the pasture. You ride along the tree line, using it as your guide while pushing all thoughts of men and marriage out of your mind until the sound of hooves behind you makes you gasp and jolt.

You tug on Maria’s reins, making a sharp turn away from the trees to circle around. The waning moon is bright enough that you didn’t need to bring a lantern to ride out in the open, but the tall figure on the dark horse trotting up to you holds one high above his head. “Jean!” you scold. “What are you doing? You scared me half to death!”

Jean brings Buchwald, his horse, to a stop right next to your, holding the lantern in front of his glaring face. “What—what am I doing? What the hell are you doing out here?”

Something in your gut twists at his scolding, maybe guilt or maybe fury or some combination of the two. But you’re not in the mood to be told what to do, not tonight, after everything. “I hardly think it’s any of your business what I’m doing,” you can’t stop yourself from spitting back, matching his tone.

“None of my—? Of course it’s my business when I see you—” He starts sentences he never finishes.

You pull on Maria’s reins. “You’re not my Pa,” you snap at him before turning her around, ready to be on your way. Before you can, Jean swings around in front of you, blocking your way. His horse is much taller than yours, fitting to his own size, and when he’s seated on top of it, he towers over you.

His face has softened, eyes still burning but his mouth set in a gentler line. “I know I’m not. But I thought I was… something.”

Air expels from your lungs. Your fists unclench around the reins as you stare back at him. You worry your lip between your teeth, recognizing the concern masked behind his anger, the unspoken affection in his words. It’s almost too much to bear, the weight of what’s left unsaid, but you’re too afraid to say it out loud, too afraid of what might happen if you admit that he’s not just something to you. He’s everything.

Instead, you ask, “So you followed me?”

Jean rolls his eyes. “When I saw you ride off in the middle of the night by yourself? I had to.” He breathes your name like an oath. “I know you’re a strong woman, but hell, Zeke and his boys could still be out here, and you don’t know what they’d do if they got their hands on you.”

You raise a brow. “You know that man?”

Jean lowers this lantern while guiding his horse around, pointing the both of you back toward the house. You notice the double-barreled shotgun strapped across his back. Your horses walk slowly, side by side as he speaks in low tones. “Anyone who spends much time in town does, so it figures you wouldn’t. I’ve sat next to him in the saloon dozens of times, watching him throw back whiskey after whiskey before starting up one of his poker games.”

“You gamble?” You try to keep your voice from shaking. You know Jean’s not like your father, but you hope he proves you right.

“No. But I drink, so I tend to see a lot of it even if they’re not dealing me in.” He looks away from you, falling silent.

“You drink a lot?”

After a pause, he admits. “I drink enough. Do you?”

“Not much,” you tell him. “Except at a barn raising last year, when Mama and Papa weren’t looking.”

He smiles, but only slightly. “I bet that was a sight.”

You change the subject. “Do you really think Zeke would…”

“If he’s got a score with your daddy? Yes. And those Galliard brothers are no different. They do whatever Zeke says because he pays their bail when they get caught. I just couldn’t stand the thought of—” When he cuts himself off again, you pull Maria to a dead stop. “What’s wrong?” Jean asks, jerking his reins.

“Papa wants me to marry him.”

“What?” Jean growls. He points his gaze up toward your papa’s house on the hill. “But when your Pa said you were already spoken for…”

“He meant this. To forgive the debt he owes.”

“That… why, he can’t…” Jean grits his teeth and sighs before he starts moving again, and you guide Maria to follow.

As you crest the hill and approach the house, he mumbles, “But there’s nothing you can do, is there?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I could try to refuse, but…”

Jean dismounts and holds out his hand to help you down too. You take it gratefully, but once your feet touch the ground, he doesn’t let go. You look up at him, unsure of what to say, until he breaks the silence. “You deserve better.” He expects nothing in return as he pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

You press your lips together and nod, willing away tears that build behind your eyes. “So do you.”

He rubs the back of your hand with his thumb before leaning down to kiss the top of your head. His lips rest against your hair as you wrap your arms around his waist, embracing him fully for the first time. It feels wrong but right, brand new yet somehow warm and familiar, until he pulls away.

Jean takes Maria’s reins as well as Buchwald’s. “Go on inside,” he whispers. “I’ll take care of both of them.”

You hesitate, wanting more but fearing it at the same time. Not tonight, you think. Not like this, when you’re weary and broken from the events of the day. It takes every bit of strength you have left, but you turn away from him and creep back inside the house.

No one makes a sound when the door creaks on the way in. No one stirs at the tapping of the heels of your boots against the floor, as you don’t bother to unlace them. You shut your bedroom door louder than usual and wonder why you bother sneaking around at all if no one is even going to notice when you’re gone.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Morning comes. You wake with the pastel sunrise, or maybe you never slept at all. The world is a blur as you roll over onto your side and blink away the drowsiness that hangs heavy from your limbs. After rubbing your eyes and kicking off your blanket, you drag yourself to the window. You don’t expect it, not after the way last night ended, but sitting there is another delicate violet, plucked and placed on the outside sill for you to find.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you push the window open. This is Jean’s way of sending a message, you’re sure of it—a small gesture that holds a promise too big to say in front of anyone else. Taking the flower by its tiny stem, you place it on your little dressing table as you twist your hair quickly into a messy braid. You put on your favorite dress and apron before tucking the violet behind your ear, threading the stem through your hair to keep it in place where he’ll see it. You’re going to make sure he sees it. You’re going to find out once and for all if these little gifts are his doing.

Mama already has salt pork and eggs started in the kitchen as you step out. You help her prepare the rest of breakfast in silence, your heart pounding. The men will come in for their morning meal any minute. You touch the violet in your hair, making sure it hasn’t fallen, and the wooden door creaks open. Jean, Connie, and Eren. As usual, they go straight for the coffee boiling over the fire, Eren and Connie clambering over each other like children.

Jean trails a step behind them, avoiding the scuffle, his eyes rolling over to you as you plate the eggs. You watch him as you fiddle with a tendril of hair by your ear, drawing his eye to the flower nestled there. He swallows thickly, but without a word, he lifts a hand to pat the breast pocket on his vest. Heat rises to your neck and ears when you see it: a nearly identical flower is tucked in the little pocket. He stands tall, displaying the secret vow proudly to you and you alone.

Your insides flutter as he gets his coffee and breakfast, taking it back outside with the other boys. You hardly touch your own breakfast, too nervous to eat and wishing that time would move faster. Your fingers itch to touch him, your legs yearn to run to him, your mouth craves the feeling of his own to swallow up. The urges are all-consuming, maybe enough to drive you crazy if you don’t do something about them right now.

You force down a few bites of breakfast even though your stomach is tied in knots, and you grab your hat on the way out the door, shouting something to Mama about feeding the chickens and not waiting to hear what she says in return. You fly toward the stable, light as air on your feet. You find Jean waiting, idly kicking the dirt with the pointed toe of his black boot as he watched.

He lifts his chin when you slam the stable door behind you, longing in his eyes when they lock on yours. It’s not an exaggeration to say you throw yourself into his open arms. He pulls you in tight against his chest, one arm around your shoulders and the other cradling the back of your head. You press your face against his chest, breathing in the dewy, natural scent of him.

His lips find your ear. “Did you know all along? That it was me?”

You clench the fabric of his loose, gray shirt in your hands. “No. Not at first.”

He strokes your hair before pulling back to look at you, the sweetest, shyest of smiles on his lips. An almost boyish blush glows across his nose and cheeks. “Well, now you know.” His hands move slowly to meet at the sides of your neck, tilting your face upwards toward his own. You cover them with your own, fingers slotting into the spaces between his.

“Now I know,” you repeat as your lashes flutter closed, your neck yearning upward, closer to his mouth. Jean chuckles, his hands trembling under yours, as he leans down and kisses you full on the mouth, soft and slow.

You tilt your head to the side, lips moving languidly against his as you deepen the kiss. The shared breath between your mouths is hot, and he tastes like bitter coffee and sweet tobacco. Jean’s hands slide up to cup your cheeks, holding you in place as the tip of his tongue toys at your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You slide your hands down his impossibly long torso, stopping at his waist to press him harder against you as you open your jaw for him, meeting his tongue sloppily in the middle.

When you wobble on your tiptoes, Jean hums and gathers you in his arms, reaching low around your back as you loop your arms up and around his neck and shoulders. He lifts you off the ground, stumbling backwards only a bit but never breaking the heated kiss between you. He sighs into your mouth and you swear you can taste him in your throat, feel him under your skin, see him behind your eyelids even with your eyes closed.

He drops you back to your feet when the barn door slides open behind him. You untangle your tongue from his, a wet trail of saliva connecting your mouths before Jean wipes it away with the back of his hand. You hear voices, Eren’s and Connie’s, as they barge into the stable, completely unaware of what you were doing moments ago. Goosebumps rise at the back of your neck at the fear of being caught, but Jean’s broad build shields you from Eren and Connie’s prying eyes until you can turn and make for the chicken feed with your secret.

Jean helps the others feed and water the horses while you fill your feed bag, but when you glance back at him before leaving the stable, he’s still smiling at you, dazed and breathless. It’s enough to make you feel dizzy for the rest of the morning.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Stolen kisses become a way of life. You start your mornings as early as you can, sometimes before the sunrise even as the summer days get longer. Rarely are there more than a few minutes where you can get Jean alone, but you take them where you can: out in the stable, back behind the house, and if you’re lucky, against one of the plum trees, his body covering yours as the bark nips into your back. You become incredibly familiar with the fleeting taste of him, the prickly stubble on his chin teasing at your neck, the calloused pads of his fingers running up and down your arms like he can’t get enough of you.

You find delicate purple flowers waiting for you in more places than ever. Not only do they grace your windowsill on the mornings when you don’t wake up before he does, but you find them threaded through the wires of the chicken coop, laid on the toes of your boots when you leave them outside overnight to dry after a summer rain, and sometimes tucked under the ties of your apron if he’s sly enough to sneak one in while he’s covering you with kisses.

Late night rides across the pasture become more rare, something you miss but don’t feel like you need to do in order to clear your head. Still, fears tug at the back of your mind: what happens if you get caught? What will you tell Ma and Pa if Zeke comes to call? But those are questions for the end of the summer, you decide. Questions that you’ll figure out how to answer in time. Now that you’ve had a taste of what it’s like to love Jean Kirstein, there’s no going back. For now, you’re deliriously happy.

As breeding season draws to a close, however, Papa becomes more concerned about the number of calves you’ll have by the spring. The herd has been something of a challenge to handle, and he’s been left with some cattle that are uncooperative, and therefore, unbred. Rather than continue to struggle, Pa decides to cut his losses and sell the remainder of the herd for meat at auction.

It’s settled, and you couldn’t be more thrilled. Mama and Papa load up their small wagon for a few days’ trip to town for the auction, while Eren and Connie drive the cattle alongside them. Jean, the most, or possibly only, trustworthy of the three, is to stay behind and watch the remaining herd as well as the house and the rest of the ranch while they’re gone. That includes you, since there just won’t be space for you at the inn, and Pa can’t afford to lose anything he earns renting a second room (Eren and Connie will sleep on their bedrolls in the wagon). You kiss Pa on the cheek for the first time in weeks before the horses pull the wagon away.

You stand on the porch with Jean until the wagon and the cattle disappear from sight, and for the first time, you’re alone with him—completely alone. The tension is palpable, the air sweet with possibilities, excitement brewing inside you. You stare after them for minutes, making sure they’re actually gone, while Jean snakes his arm behind you, his large hand coming to rest at your waist.

Boldly, he spins you around to face him, dipping you backwards into a long kiss. It feels strange to have his lips on yours out here in the open, but you welcome him with a hum that turns into a squeal when he lifts your feet off the ground. With his hands tucked under your thighs, your skirts bunched up and tangled between your limbs and his, Jean wraps your legs around his own waist, hoisting you up in the air. You lean down to reach his mouth, peeking at his gleeful face from a whole new angle, before you let your eyes flutter closed, content to let him decide what happens next. He kicks open the door to the house and carries you to your room.

You land softly on your bedspread, the wooden legs of your bed frame creaking as Jean crawls on top of you after kicking off his boots. His pants are dusty but you don’t care about your dress or your sheets as he lowers himself gently onto his side and drapes a long leg over your middle. You giggle and sigh his name as he kisses at your neck, his stubbly chin tickling when he moves to nibble your earlobe. In fact, you can’t stop laughing, hardly able to believe that after the months he’s been here, he’s finally in your bed.

You take his jaw between your hands and pull his lips to yours, kissing him playfully as his fingertips roam over your hips and your belly before he moves to palm your breast. You lick into his mouth with a hum before he does the same, rolling over onto his front and pressing more of his weight into you.

A strange sensation washes over you before you can move any further. You kiss him again, but hesitantly, because you know where this leads. As badly as you want to go there, you’re worried of what he’d think of you if he knew—

It’s then that you hear it, loud and clear: his stomach growling.

Jean breaks the kiss, his face flushing in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says with a tight smile. “Busy day. Guess I forgot to eat.”

You stroke his cheek with your knuckles before kissing the tip of his nose. “Let me cook for you. Please.” As excited as you are to be able to touch him freely, to explore his body and the things it can do to you, you don’t want an empty stomach sullying the moment. Besides, you have at least two days before everyone returns from town. You have plenty of time.

Jean hovers as you fixed beans and cornbread biscuits, remembering that they were some of his favorites even though he didn’t tend to be picky. His chin rested on your shoulder as you mixed up a batch of pie dough and folded in sweetened plums in it to fry. He tries to help you, offering to watch something while you start another task, but you shake your head. You’re testing yourself, in a small way, to see if you can do this by yourself, but it’s also your gift to him, a meal cooked solely by your hands for the first time.

There’s something so comfortable about simple spending time alone with one another, smiling at each other over the table as you eat. Jean compliments your food excessively, while you try not to let it go to your head. There’s an old saying about winning a man’s heart through his stomach, though you’re fairly certain you already had both before tonight.

Pa left later in the day than he should have, and before you know it, the sun has set. Jean wraps his arms around your waist as you glance out the window, watching the fireflies come out and dot the pasture like little stars with their light. You cup your hands over his, holding you just under your ribcage. It stirs something inside you, this moment of solitude together, but for the first time all evening, as he folds his long body into yours, it’s something uneasy that you feel.

You bite your lip, that restless feeling settling in your gut. You know what you’re both thinking about, what you both want to do back in the bedroom now that you’re warm and fed and in tune with each other. But there’s something you feel like you need to do first, something you’ve been pushing off for weeks but you feel like you can no longer swallow.

You tip your head back against Jean’s shoulder, and he looks down at you, patient as ever. “What is it? Something troubling you?” he asks.

You purse your lips. “Can we get the horses and go on a ride? There’s some place I want to show you.”

Jean smirks. “I suppose I should let you get a good ride in before your folks get home. As long as I can come along, that is.”

You kiss the underside of his scruffy chin. “Of course you can.”

You change quickly into a better set of clothes for riding; it’s a hot night outside, so you opt for a skirt with no petticoat, a light blouse, and your hat. By the time you reach the stable, Jean already has the horses saddled up and ready to go. He has his gun strapped to his back, surely to be cautious when riding at night. He helps you up onto Maria’s back before handing you your lantern, then hops up on Buchwald with his own. “Where to?”

“Just follow me.”

You ride at a quick but comfortable pace, your lantern bouncing in your hand as you hold it up in front of you. The light flickers, and you wonder if from a distance, you look just like two more fireflies, fluttering in the night. You guide Maria along the base of the mountain, far past the edge of the pasture, and out of sight of the house. It’s been years since you’ve ventured this far, but you remember the way, and Maria seems to as well when you reach the easily-overlooked gap in the trees.

“In the forest?” Jean calls from just behind you, sounding apprehensive.

“It’s only a short way in, I promise.” You hope it isn’t further than you remember and you slow Maria to a walk. The trees make it darker, harder to see in front of you, though the growth isn’t terribly dense this close to the edge of the woods. You’re guided by the sound of trickling water before you see the stream, bathed in a hazy, midnight blue light from the break in the trees overhead.

You hop down and tie Maria’s reins to a low tree branch before taking a seat on the rocky bank of the water. Jean does the same, slotting in at your side and wrapping his arms around you, even though it knocks your hat crooked on your head. He’s always touching you, always holding you when he gets the chance, like he’s savoring the moments you have together. You’d do anything to make sure that it can last.

“How’d you know this was here?” he asks you after a while, kicking a pebble into the trickling stream with his toe.

You settle against his chest. “I used to come here by myself a lot, when I wanted to just get away and think for a while.”

Jean hums, resting his cheek against your head. “You’ve been awful lonely for a long while, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You reach for his hand and pull it to your chest, lacing your fingers over his broken knuckles, dried from the sun and the dirty work on the ranch. You play with his hand idly while you try and think of what to say next, but he beats you to it.

“Lonely enough to want to be with someone like me?” The words sound stiff and formal coming from his mouth, almost rehearsed, like he’s been mulling it over for ages.

“What do you mean someone like you?” You bring his hand to your mouth, hiding behind it though you’re facing the same direction he is.

Jean shrugs. “Poor, for one thing. No family, for one thing. And none too good-looking either.”

You turn and capture his face in your hands. He needs to look at you when you say this. “You’re wrong about that. But even if you weren’t so handsome, and I hadn’t been so lonely, I’d be in love with you anyway.”

Jean casts his eyes down. “I can’t offer you much.”

You blink. “I don’t need anything. Nothing but you. And you give me so much already. You make me happy, and keep me safe when I try and do something irrational.”

He smiles a little at that, but it fades quickly. “You asked me once if I drink a lot. The truth is that I used to drink way too much and do things I regret. I used to want to be numb all the time, and whiskey was the easiest way to do it.” He strokes your hand. “But since I came here, and met you, I’ve hardly wanted to. I don’t want to be like that anymore, but I’m scared of slipping back into old habits. And you deserve better than some drunk, penniless man.”

Your lips are on his almost as soon as he finishes the thought. When you pull back, his sad eyes are locked on yours, but you’re ready to make a promise. “We all have regrets. But you don’t have to be numb, not with me. You can be happy and sad and upset and anything else you feel. And I’ll be right here.”

Jean sighs and kisses your hand, but you can tell by the look in his eyes that he doesn’t, he can’t, believe you. But he sits there with you, vulnerabilities thrown wide open for you to see, and you owe him as much, so you keep talking. “I should be honest with you. I…” It’s harder for you to say than you imagined. “I’m not…”

“Not what?” Concern is etched on his face as tears brew in the corners of your eyes.

“A virgin.” There, it’s out. What’s said is said, and how he reacts is up to him. Your chest aches and you brace for the worst, afraid he won’t even want to look at you, but Jean just looks at you quizzically.

“Neither am I.” You tilt your head; it seems he’s not following.

You huff and explain. “Papa always says that men don’t want a woman who isn’t pure. Well, I’ve been ruined for nearly two years now.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Jean slips into that tone he always uses when you bring up issues with Pa. “Hell, so it’s all right for a man to lay with a woman, but not for the woman he lays with? That’s some horse shit.” Jean reaches out to swipe away the stray tears from your cheek with his thumb, and you lean into his touch, heart fluttering.

“You’re not upset?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe I’m a little surprised, but no, I’m not one bit angry.” He hesitates. “Who…?” The question trails off, but you understand.

“We went to a barn raising a few years back. People were drinking and dancing and playing music, real late into the night. There was a boy… we drank together and slipped off together when Ma and Pa were busy.”

“And you—”

“I wanted to,” you admit. “I was being reckless, and I thought I was grown enough. But I never saw him again. And now I’ve been worrying that I’d ruined myself before I even met you.”

Jean clutches you tight against his chest. “You’re not ruined. I don’t care about any of that, as long as you’re all right. I want you, as long as you’ll have me.”

You sniffle and shake your head. “I don’t know how, or what we’ll do, but I’ll tell Pa that I’m not marrying Zeke or anyone else. If you’ll stand by me.”

Jean pulls you into a kiss then, all soft lips and rough hands against your mouth. When he pulls back, he’s wearing a sad grin again. “I will.”

You sit there on the bank of the stream a little while longer, until the horses start getting antsy. They probably don’t like the dark, and if you’re being honest, you’re feeling a little uneasy yourself, not knowing exactly what’s lurking out in these woods. You saddle up again together and ride out of the trees the same way you rode in. Riding side by side, you head back toward the empty house, thinking only of Jean and your empty bed until you reach the pasture and see the great light just over the hill.

Your house smolders in flames. At least half of the thing is engulfed by fire. You jerk back hard on Maria’s reins, pulling her to a dead stop, and you scream. Your first thought is that this is your fault, that you left a fire lit in the kitchen and caught the whole house ablaze, but then you notice the huge plumes of fire billowing from the barn and the stable as well. They’re too far from the house for the flames to have spread on their own.

Two figures appear, black splotches against the orange light from the burning house, lit torches in their hands. You watch in horror as they reach the gate of the corral, lending their flames until the wooden pen is lit too. You scream again.

“Quiet down!” Jean tries to scold you, but it’s no use. Your body moves faster than your mind does. With a sharp kick to her haunches, you launch Maria up the hill, despite Jean’s pleas for you to wait, come back, run away.

You crest the top of the hill with a ruckus, already feeling the heat pumping from the house. You throw your leg over Maria’s back and slide out of your saddle in one motion, charging toward the men who set the fire. You don’t know what you’re thinking, don’t even know what you’re planning to do. Still, you run toward the nearest one. It’s not until you’re close enough to raise your arm to hit him that you realize you’ve seen this man and his slicked back hair before. Before you can swing, a hand clasps over your from behind, wrenching your arm around behind your back.

You yelp and thrash, but you’re pinned back against the broad, wiry chest of a man. Though you’re kicking against his legs and the ground, you hear him croon in your ear, “Now, now, dear. There’s no need for that.” You’ve only met him once, but you couldn’t forget that voice: Zeke.

You scream and twist, trying to wrench yourself from Zeke’s grasp as the Galliards stand and watch, but he’s stronger than he looks. You don’t stop flailing, eventually bashing Zeke in the chin with your head, hard enough to knock your own hat off. He grunts before pinning both your arms to your sides and turning you to face him, then he nods to the others. “Boys, a little help, please?”

In a moment, there’s a man on either side of you. Even if you were to shake Zeke off, there would be nowhere to run but into the burning house behind you. Catching the recognition in your eyes, Zeke loosens his grip on your arms, but only by a little. Your breathing is quick and shallow, your forehead and the back of your neck sweating as you glance around madly, searching for Jean, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Zeke smirks down at you mercilessly, the reflection of the flames glinting in his spectacles as he registers your panic.

“We weren’t expecting you home so soon, little lady,” he drawls, his voice smooth and dark as molasses. “When we saw your old Pa in town, we figured you were there with him, but what a nice surprise this is.” He licks his lips. “Probably should have thought twice about leaving a pretty girl like you out here all alone.”

Either Zeke doesn’t know Jean is here, or he’s seen him and he’s bluffing. Either way, you can’t risk calling for help. You’ll only get Jean shot. Instead, you rear back and spit at Zeke’s face, hitting him in the cheek.

He chuckles darkly and wipes it off on his shoulder. “Didn’t know you were so feisty. I could have sworn my future bride was the sweet, quiet type who knows her place.” He speaks while baring his teeth, pointed canines shining in the firelight.

“I’d never—”

Zeke slaps you across the face. You gasp at the pain, your eyes watering instantly while Zeke raises his voice. “You’ll do well to keep your mouth shut.” He drags you closer to him, so close you can feel his breath on your face as he speaks. “You know why we’re here? Because I saw your Pa in town, betting the money he owes me on more card games. So I figured it was time to send a little message, but maybe the house isn’t enough. Maybe I’ll just hold you for ransom until I get what I’m owed and more.”

Zeke jerks you against him before placing both hands at your throat, forcing your face up to look at him. “And until then, you can be my personal little whore. It’s all you’re worth anyway.” He snorts. “At least you’re a pretty one.”

His fingers slide down and suddenly tear at the collar of your shirt, ripping the fabric open down the front. Your sleeves fall off your shoulders, completely ripped open. You scream again as he steels one hand around your neck and the other gropes your breast while he sucks in a breath of pleasure. His grip around your neck is almost suffocating as he jerks your head up and tries to kiss you. His lips touch yours as you shriek for him to get away, kicking at his shins as your breaths get shallower. You gasp for air, tears streaking your face, before a shrill whistle pierces from behind you.

Maria, who has been pacing by the corral, takes off, barreling straight toward you. She’s clearly confused, spooked by the fire and the noise of the familiar whistle. Zeke hears her coming, and just before she nearly collides with both of you, he pushes you off of him and stumbles backward, out of her path and onto the ground. Your back hits the dirt as well, but as you scramble up to your knees, you hear Zeke huff as Jean pins him down, boot to his chest and shotgun to his chin.

Zeke calls for the Galliards, but Jean shuts him up by jabbing the double barrel upwards. He’s breathing hard but doesn’t look away from Zeke when you scream his name. In spite of himself, Zeke laughs. “So, they left the farm boy here to look after you, did they?” He speaks to you while looking up at Jean, who presses the barrel harder against Zeke’s Adam’s apple.

“Shut up,” he spits, teeth grit and jaw set tight.

Zeke wraps a hand around the side by side barrels. “You gonna kill me? Then what? This ain’t even your fight. You willing to go down fighting for her, son?” When he reaches under the lapel of his jacket, you scream.

“Jean, his revolver!”

Jean pulls his gun up to his shoulder and aims at Zeke’s throat. “Go to Hell,” he growls. Then he unloads both shots into Zeke’s neck. You scream and look away, relieved and horrified as Zeke’s blood pools underneath him.

The Galliards come running and yelling. Jean presses the lever to open the gun, dumping two shells out on the ground before smoothly reloading two more bullets he pulls from his vest pocket. With a jerk of his arm, he latches the barrel shut again before raising the gun to his shoulder again. He kicks Zeke’s body before taking aim at them, daring them to come closer.

The two brothers stop dead in their tracks, hands raised. The darker-haired one glances between you and Jean, clearly unsure of what to do. The lighter-haired one stares at Zeke’s unmoving body on the ground. Everything is still, the house crackling and crumbling as it burns, until the dark-haired boy reaches for the holster at his hip.

Jean steadies himself and pulls the trigger, once, then again. One by one, the Galliard’s groan and fall to the ground.

You brace yourself against the dusty ground with both hands, gasping and heaving. The world seems to shift underneath you, everything blurred by the tears in your eyes. You feel a grip on your arm, a hand pulling you upward onto your feet, a shoulder and arm supporting your weight.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. We have to go. I’m sorry.” Jean repeats over and over before he whistles again for Maria, who comes running along with Buchwald. You force air into your lungs as he pushes you up into your saddle. Your torn shirt is still falling off your shoulders, the top of your delicate white shift on display, but you hardly give it a second thought. You sit there dumbly, trying to process, as Jean reloads his gun again and grabs a lantern. By the time he’s mounted and next to you, your head has stopped swimming just enough to follow his lead.

“We need to put some distance behind us. We can’t put out the fire, and we don’t know if Zeke has more men around.” He explains blankly before you break into a gallop. “We’ll head toward town until we find somewhere safe to rest. All right?”

You nod. “Yeah, ok.” You follow Jean’s lead, trusting him completely, even in your state of shock.

Riding helps clear your head. The rhythmic bouncing of Maria’s gait brings you back into your body and mind as you cross the plains, even as you grow weary. Jean checks on you every so often, and you reassure him that you’re fine--as fine as you can be after what you’ve been through. It dawns on you that Zeke is gone for good, and even under the circumstances, it registers as a relief.

You don’t know how long you ride across empty plains and alongside fields of wheat. Eventually, when Jean asks how you’re doing, you admit you’re tired. He starts watching the horizon, scanning left and right, and after another brutal stretch of riding, he finally points out a structure just off in the distance. You ride toward it to find an abandoned stable, likely once belonging to the farmer who owned this land but left or was run out for one reason or another.

“It’s been a few hours, at least. Nobody will find us here,” Jean reassures you before pushing over the rotting wooden barn door. Despite the decrepit outside of the stable, the inside is fairly clean. There’s even hay in the stalls that smells somewhat fresh, so at least you won’t be sleeping directly on a dirt floor. Not that you can be picky.

With Maria and Buchwald stowed in separate stalls, Jean finds a bucket and a water pump. He fills the bucket for you to drink from before washing his hands under the spigot; you realize he still had splattered blood on them. There’s blood dotting the hems of his pants too, but there’s nothing much to be done about that right now.

He knows you’re watching him wash Zeke’s blood from his hands while you rest on a bale of hay against the wall. Even after he dries his hands, he’s careful not to touch you with them, opting instead to kneel in front of you and place his weary head in your lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice.”

You lean forward to kiss his upturned cheek. “I know. Thank you.” He saved your life; he must know that, even if he’s as shaken up as you are. He did what had to be done, and you’d spend the rest of the night, the rest of your life, thanking him.

“I’ll always protect you,” he promises. “Always.”

Gently, you pull him up to his feet and wrap your arms around him, breathing in the mountain air scent of his clothes. He holds you tightly around the shoulders as you press your ear to his chest, listening as his steady heartbeat quickens. You know what you want, and you hope he wants it too. Slow and suggestive, you run your fingers up and down his sides, trailing his long torso with your touch. He melts into you, his touches against your back soft but deliberate before you step back and take him by the hand, leading him toward a bed of straw. He follows.

You sink down and recline against the pile of hay, feeling it tickle at your back as you shrug your shoulders out of your tattered blouse and toss the garment to the side. You reach for the ribbon holding your hair in its braid next, and Jean watches with parted lips as you shake your hair free before dropping to rest in the straw beside you. He moves so his hip touches yours, and one massive hand finds your thigh and rests on top of it, over your skirt.

You want to be closer to him, want to give him every part of you there is to give, so you reach out and take his hand and place it against your chest. “Jean, will you touch me, please?” you ask softly, letting the words roll and curl off your lips in a whisper.

“Yes.” Jean draws a quick intake of breath before leaning in to press his mouth against yours. You let him roll you flat on your back, pulling him down on top of you as you part your lips for him and suck his tongue into your mouth. He hums a low tone of pleasure before moving to straddle your waist, one long leg on either side of you as his chest presses down against yours. Your hips roll of their own accord, seeking friction against his tight body.

It doesn’t feel like it did the last time he hovered over you, sweet and blushing in your bed. Now that bed is burned to ash, and he tastes like fire and sin. Your body craves him, pulsing deep inside and urging you to plunge deeper, grip harder, grind faster against him. You grab handfuls of the back of his shirt, pulling until it comes untucked and you can run your fingertips over the exposed skin of his lower back.

Jean moans into a chuckle before breaking the kiss, sitting back on his shins to gaze down at you. He hung the lantern on a peg high on the wall, and though the flickering light casts shadows across his face, you can clearly see him smiling. “You want me to take you, darlin’? Right here?”

“Yes, please, Jean.” Your chest is hot and heaving with shaky breaths. You can’t wait any longer.

Jean hooks a thumb under each of his suspenders, pulling them down off his broad shoulders and dropping them to his sides. He finishes what you started, grabbing his shirt from the bottom and pulling it up over his head, pushing off his black hat in the process. He lets his clothes fall behind him, forgotten as soon as they’re off his body. You gaze at his bare chest in the lantern light, defined with ridged muscle from the hours of manual labor he undertook every day.

“Tell me what you want, sweet girl,” he rumbles, his voice throaty and lowered in pitch, dripping with sex.

You roll your neck and moan. “You, I want you. Inside me, please.”

He smiles like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear those words. On his knees, Jean moves to the side so he can hoist your legs, crossed at the knee, up onto his shoulder. “Soon, darlin’. Gotta get you ready for me first.”

As he pushes your skirt and shift up your legs, revealing your stockings and garters to the moonlight, you don’t care that you’re not his first and that he’s not yours. All you care about is being joined with him, being known inside and out by this man whom you love so deeply. You hum and sigh as rough fingers drag up and down your calves, calluses snagging on the thin fabric of your stockings.

His fingers dip between your thighs, in the fold where your legs are pressed together, and groans when he feels your heat. Balancing your feet between his shoulder and his ear, he unhooks your garters from your stockings and pulls the fabric slowly down to your ankles and off over your toes. He kisses at your bare ankles, readjusting them against his shoulder as your skirts fall around your hips, exposing your bare cunt to him. He groans with his first look at you and reaches down, unbuttoning his pants and pulling out his hardened cock with one hand.

He pumps himself as you watch him, his face twisting with pleasure and maybe a hint of disbelief. “You’re so beautiful,” he muses as he strokes himself lazily, and you whine when he guides the wet head of his cock to the divot between the back sides of your legs. You haven’t even seen him yet, but you can feel how big he is as he thrusts between your thighs, can feel every delicious ridge and vein on the underside of his shaft against the soft flesh of your ass as he fucks your legs.

Jean’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans, the friction growing hotter as he grinds on the spot where your thighs meet your ass. “Oh darlin’, my baby, you feel so good.” You whine when he calls you those names, devoted to being whoever he wants you to be. He pants as he swirls his hips in a circle, his balls rubbing against the folds of your cunt from underneath. “Do I feel good for you, baby? Are you getting wet for me?”

You whimper and nod, the pressure in your core building to an almost maddening intensity. “Yes, ready for you,” you plead, hands ripping at the hay beneath you because they can’t reach him.

Jean murmurs as he pulls his cock back from you and drops your legs from his shoulder before kicking his pants off completely. You feel the blood rushing back down to your feet as he leans down to kiss you again, sloppy and desperate to taste you. When you feel his chest and throat rumble against you, some animalistic part of your mind takes over, and suddenly, you need him. You push at his chest with both hands, pushing him over onto his back so you can roll on top. Hiking your skirts up in both arms, you spread your legs across his lap, where his impressive erection stands tall for you.

Teasing his leaking tip through your folds, you swivel your hips, mixing his slick and yours until you’re wet enough to sink down onto his stiff cock. You sob and moan as you take him inside you, your hole stretching to accommodate his massive size. Jean’s hips stutter and jerk until you’re fully seated and writhing on top of him.

Since your arms are full with your skirts, Jean takes the lead and holds you by your hips, bouncing you up and down on his length. He groans with each drag inside you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. His mouth hangs open and so does yours as he bucks up into you while you ride him like an untamed stallion.

You don’t last long before the pressure in your lower belly becomes too much. You sing his name over and over until finally you break, creaming around his cock with a sharp cry that has him stilling inside you. You gasp for breath while Jean grinds his hips with yours, soothing you until you come down from your climax.

He pulls you down and kisses you hard, still stiff and pulsing inside you as he showers you with praise. “You’re so beautiful like this, baby. So good for me.” You moan into his mouth until he rolls you over, shifting your insides so you jolt with a squeal.

His hips begin to roll again, his cock pumping in and out of you at this new angle that makes you feel like you’re going to snap in half. “You ok, darlin’?” he groans as he continues to slide in and out of your little hole.

“Yes, yes, I want more. Please, Jean.” You’re hardly aware of what you’re begging for, but you know he’ll give you what you need.

Pushing your skirt out of the way, Jean lifts your legs again, crawling up to press down the backs of your thighs with his knees. His head and neck are dripping with sweat, his intensity incredibly intoxicating as you let him fold you into the press. Your pussy blossoms for him, opening up so he can push even deeper inside you, making you scream with every thrust.

“You want more? You can have it,” Jean’s eyes roll as he puts a hand to your lower belly, feeling himself bulging inside you. “You want me to fill you up? Put my seed inside you so you can have my pretty babies?”

You throw your head back and moan. “Yesssss. Please.”

Jeans thrusts come harder now, and faster, building toward his inevitable end. “Love you so much, darlin’. Want you to make me a daddy, over and over again. Will you?”

“Yes, yes, daddy,” you cry, and with a few more sharp trusts and a shout, Jean spills inside you, filling you just like he said he would. He thrusts hard and holds himself deep inside you as he spurts rope after rope, his seed leaking out of you before he even pulls out and collapses on top of you.

In a moment, you will get up and clean the mess between your thighs at the water pump. You will curl up in your bed of hay and sleep until morning. But first, you lie cradled in Jean’s arms, drawing wandering lines across his back with your fingers, holding and caressing him after finally claiming him and being claimed by him, your lover and protector.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

You wake after sunrise, light filtering in the old broken shutters of the stable where you slept. The last thing you remember is dozing off in Jean’s arms, but when you roll over, he’s no longer beside you in the hay. You sit up abruptly, wondering where he is until you hear the sound of the water pump outside. The barn door is open, and Maria and Buchwald stand outside as Jean pumps water into the bucket for them to drink. Your heartbeat returns to normal as you lie back against the hay, resting for just a moment more before you rise.

When you roll over onto your side, something catches your eye: waiting beside your head on your makeshift bed is a tiny purple bud, a prairie violet that has just opened its petals to the world. You smile and place your hand over the token of Jean’s continued promise to you, sighing as the man himself appears beside you.

Jean sinks to his knees next to you, placing a hand to your head. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you sigh. It’s not how you expected to wake up next to him, but you’d do it all over again if you had to for this very moment.

Jean strokes down your temple and over your cheek with his thumb before kissing your forehead. He notices the violet stem under your hand and smiles softly. “I want you to know I meant what I said last night. If you’ll have me, I want to marry you. Have a family with you.”

You rise up onto your elbows and pull him in by the jaw for a lingering kiss. “I want you too.”

You fall into a slow rhythm of lazy kisses and roaming hands, savoring the moment before finally Jean sits up again, lips pink and swollen from kissing. He sighs, looking out where the horses are tied up outside the stable. “We better head into town. We need to find your Ma and Pa.”

“Right.” You climb to your feet, brushing the straw out of your hair and clothes. What comes next is less pleasant to imagine than marrying the man in front of you.

“You thinking about what you’re going to say to them?” Jean asks you, parsing your thoughts even before you do.

“Yes,” you reply, picking up your blouse  from the ground. It’s dirty and torn, but you shouldn’t ride into town in just your shift. Instead, you rip the fabric the rest of the way so you can at least tie the front together again. “But I’m not so worried. It’s time I told them the truth. About everything.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It’s past midday when you reach town. Jean leads you to the only inn, where Ma and Pa must be staying. The main drag is bustling with people, busier than usual with the auction about to start. Most of them are dressed well, in their Sunday best; you in your tied up shirt and Jean with blood still on his pants stick out like sore thumbs.

You bring your horses to the stable behind the inn, where Jean finds Eren and Connie. You hang back, keeping an eye out for your parents while he tells them about Zeke and the fire. You try not to listen, not wanting to relive the memories more times than you have to, but while Jean speaks, the other boys send sympathetic looks your way. But as your stomach twists with nerves, you need Jean’s touch to steady you, so you join them in the stable, wrapping yourself around his side as he drapes his arm around you.

Eren and Connie exchange knowing looks at your display of affection, and you wonder how much they suspected all along while kindly keeping their mouths shut. It dawns on you that after today, you’re not sure when or if you’ll see them again.

“We’re sure sorry about what happened,” Connie says sweetly, his big eyes almost welling up. You let go of Jean to pull him into an embrace, kissing his cheek sweetly before Eren steps in.

“Take care of yourselves, you two. Whatever happens. Call on us if you need help.” He’s so serious, his eyes blazing and his mouth pressed in a hard line. “And tell that Pa of yours to rot in Hell if he gives you grief.” In spite of yourself, you almost laugh as you kiss his cheek as well.

“Speaking of,” Connie says. “They left for the auction just a while ago. You can probably catch up to them before it starts.”

Jean tips his hat. “Thanks, fellas.”

The two of you set off down the side of the dirt road, passing by all the people headed to the auction. You scan over their heads until you recognize Mama’s familiar yellow bonnet. You stir Maria into a gallop, calling for her and Pa to stop.

Startled at your voice, they step out of the road to wait for you. You slide off of Maria’s back before she even stops running and throw yourself into Mama’s arms. The sight of you must be jarring: hair down and hatless, torn, dirty clothes, and Jean following behind you looking not much better. Pa scolds you with your full name while you cling to Ma. “What’s the meaning of this?”

You tried to plan how you were going to break the news to them, tried to think of the best things to say to make this go smoothly, but now that you’re face to face, your heart and your head are telling you wildly different things. It pours out all at once. “Last night, Zeke and his men burnt the house, the barn, everything. I don’t know about the cattle.”

Your parents stand dumbstruck in horror, and you try to give them a moment to let the news sink in: your home is gone, most likely turned to ash where it stood. Mama starts to cry, clutching you in her arms. “Oh sweetheart, thank god you’re all right.” Papa says nothing, just stares.

You will yourself not to cry, wanting to get this across clearly. “Zeke, he tried to take me. He tried to… but Jean saved me.” Jean’s chest puffs only slightly as Pa flashes him a look, but you bring his attention back. “Jean killed him and his men, daddy. They’re dead.”

Pa’s mouth flaps open and closed a few times. Then he reaches out to shake Jean’s hand, who accepts solemnly. “I… well. I’ll certainly do what I can if the law comes after you. I can’t make any promises, but thank you, son.”

“Papa, I love him.” You blurt it out, still wrapped in Ma’s arms, but you feel her tense around you. Pa just chuckles, like you’re just a silly little girl, admitting a crush, and you push away from Mama, boiling over with rage. “I mean it. He was there to protect me while you were here betting on cards, if I’m to believe what I’ve heard.”

Pa’s face turns white as a sheet for a moment before he shakes his head, frowning. “Sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles, as if Jean isn’t standing right there.

Jean steps in, pushing up the brim of his hat so Pa can see his eyes. “Sir, I’m going to marry your daughter.”

Pa steps up to him. “I sure appreciate what you’ve done, boy, but I can’t allow it.”

You put a hand to each of their chests, stepping between the two men. “Papa, it’s done. I’ve decided.”

Pa sputters. “Of all the ungrateful...You can’t just leave your family for—”

Jean barks back. “It’s her life! And you’ve done nothing but make it hell for her ‘til now.”

You glance at Mama, who’s looking at the ground, hands clasped and refusing to say anything. You should have known that you couldn’t count on her to stand up for you, not against her husband, no matter how wrong and pigheaded he was.

You jab a finger at Pa’s chest. “I’m tired of being the solution to your problems. And I’m tired of being told what to do.” His face flushes red with anger, but you don’t back down. “You don’t own me anymore.”

You push away from him then, turning your back as Jean’s arm wraps around your shoulder. Pa yells after you, begging you to change your mind, calling you ungrateful, wicked, ruined—all the things that you knew you weren’t because of the man who holds you close to him. You return to your horses, who are waiting patiently for you, side by side. In plain view of your parents, Jean takes your chin in his hands and kisses you deeply. You close your eyes and lean into him, covering his hands with your own as he holds your face delicately.

You don’t know what you’ll do next, or where you’ll go. You don’t know what your life, once planned out and predestined for you, will look like moving forward. But you do know, as you mount your horses and ride back toward town, that you Jean will figure it out together.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

[mindninjax]

The Smut Pile Western Collab (Live on Feb. 6th)

Cowboys, Gunslingers, and Outlaws galore. The Smut Pile tips its hat to you as you dive in to the rowdy Wild West Collab. Stumble in for a drink at the saloon or help track down the most wanted outlaws in your town. Check out our favorite characters as they navigate through the arid tumbleweed filled plains of the west.

Please note: Every piece is adult 18+ only content and will have appropriate warnings at the beginning of each work.

Check out the Smut Pile Western Mood board by our lovely @mixedhell. It’ll put you in the perfect mood to lasso the bounty that is this masterlist. 

Howdy Partner...

Cowboys: My Hero Academia

@some-kindofgnome | Dabi

@lixis-sin-cauldron | Aizawa

@some-kindofgnome | Hanta Sero

@spacelabrathor | Enji Todoroki

Gunslingers: Attack On Titan

@whats-her-quirk | Jean Kirstein

@pleasantanathema​ | Kennyyyyyyy Ackerman

Outlaws: Haikyuu!!

@sawamooora | Ikkei Ukai (art)

@sugardaddykenma | Osamu Miya

@messwriting | Hajime Iwaizumi

@rivendell101 | Tetsurō Kuroo

@10millionyearsdungeon | Kōtarō Bokuto

@messwriting | Takahiro Hanamaki

@dymphnasprose | Issei Matsukawa

@kechiwrites | Daichi Sawamura

Bounty Hunters: Jujutsu Kaisen

@tomurasprincess | Satoru Gojo

@shadowworks | Ryomen Sukuna

[messwriting]

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Western AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

(my saddle’s waiting) ride it

Iwaizumi “Big Guns” Hajime x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: Being ridiculous in front of your crush. Porn With Plot. Not researched strippers industry. Lowkey exhibitionism. Oral in a public space (bathroom); Cock-blocked Interrupted orgasms; Masturbation/fingering; Fingering  in public (street), then while driving. Driving while fingering? Unsafe driving. Fucking against a door, then a wall. Alcohol and mentions of drugs. Side Tendou/Oikawa. Bit of a teasing, overconfident Iwachan.  A poor excuse of oblivious colleagues to lovers.

Word count: WAY TOO BIG. +11k.

Note: 🤠 Brought by your wicked duo degenerates, Saint Dymphna and me:  LAWBREAKERS MULTIVERSE 🤠 electric bogaloo

You guys know the drill @dymphnasprose​ started this all with their tempting ways! It was the image of Iwaizumi all oiled up,  working in his garage like Channing Tatum that made me cave and do this. Once again, being with Dymph is nothing short of amazing and I LOVE THEM  🥺💕💕

This is wayyyy too ploty for something where I just wanted people to bang, but you guys know how I get with Iwaizumi. I’m not totally happy about how this turned out but honestly I have no time to work on it and it has to be out. You guys will realize I went full myself with Reader’s crush on Iwaizumi in this. Sorry not sorry.

Biiig, huuuuuge thanks to both @vanille--kiss​ and @oneblonded​ for their help in beta-ing this, you guys are incredible.  💕 As always a big thanks to @mixedhell​ who always helps me when I’m troubled <3

Iwa’s song: Pony (of course)

You can also read: MAKKI | MATTSUN 

You check your phone and realize you’re late… again.

You hate, hate, hate morning classes, but if you want to be in time for your internship and still have time to study and, well, live, you’re obligated to accept the first class of the day on a Friday. You hate it, and you hate it even more that it’s how you have to end your week but you’ve made peace with it. 

That doesn’t mean you can actually get there in time, reason why you’re twenty minutes late running with your keys and coffee in one hand while you try to balance both your books and your backpack with the other. And when you push the door with your hip, it makes a loud squeaking noise while opening, ruining both your quiet entry and bringing everyone’s eyes on you, of course, because when have you ever been granted a fucking break, right?

“Sorry!” You murmur while trying your best into making a curt bend, and your professor looks over his glasses to you in a very pointed manner but other than that he  resumes what he was speaking on before.

You know he hates you being late (especially as a repeat offender) but you’re a fairly participative student and you regularly earn one of his top grades, so you think that buys you some slack -- and leverage. You go to your habitual seat by the wall, and try your best not making any other noises while you set everything in their places and, thankfully, a moment later, you’re able to breathe while in your seat, with your open computer and notes ready. You give yourself about twenty seconds to drink a bit of your coffee and check out where in the topic the professor is lecturing about.

“That’s why Iwaizumi-san will be receiving your papers. I’ll be returning to the next week, and in the time being, he’ll be doing the full TA hours. If you have any questions just ask him and remember to schedule appointments before-hand, if possible.” Your professor states something that makes it clear you lost some important announcement at the beginning of the class and your eyes fly to Iwaizumi in response, but the man is just sitting at his normal place, front class, quietly nodding to the professors’ explanation while his big hands fly over his notepad. 

You sigh, wistfully, and take another sip of your coffee while your eyes thread over his form, clad in loose jeans that still seem tight in those amazing thighs of his and a hoodie that doesn’t do much to hide those incredible arms. Iwaizumi isn’t very tall, but he’s still taller than you and his shoulders are broad enough to engulf anything behind him when you stand too close. God, you wished Iwaizumi would do full TA hours on you anytime. He could work you into overtime too, you certainly don’t mind. 

You gulp down the saliva that overflows your mouth with some coffee and leaves another small breath to accompany your thoughts. 

You snicker just a bit and Iwaizumi’s eyes are suddenly on yours and your blood pressure peaks in a second while you choke on your coffee. Your teacher asks if you’re okay and you are obligated to answer yes while trying to shrink into the chair. 

See. Incredible track-record.

You manage to not make a complete clown of yourself during class again and even win over some praise from your professor for your contributions in the debate about ethical issues and patient safety. It’s usual that you and Iwaizumi end up interacting with each other’s input in debates but he was quiet today and when you’ve made an addition to his comment about unhelpful patients and mandatory rest all he did was nod and roll his jaw. As if you know what the fuck that means.

You chalk it up to him stressing over being in full TA hours for the week and when the class ends you stay in your seat while finishing typing some notes before you blink and they’re suddenly lost in your brain. When you look up and start packing your things you realize there’s only you and Iwaizumi left in the class and notice he’s looking directly at you, almost as if he was waiting for it.

You don’t think there’s another man who can look so dashing before ten am and with just a small corner lip smile, but hey, you’re not complaining.

“Hey,” he says a one-word greeting and holds his hand up and your heart leaps before you can manage to send a smile his way. Ah, it’s really unfair how cute he is. 

“Hey Iwa,” you greet back in a fair tone even if you feel a bit hot in the face, “You were unusually quiet today.”

He smirks and his hand clasps his neck for a moment while he scratches his hair. “Aa, just busy.” He hooks his backpack over his shoulder and walks over to you while you’re still packing your books. “You lost the warning, right?” 

“Yeah, late. Something important?”

“Nothing big. It’s the deadline for the midterm article, which you lost the explanation to but here--” He extends you his open notepad and you see the notes and instructions there, scribbled in block letters not very neatly, but fairly organized. You look it over briefly, confirm that is nothing different from the normal and bring your phone to take a picture. 

“Thanks, Iwa. Do you need any help with the TA hours?”

“Nah. It’s all fine. I organized my internship last month to have this week off.”

“Oh, smart,” you say as you swing your backpack over your shoulder and pick up your purse and the single book that couldn’t fit with your laptop in it. Iwaizumi makes you nervous. You’re fairly sure it’s because of the massive fucking crush you have on him. “Well, let me know if you need help.”

“Thanks,” you notice that he stays there looking at you for a second more... And then a few seconds more. 

“Is everything okay?

“You’ve been getting to class late a lot,” his eyes turn wide when he realizes what he just blurted out and the small pink dust atop his cheeks could be the thing that ends up killing you. Your brain gets lost in a chant of CUTECUTECUTE and for a moment you resist the urge to clench your books to your chest. “The professor asked me to see if everything was okay.”

“Oh, ah…” You actually force a bit of laugh out at that, surprised and a bit breathless. Dammit, you monitor two classes and then suddenly being a little bit late becomes a crime. “It’s nothing, actually. I’m just not a morning person. And I hate early classes, but I needed to get this one because of my internship, so I’m struggling with the time.”

Iwaizumi nods and even gives you a short smile while you two start walking alongside one another out of the class. “Ah, you should really fix your sleep schedule. You know the drill, eight hours every night.”

“You mean that impossible thing?” You laugh and thank him when he opens the door for you two to pass. Hot and a gentleman, God really has favorites. “I’m trying, but it’s easier said than done and I’m something of a night owl.”

“Brat. You’re just on your phone until late,” Iwaizumi snickers and you all but gasp, and before you can say anything he’s signaling to the other side you’re going. “I still have classes, see you on the TA hours?”

“Yeah, I have two days of TA next week,” you manage to squeak out without making a fool of yourself after he calls you a brat and even smiles his way despite the way you feel a sudden heat wave over your body.

“Nice. See you then.”

“Bye Iwa.”

You scurry off the other side and when you turn a corner you stop and do something absolutely ridiculous that is an internal scream with your head against the wall. You press your forehead against the cold tile and breathe about two or three times, all while your mind goes into overheat after a small talk with Iwaizumi Hajime, the hottest, most amazing Teacher Assistant this Physical Therapy course must have ever had.  

You hear someone saying your name while you try to recover and when you look to your side your heart sinks to your stomach as your eyes turn into plates. Hajime is looking at you funny, holding out a small paper to you and probably wondering if you’re okay in the head. Of course it’s him. It wouldn’t be you if this didn’t happen. 

“Ahhh, hi again?” You squeeze out in a weird breathless voice and Iwaizumi’s eyes seem to turn a pretty dark shade while his lips spread in a grin.

“You let this fall.” 

Sure, of course, you dumbass did. 

“Are you okay?”

“Thanks, Iwa. I was uhhh just…” You press your lips because your mind is blank and then God decides to cut you some slack with a momentaneous brilliance. “I forgot an important thing was due tonight and yeah, I was just screaming at myself.”

“Anything I can help with?” 

Yes. Marry me. Or just fucking, you’re not picky. 

Your whole face burns and you lower your eyes for a moment because the images assaulting you are just too much. Iwaizumi looks just so good up close, all sharp jawline and hard planes on that spiky jet-black hair and green eyes. Jesus Christ, looking like that should be illegal.

“No, it’s just something for this bachelorette party I have tonight.” God decides to grace you with some more lying skills and you thank them internally. There’s even a smile on your face. 

Iwaizumi nods away with your explanation.

 “Ohh,” He says with a smirk and your heart does a leap. “That’s nice. Give the bride my congrats.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell her.” Then, he extends the paper again and you finally grab it, once again making a fool of yourself to him. “Sorry, thanks for this.” 

Iwaizumi just nods and smiles your way, quickly turning back and leaving after saying goodbye and waving your way. This time you have half a mind to search a bathroom before screaming for real.

-

Honestly, you cannot believe where you are right now. Lawbreakers. The name is written in a pretty calligraphy font in bright fucking neon that simply demands attention in the dark of night. It’s the final stop of the bachelorette party of your good friend to which you are late. From the group text, everyone is at least nicely buzzed and you’ve been laughing with the ridiculous pictures the group of women have been sending you non-stop while calling you a buzzkill. 

As your car pulls into the front of the place, you just can’t help but snort. It’s cheesy, definitely tacky but nice, a use of the western theme that actually plays well. 

Outside there’s a neon cowboy riding a horse and you just… can’t help but be amused. There’s a small line of women waiting even when it’s already late but you walk up front as your friend had told you too, perks of being a member of the VIP entourage of women partying in the allegedly last night for your friend to be free. 

The doorman lets you in quickly and just as you’re passing the threshold a tall, pretty and lean, but built man clad in nothing but a white outfit rolls to your side, offering a flute of sparkling wine from a tray.

“Well, look at that.” The smile he sends you is trained, but charming and you can’t help but smile back. “We truly do have the prettier customers. Can I offer you some champagne? Maybe something stronger?”

You’re just bringing your hand up to say no when you stop, muse about how much catching up you’ll have to do with your friends inside and shrugs. “Well, better get a head start, right?”

“Yes!” He congratulates you, standing too close as he brings you a flute and deposits on your fingers, his hand trailing on your pulse for a moment before he lets go. Then, he throws you another charming smile, the mischief reaching his eyes this time. “That’s a good girl~”

You try to hide the way his charm works by letting your mouth fall in a small laugh, but something tells you he catches that either way. That, you think, is what you call a seasoned pleaser.

“Thank you.” 

Your cheeks are heating the tiny bit as you scurry off the corridor to the club insides, following the loud music and increasingly louder screams.

“Enjoy the show!” The man chuckles behind you and you raise your glass in acknowledgment, hurrying inside to do just that. 

Honestly, it’s not what you were expecting. 

As you pass the wooden saloon doors at the end of the corridor, the sound of screaming surrounds you as physical waves, washing through your body in such a high pitch you stumble in your heels. The energy inside makes you unable to not enjoy yourself automatically, surrounded by tables of women and a few groups of men all completely enthralled on the show that’s already happening inside.

For starters, western decoration aside, you were definitely not expecting to see your friend, the bride-to-be, being grinded on stage. 

The strawberry-blonde male is thrusting against the center of your friend's legs, precise and exciting wave-like motions that clearly are making everyone inside, your friend included, lose their minds. He grinds and holds himself up, moves your friend around as if she’s a doll and humps her behind. It looks so sinful and still in perfect beat with the song and for a second your mind just-- short circuits, hand shooting to your mouth as the laughs tip over loud and hearty. Your friend is burning in embarrassment at the way the man is moving and grinding on her, hands almost locked on her body as if she thinks she can’t move or something will just blow up. 

Then again maybe she’s the one who’ll blow up, being so close to such a fucking hot man. You can definitely see how that would make her blow a fuse, completely not used to this kind of thing. 

You manage to stop laughing at your friend losing it on stage and quickly spot the table, the balloons that have been featured in lots of pictures making themselves seen: bright teal things stating “one dick forever”. Every single one dressed in black and with their current bright plastic cowboy hat. It could be worse; if the place wasn’t so fitting with it’s bright lights and mixed decorations ranging from cowboy neon signs and saddles in place of stools.

By the time you manage to walk over amidst the screaming and join in on the girls fun, the showman has finally let your friend go in prol of fishing another happy bride and she looks every bit completely shaken as you’ve thought.

“Hey, baby, you good?” The slit in her white dress is higher, clearly a side effect of the way the man hiked her legs just so…open, and you chuckle at how she huffs a breath out and let herself fall against the cushions, both parts pent up and mortified. 

Well, you’re already liking the place. 

Then, one of the other bridesmaids presses a full plastic flute of champagne to your hand, calls everyone up to a toast and you let yourself fall back into the festivities. Your friend seems to be having a hard time coming back from the heated grinding session in the middle show, to which she excuses herself from the table and reassures everyone that she’s fine. Still, you pull her on the side, ask her once again if she’s okay, to which she just explains she needs some air.

God, you understand.

You were about to follow her when another bridesmaid pulled you into a hug, happily chatting about how this place was incredible, and trying to fill you in on the fun you missed by being late. Your eyes accompany your friend for a moment, seeing as she walks a bit clumsy but otherwise fine to the corridor that leads to the bathroom. Well, she would be fine.

The current show ends and the lights glow brighter, finally allowing you to check out the place. The Lawbreakers Club is nice and full; filled to the brim with groups of women and men around and apparently yours is not the only bachelorette party taking place in the western-themed strip bar. The waiters are wearing skimpy little clothing, the place decorated as a cross-theme of magic mike and an imitation of a western saloon.

Then, before you can even finish the current drink you have in your hands,  the lights go down once again while the stage is lightened up in bright neon. You’re all close enough and with an amazing stage view to catch when a very tall, very pretty, brunette who welcomed you earlier comes to the middle of the stage. 

The crowd goes immediately wild as the song is lowered to a simple mumble in the background and the man walks slowly to the center stage, open hands and the devastating smile of someone who knows they’re all that and more. 

Bit obnoxious but hey, there’s a literal horde of women screaming for him. You’d say it’s acceptable.

“Well, well, well, look like we have a full house tonight.”

The screaming reignites, sounding even louder since they also come from your own table and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Are you guys ready for the next show?” The crowd screams a resonant yes. “Good. Let us make a lot of noise for two of our best, biggest outlaws around.” As the cheers erupted once again, you can actually hear some names being called, all revolving around names with big, pretty or animals thrown around. 

“Did someone actually scream for Issei Horsecock?” You ask the bridesmaid closer to you and both of you laugh when she says yes. “Oh, wow.”

 “Yes, yes, you know the ones. Now, let’s make our Big Guns flustered with the warm welcome, you know what a big softie he actually is under all that hard, big, brute exterior.” It’s actually enthralling to see Oikawa dealing with the crowd, you can’t help but laugh away at his faces and double meaning. Then he stops, winks at the crowd and goes, “Maybe he just needs a ride. So, ride it, ponies.”

It’s clear the announcement everyone was waiting for, as the crowd loses right there. The lights are once again focused on the stage, dripping low as the music picks up in a sexy beat as two big, broad and athletic men make their ways to the center stage, Oikawa nowhere to be seen anymore.  

You cannot believe your eyes. You blink them once but then become completely unable to tear your vision from the image unfolding in front of you even for a second. The men comes to the front of the stage, holds onto the pole dance and undulates in a sinful, unholy trusting motion that has your mouth watering and he falls backwards with his hand supporting himself as his legs part on the metal pole and he keeps trusting in time with the bass, a honest-to-god mimic of sex that has you swalowing dry and drooling, your body heating up at the simple images that ellicit in your brain. 

He does a twirl in the air, falls in a plank and holds a hand up to hold his cowboy hat all while supporting his body in only one hand. He undulates in thrust motions, twerk his ass in the air before pressing down and takes his hat off his head as a display of strength you never in your mind thought would get you this bothered. 

His jet black hair is short and spiky, mussed by sweat and you immediately licks your lips at the salacious thought of licking it up from his skin. He falls with his back on the floor, start once again to proove just how fucking incredible it would be to ride him and then gets up in one single jump that knocks the air of your lungs. 

You take in all of him as the light catches on his perfect body, wearing nothing more than an open black leather vest with beaten dark jeans and a big, daunting belt buckle and the cowboy hat in his hand. 

And you feel as you have a out of body experience as his face registers in your mind, that mischievous smirk gracing his lips making your whole brain crash into a halt because you recognize that man as no one other than Iwaizumi Hajime, your long-time crush and Teacher Assistant with whom you were just earlier today.

Your eyes are unable to look anywhere but him, completely enthralled by the simplest realization that that single amazing piece of man is actually your long time crush, kind-of-friend and colleague. It feels unreal, impossible, to wrap your head around that piece of information and you’re rendered speechless, mind-blown and enchanted, eyes locked on his glistening muscles, the spanse of his skin on show growing by the minute as he does movements straight out of a wet dream. 

Yours, to be even more specific. 

It’s clear he doesn’t see you with the dimly lit room and the crew of women chanting. You’re sitting dumbfounded, mouth agape and blood reeling enough that your forehead seems like it will explode, but also feeling as if you’re suspended in a haze - as if Iwaizumi’s body undulating on the air as he holds himself on a pole is something of a spell and you’re definitely sucked in by it.

You can pinpoint the exact moment he sees you, as his show’s ending and the lights around the stage start shining once again. It’s painfully clear how Iwaizumi tenses from the realization, his eyes falling wide and curses tipping from his beautiful lips, the top of his cheekbones lighting up as he all but runs from the front of the crowd and in a moment you’re mirroring his embarrassment, face heating at the bizarre situation you’re finding yourself into. 

Your TA is a stripper. And a very good, famous one at that. 

What exactly are you supposed to do with this information?

It’s almost an hour and about three shows later where you’re filling your head pounding by the beat, unable to relax even as delicious men pass through your table and play with your friends. 

You feel tense, paranoid at what exactly has happened and where Iwaizumi may be, stomach turning and unresponsive as you try to sooth it with booze until you give up, rising on unsteady legs. Muscles strained from how long you’ve been sitting still, afraid to look anywhere and be slapped across the room with some other shocking news.

You take a deep breath as you balance yourself once again on your heels and walk to the bathroom for some needed cool-down, latching on the opportunity when another show is already rolling, a hot but unapproachable-looking man with blond hair and streaks on it owning the stage as if it’s his territory.

As you’re turning on the corridor, however, you’re circled by big arms and yanked from the ground, a yelp turning into silence as you take one look around and find dark green eyes boring into yours, a harsh look on Iwaizumi’s face that make you embarrassed at what it does to your guts.

He scurries off with you inside a place that looks like a private room, fairly dark with red lights around and a ominous pole-dance stage in the middle that makes your mind overheat at the images it summons: the man in front of you clad in nothing but a black jeans rolling his hips up into the air as if daring you to take a ride.

Well, shit.

Iwaizumi’s arms leave your sides and you stumble a bit, eyes diverting down as your face burns. You realize he takes that the wrong way when he sounds gruff and pissed. 

“What? Can’t even look at me now?” 

You look up in time to catch his arms crossing around his front. You wish he didn’t do that, as now you have one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen all angry-looking with bulging arms oiled and shining, clad in nothing but removable pants, leather chaps, vest and a black cowboy hat. 

You groan something unintelligible as you lose the ability to speak and Iwaizumi’s expression turns sour, lips pressed so hard it almost seems like he’s pouting, his hard eyes looking anxious and downcast. 

That’s what helps your brain kickstart, completely unable to see Iwaizumi looking remotely sad and acutely aware of how this must be taxing on him.

“Sorry, I-- It’s not you,” You wince as his eyes center on you, unimpressed, “I mean it! It’s just-- I was caught off guard.”

Iwaizumi makes a humming noise and centers his eyes on you as if he’s waiting for you to keep going but your brain is completely blank, staring at him with wide eyes and burning surprise. You have to make a serious effort to avoid letting your eyes wander his frame.

“So,” you start, unable to handle the silence and Iwaizumi groans, pulling his cowboy hat off to thread fingers over his hair in a nervous display that you’re sure he did not mean to be sexy but ends up being anyway. “I’m not sure what to say here.”

“Shit. What are you even doing here?”

“Bachelorette party,” you answer without missing a beat and he all but groans again, as if just remembering is an actual thing that exists- and probably gives him lots of money if tonight was anything to go by. 

The clear display of his anxiety actually helps you get a bit more at ease, and you can’t help but crackle an awkward smile. “So... you work here.”

“Yes,” Hajime brutal honesty shows he’s regaining his composure. “It’s good money if you work well and the hours are flexible.”

Not the only thing that’s flexible. You bite your lips at the thought to stop the words from actually spilling from your lips.

“I take it you're not public about this?”

“As little as I can considering the pictures and social media. The club is kinda famous, too.”

“I noticed.”

The silence stretches for a moment as Iwaizumi looks around nervously, his stance unmoving. You take a deep breath and sigh, lips falling in an odd, astonished smile. “Wow, Iwa, that’s…”

“What?” He bites back, defensive. You just end up chuckling, long breath falling from your lips as you look at him and can’t help but be once again dumbfolded at how fucking perfect this man is.

“Nothing, it’s just-- I would never expect it. It’s amazing, though. You’re amazing.” You wince at your own words and how telling they are, but carry on despite the burning on your face. “You seemed like a completely different person out there.” 

Definitely not the quiet TA you’re used to. Definitely still completely gorgeous.

Your body tenses as your heart does somersaults in your chest, hunger flaring enough that your throat constricts and your face burns once again.

“Don’t you think it's bad?” It comes out a bit strained, his eyes trained on you, tense and vulnerable. And you just about fall deeper for him right there. 

“Why? It’s your work.” You try your best smile, and after a little consideration Hajime’s shoulders finally seem to relax, lips jutting up just a bit as he breathes deep.

“No one in the university can know though,” Iwaizumi says quickly, eyes on yours with a little, tiny smirk. “Obvious reasons.”

That makes you giggle.

“Of course. I’ll keep your secret.” You agree in earnest, honest and clear, and this time when you smile at him, your whole body warms at how his eyes fall down to look at it. 

“Good.” His voice goes down a tone, husky and gruff- and making unspeakable things to your already poor state. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Your heart seems to shoot up to your throat, and you try to squeeze words out around it.

“I… uh… yes, I mean, sure. It was… quite incredible.”

“Really.” Hajime smirks and you try to swallow your heart before you choke. 

His green eyes stare deeply at your face, drinking the burning on your cheeks, the quick beat of your pulse on your throat, the pursed, wet lips and the way you tremble when he all but takes a step closer. You brace yourself, eyes lifting from the ground to center on him and the sticky, hot sensation spreads through your lower limbs at the burning heat you find there.

“Well, there’s another one to be done.” That tone comes again and you’re forced to press your legs just a tiny bit closer, suddenly aware of the fact you’re both alone in a dark room. He takes another step closer and your eyes fall on his lips, smirk starting to split his face in two, “Stick around.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out and Hajime’s eyes turn darker. 

"Iwa-channn~'' 

It's so close it sounds loud from across the half-opened door and Iwaizumi seems to fall back on himself, annoyance furrowing his brows. He takes another deep, heated look on you but tears his eyes away before you can’t say anything.

“Sorry, have to go.”

Your breath leaves you in one go. It feels like you just stepped off a rollercoaster, blown off the ground and slow to catch up. 

“Okay, uh, good show?” 

“It will be,” Hajime’s eyes are warm on you. Meaningful. “Watch it all, okay?”

And then he leaves, the brightness from the corridor snapping you from your haze as you suck all the oxygen left in the room and then screams silently against your hands. 

Iwaizumi feels nervous for the first time since the first time he stepped on stage, about two years ago. It feels like he has something to prove and conquer in this single performance and it doesn’t help that Makki comes running late, smelling of sex and sporting marks that tell just of that, too. But for once Hajime decides he has his own stuff to worry rather than the shit his friends pull.

When they step on stage, his eyes zoom-in on you immediately, something spreading on his skin as he finds your attention centered on him - bulging, enthralled eyes and warm appreciation. 

Hajime smirks. They haven’t even started yet.

On cue, Mattsun, Makki, Oikawa and Kyoutani slide on their position and Iwaizumi is delighted that your eyes remain on him. 

When the show starts, among screamings and money being waved, he follows the steps nicely, out of habit. Iwaizumi tilts his hat at you and you burn so bright he feels his skin heating at the newfound power. 

His vest is the first to go off and he makes sure to have his hands running around his chest more than once, teasing slide until the leather chaps as he thrusts his hips, waving motion that covers his whole body. 

He circles, back muscles in the spotlight as his hands come up behind his head, holding the cowboy hat snug in his head, ass tight in the black briefs as he keeps the motions and then turns to fall down on a plank. Iwaizumi grinds down on the floor, blinks and smiles at the ladies but his eyes are only searching for you. 

He gets up with an elaborate move and puts both his hands on the pole, holding himself up sideways before circling it, dropping and incorporating some break dance Kyoutani teached him. 

Hajime’s hand slid easily with the oil on his skin, slowly planting his thumb under the loops of his leather chaps to the sound of screaming. He feels electricity edge through his skin -- someone’s eyes focused solely on him and the thrill of it it’s nothing he’s ever felt before. Suddenly he understands a bit more about how Oikawa feels with Tendou around. 

Iwaizumi thrusts his hips forward once, snaps his belt off in the air with one pull, making the crowd gasp and scream and the itching on his skin turns south. He watches as your eyes follow the hard planes of his abs and the tight squeeze of his thighs on his leather chaps and then snap back into his face. The fact it’s you only makes it all the more exhilarating.

The choreo is once again on the floor, and he drops to it in a wave motion, hips humping on nothing without faltering, tight ass in the air winning cheers and waves; even so, it’s your silent appraisal that rings the louder.

He gets up again, circles the pole in a charming, teasing manner as he holds the metal bar and grinds on it. Iwaizumi lets his hat on the ground and turns his back to the public in time to snap his pants off in one go, at the same time as the other men on stage, staying in nothing but a ridiculously tight, dark, leather brief. 

When he was first presented to the thing, he hated it and opted to go comando into some shows, which earned him some nice money and was always quite the surprise to the patrons. Now, as his eyes lock on yours and your wicked tongue peaks out to lick your plush lips in nothing but appreciation, Iwaizumi is rendered quite fond of the offending thing -- who’d thought this day would come.

Your eyes are glued to him and it almost hurts Iwaizumi that he can’t go straight to you, bring you on stage with him and glide your hands all over his body. He’s unsure of how to proceed but there’s no chance in hell he’s throwing this shot away. 

He’s been crushing on you for far too long to do that. 

In fact, the dumbfounded look on your eyes is quite endearing, much like all the fumbling and tripping over yourself that he got used to expect every time he sees you. Iwaizumi just assumed you were a bit clumsy and quiet, but then he got to know you and it all blew in his face. 

You were a bit of a dumbass but also beautiful, kind, dedicated and attentive. The crush that started as a endearing feeling quickly escalated into opressing and Iwaizumi was all but rendered stupid around you at all times, firm believer that you never truly looked at him like that.

However, as you stare at him unblinking and eager, the picture of hunger in the most delicate predator, Iwaizumi realises he may be wrong and that thought alone is enough to ignite his veins.

 Oikawa fishes a lady, pushes her on Kyoutani then does the same with another for Iwaizumi.

He smiles at her, professional, and brings her hands to his chest, his hips drawing circles against her. As her tentative strokes and fondling turn into frantic holds and clawing nails, his eyes can’t help but slide sideways, taking in the way you’re hanging out of every move of her hands. 

Fuck, Iwaizumi can’t get hard. But there’s a clear throbbing threading south at your concentration. He can’t help but wonder if you’re imagining your hands on his body instead of hers; your hips against his as he grinds on hers; your mouth on his biceps when she kisses his trademarked asset, the ones that gave him his stripper name. 

The woman slides several singles around his briefs, not without copping a few and your mouth falls open in an indignated breath. Iwaizumi tries hard to avoid it going to his dick.

He fishes for another woman in the audience as he lets the groups slide more singles not only on his briefs but inside his boots. Iwaizumi pulls one while she’s sitting in the chair, deposits it on the stage and grinds on her enough that the woman is overheated, hands faltering by her sides. Hajime’s eyes search yours once again, drinking, basking in the envy he pinpoints.

 Does that mean you wish to be under him, like that? To feel his body against yours, his hips between your legs, his lower body shoved on your face? 

Hajime ends his routine with this one halfway, unable to let them feel what you are doing to him and then - finally - he’s free to walk over to your table. Semi-naked, with his boots, hat and slow-rising hard-on.

He’s done this enough times to be able to keep up with the choreo while he’s navigating the tables, hips thrusting and circling, strangers hands sliding on his oiled body to deposit dollars anywhere they can. They’re mostly handsy, few grab his dick and scream, others palm at his thighs and chest. There’s both numbers and dollars being thrown on him but Iwaizumi is used to it - and that’s definitely not his focus tonight.

Iwaizumi stops for a moment at the table before yours. Joining in the fun as Oikawa is happily grinding on his roommate. It gives Hajime a chance to look your way, enough to find you completely enthralled by his body, wide eyes unwavering, mouth open in a breath as your hand fists the flute you’re holding, the perfect depiction of surprise and enchantment and fuck, Iwaizumi is thrilled.

When Hajime finally stops in front of you, you’re looking at him as if under a spell; mouth hanging softly as stars shine in your eyes and he can’t be faulted for fisting your hair, pulling you up to meet his chest, even if he’s careful with where he touches you. 

Iwaizumi pretends his lips gliding against the shell of your ear is not a planned thing.

“You’re looking too hard. Are you enjoying the show that much?”

Your lips move without words falling from it and having you speechless all but set him on fire. Iwaizumi thanks every god (and begrudgingly Oikawa) for his expertise in what he’s about to do. His hand slides on your hips, feeling the way you sway with tremors and stop on your back to support you as he bends you backwards. His mouth skims the skin of your neck and dips lower, so his nose can cross over your cleavage, softly caressing the spanse of your collarbones. 

“If you keep looking at me like that I’ll start thinking things, princess. Interesting things, physical things.” Iwaizumi lets his teeth close on the fabric covering your neckline as his eyes look up on yours to find every hint there can possibly be of your warm desire. “Seems like we’re reaching an agreement, too. Do like what you see, hm? Do you want me to do to you the same things I did with them?” 

“No,” you tell him in a steady tone and Hajime’s eyes shoot up to yours, confused, until you sigh a breath against his face. “I want you to do more.”

He groans, pulling you tighter against his chest for you to feel the effect you have on him, choosing the momentum to circle his hips in what can be disguised as performance despite it being anything but.

“You can’t just tell a guy that. I may believe it.” His hands drop on your ass, gripping as he guides your hips to work with his and you all but melt, blown out eyes falling on his mouth.

“I’m hoping so. I’m pretty much using all my courage to tell you this.” Your breathless chuckle all but obliterates Hajime’s thinking and he has to put some distance between your faces before he takes your lips in a kiss. 

There’s a ringing around his ears and he identifies it as the performance’s end approaching. He has to go back on stage to strip naked and his cock is going to give a show of his own tonight. 

“Go wait for me in the corridor, quick.” It's a plea and a promise as he forces himself to let go of you and turn on his heels to get back on stage.

Oikawa gives him a hand up back onto the stage, eyes all knowing as they survey the whole big thing going on inside his briefs. 

“Nasty, Iwachan~” His smile is a annoying little thing, but then he slaps Iwaizumi’s ass in encouragement, “Sneak off stage before the end, go, quick, I’ll cover.”

Iwaizumi grunts a thanks and as the boys line up one behind the other, he’s able to lock eyes with you and signal with his head before he dips through the backstage drapes.

You’re not sure what’s the plan when Hajime disappears through the back and your spine immediately shoots up, leaving your friends with a half-assed excuse as your legs carry you towards the corridor that leads to the backstage once you choose neither left or right, but only forward. Your eyes are focused, body overheating as your heart gallops in your chest, clinging to the words Iwaizumi whispered in your ears during his show as it repays again and again over your mind’s eye. 

The door to the backstage is signaled with nothing, the only hint of its location being the in and out of men from it as their shows end and they leave the place to either mingle along the audience or enter a private room for privé little shows. Honestly, if it was for Hajime, you’d blow a hole in your wallet for every single second of his time. 

However, as you’re closing in on the hidden door you start growing strikingly aware of the fact you have no idea how to actually meet him there and having to knock on it makes you feel both silly and self conscious.

Luckly, you don’t have to do anything.

Iwaizumi burst the door open in time to fetch you and drag you inside as you let out a little yelp, and suddenly you’re surrounded by the smell of weed, cigars and sweat along with men; Iwaizumi’s hot, sweety skin is sticky against yours and you have the fleeting thought that maybe that would be off putting to you if you didn't have the all consuming need to drop to your knees and lick it all from his fucking skin.

“Iwa,” leaves you lips for no reason, just for the fact it’s his name and you let your neck fall back against his shoulder, turning your head to finally taste his skin. Iwaizumi’s arms tighten around you in such a way you feel the rumble of his growl and he all but tow you deeper inside.

 You can barely get a look around the dimly lit, dirty backstage room before you’re past the messy lounge and into a tight corridor that ends a small, locker-room styled bathroom where Hajime quickly dips inside. 

You get one look at the metal lockers on the side, the two sinks with mirrors upfront and the four bathroom stalls on the left, two on each side before you focus back on Iwaizumi’s jawline, nibbling on whatever you can find and relishing on every little noise that tumbles from his lips. 

Hajime’s arms leave you for one moment, depositing you on unsteady legs so he can turn the lock on the door and by then his hand is burying itself in your hair and closing at your hip, forcefully pulling you to him as his mouth closes around your neck and he proceeds to kiss, bite and suck at every spanse of your skin. 

“Fuck, I didn’t want to do this here,” Iwaizumi starts with a gruff voice that makes your center weep, the force of his hands around you enough to render your feet useless as he strides over to the sink, imediatelly hiking you over it with his big hands over your ass and a hard bite at your shoulder as if he’s pinging you as the culprit of his angish. “But I can’t fucking wait anymore.”

He sounds so pained, so raw, that you can’t help but groan, mouth searching his quickly as your hands reach for his hair and shoulder, nails digging on whatever you find to secure your hold on his slippery skin. He tastes of whisky and weed, but it’s the fact that it’s Hajime that renders you intoxicated.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he admits as his teeth nibble on your bottom lip, a trail of kisses making their way down so he can bite at your neck, licking  it over just so he can suck on it, your eyes rolling back inside your head as your body all but trembles. “I was sure you weren’t interested, fuck.” 

That is probably the one thing that could pull you from the haze settling in your brain caused by the fucking thrill that having Hajime kissing and holding you is enough to cause. 

“Are you insane?” You whine back at him, tilting your head away from his mouth as your fingers pull at his hair to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful, heated and earnest florest-green eyes that have been your demise since day one. “Iwa, there hasn't been a day I wasn’t interested.” 

There’s an edge of surprise on his face, along with a hint of something soft you can’t name and you all but moan at him, unable to form words of just how much you’ve wanted him and for how long. So you choose to show him, instead, legs circling his frame as you press your chest against his and hold his neck with both hands to pull him in a kiss that leaves you lightheaded, toes curling on your heels and heat burning through your veins, melting your insides until it spills on your underwear.

A rumble in his chest tells you about the groan he keeps inside and Iwaizumi’s hands take hold of the flesh of your ass and thighs with bruising strength, violent heartbeats making both of your bodies tremble with need. But then he angles himself back, breaks the kiss and curses after one look at your face.

Next thing you know Iwaizumi’s down on his knees between your thighs, holding you open with big hands under your knees and your brain just ups and fries. Your panties are sticking to your drenched folds and there’s no way the flimsy triangle is able to do much to hide you from Hajime’s attentive eyes. He groans, fingers dipping under the sides of your underwear and he pulls it to the side, baring you the best he can.

He doesn’t really say anything past throwing you a burning look, kissing up the inner part of your thighs, and then he’s mouth is on you - tongue lavishing at both sex and fabric, circling your clit with wondrous expertise and licking along your inner lips like they’re about to spill all your secrets.

“Fuck,” slips from you as your head arches back, hitting the wall. “Iwaizumi...” 

Whispered from you that way, his name is the only thing that conveys all of the feelings bubbling on your chest: the glee of the mutual crush, the excitement of being this close, the massive bliss igniting your nerves at his ministrations. If the way Hajime doubles down on his efforts between your legs is any indication - tongue slipping up and down then back up to circle your clit mercilessly - you’d say he agrees.

You feel suspended in time, tense as a tight coil that’ll tear with a single harsh pull. His tongue dances around your cunt as much as he did on stage: perfectly. Deliriously bringing you to a high you’ve aren’t sure you’ve ever tasted. And then he brings his fingers to calmly, slowly massage around your entrance. 

“Oh fucking christ!” Your burning moan bounces around the empty space loudly and you swear you feel him snickering against your cunt, only you’re way far gone to care. “Haji-fuck!” 

Your hand slides over his hair, fingers delighted at how soft they feel and you use your palm to press his face further against your folds. Your hips humping anything they can because staying still feels like an impossible task with the way your blood is boiling inside your veins. 

But then someone is pounding at the door loudly and your eyes snap open as your high slips from you, Iwaizumi’s lips abandoning your sex to throw a nasty glare at the door. 

“C’mon Iwa-chan~” someone calls outside, sounding unbelievably pleased at the interruption. “You know the rules! We need to use the bathroom~” 

“Two minutes!” Iwa snarl back and as the pounding on the door doesn’t come back, you think he got himself a deal. “Fucking assholes. Can’t give me one fucking moment when they’re the ones always doing this shit.”

He sounds so pissed it’s actually awfully endearing. Red in the face with swollen lips glistening in a pout, and despite the throbbing on your cunt, you can’t help but laugh. His eyes come back to you and a renewed wave of pleasure curls on your pussy by the clear shift into softness you find there, so you pull him back up standing and make a point of kissing him so hard you’re licking your juices from his chin. 

Two minutes apparently go by awfully fast, as the door is nudged once again. Softly, this time. 

“Fuckers,” Iwa mutters after he breaks the kiss, eyes as daggers aimed at whoever is outside the door. “Give me ten minutes and meet me outside?” You realize by the tone of his voice that Iwaizumi is nervous and your heart does a sickening loop inside your chest as if you needed a heads up of how much you’re gone for him. Your face must do something weird, as his eyes scrunch up and his hands grip on your hips with a tiny bit of strength, pleading. “I just need to change and get my stuff, I’ll be real quick, promise.” 

Jesus Christ, didn’t he get it yet?

“Iwaizumi,” His name sounds gruff past your breathless throat and you see the way his eyes turn steely, bracing for heartbreak. “You could tell me to wait forever, and I’d be dying outside waiting for you.”

You make a point of holding his eyes because it feels like it’s important and you’re thankful for that as you can watch the exact moment Iwaizumi lets a long breath out, eyes warming as his lips descend upon yours - one time, then once again; his fingers drawing soft little patterns over your skin.

“I’ll be outside,” you tell him before someone disturbs the moment between you two and he helps you down the sink, your panties choosing this moment to slide to the floor, showing the fact that all that pulling ended up causing a rip. You choke up a gasp and Iwa chuckles, hand sliding to your bare ass to pat at the plush flesh.

“Well, one less thing in the way.”

Getting out of the bathroom and outside the backroom ends up being the most embarrassing thing about it all, as you’re forced to pass through a horde of almost-naked men that throw you all-knowing grins. The pretty man that welcomed you into the Club is the one with the wickedest grin and you can see by Iwaizumi’s grimace alone that he’s in for a hell of teasing. 

If the hand gripping your hip is anything to go by, you’d doubt he’s paying it half a mind. He leaves you at the door, tells the ones around there to shut it as they watch, and breathlessly promises you he’ll come in a bit before closing the door.

Even so you can still hear the immediate hollering going on inside and you chuckle for a moment, until you try to take a step and your legs betray you, shaken. There’s a smile etched to your face that you can barely contain until you’re painfully remembered of the fact you’re dripping between your thighs. That’s all you need for your heart to beat on your face, burning so bright you’re surprised you haven’t melted to the floor.

You’re breathless and antsy as you wait for Iwaizumi to come back, the club visibly emptier after the final performance. Your friends have left already, only waiting around until you came to pick up your purse, all of them tired and drunk and leaving in group after calling enough ubers and making sure you were fine. 

And not without teasing, of course.

God, you were more than fine. But you’re throbbing, uncomfortable wet and empty, increasingly aware of the fact you’re standing there pantiless as the horny fog dissipates a bit in the absence of one Iwaizumi Hajime to end your logic thinking.

You get antsy of waiting around in the bar despite the bartender trying to make nice small-talk and instead trudges over to the corridor, standing there awkwardly fidgeting as if he’s taking hours and not literally a few minutes.

The door opens with an urge and Hajime’s eyes zoom in on you, long strides that only serve to make your body once again acutely aware of it’s poor state, arousal spiking to the point where you press your legs together to help with the feeling. 

But then he’s reaching for you before he’s even really close, and you’re quickly running to him and latching your lips together with urgency. Now that you can kiss him it feels like there’s no point in any other greeting that doesn’t involve his mouth on yours. 

His hair is dripping wet with a recent, clearly quick shower and he’s wearing the same clothes you’re used to see him with day by day and, somehow, that just makes it all worse, a literal groan passing your lips as you reach once again for his lips but this time Iwaizumi stops you with a groan, turning you in his arms so both of you can eagerly trudge out of the Club.

Hajime tries to be mindful of you as he shortens his long strides to be able to accompany yours. You’re balancing yourself to run on heels, laugh bubbling out of your chest at the exhilarating feeling of glee of a mutual crush. Iwaizumi throws you one amused look, sharp smile turning teasing as his hands come to circle your waist, hoist you up and hurry the remaining distance to his car.

“Too slow!” Iwaizumi teases with a grunt and chuckles against your neck, big toothy smile against your skin. “Hurry up!”

“Someone’s eager,” you tease but he’s already rounding his car, pressing you on the side to attach his lips to your neck, soft bites and circling hips that show you just how much that sentence is true.

One of his hands surrounds your neck and his thumb tilts your head up enough for his lips to capture yours, a soft kiss contrasting with the need in his grasp on your hips. 

“I think we’ve waited too long.” 

“Yeah? Who’s fault is that, dumbass?” You nibble on his lips and grind your hips on the impressive burning length that presses on your belly. Iwaizumi chuckles, biting on your neck as his hand slides past your hip to close on your ass. 

“Yours.” 

Your outraged gasp is lost on his lips, passionate kiss blowing your rational thinking with a nuke. Would you ever recover from Iwaizumi Hajime? God, you don’t think so. 

You pull him closer, pressing your chest against him, pressure building once again as your nipples stand to attention. Your leg rakes up on his side as if you’re not on the middle of the street and Iwaizumi lets his hand slide to the underside of your thigh; fingers dipping lower, digits gliding over your drenched slit once before he dips them carefully past the tight ring of your entrance. It’s barely anything, but your mind short-circuits, head falling back against the car.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” Iwaizumi sounds anguished, teeth punishing his lips as his eyes bore on yours. His fingers slide deeper inside you and your mouth opens in a silent moan. “I can’t wait to be inside this pussy.”

That ends you, pussy clenching so hard around his barely there fingers it’s painful to feel the remaining emptiness. You puff a hot breath of air on his face, eyes dazed and blood boiling as you tense and throb. 

“Iwa,” Your nails press on his skin so hard your own hand hurts, “if you keep doing this we’ll be doing it in the street.”

Something burns in him, as he presses his fingers deeper inside you to watch your eyes fall close and then pulls them all out, quickly opening the door.  

“Get in.”

You obey, having half a mind to wonder if it’s really happening until he’s closing the door and circling the vehicle. “Iwa!” You plead, as somehow it feels like abandonment, your whole being hurting and boiling, a whine in your lips as Hajime slides in the driver's seat and turns the car on, driving it out the curb and down the street as a madman.

“We’re doing this right,” Hajime tells you as he drives, drinking your panting form from the corner of his eyes. His jeans are tight, hint of what awaits you forming a very clear pattern and you feel overheated, frenzied, throbbing with need. So as it turns out, you’re far past the point to care. 

You adjust yourself in the seat, legs spreading to allow your hand to reach the appex of your sex as the other closes on a clothed breast. “Iwa,” you sigh in bliss as the pressure finally seems to give in just that one tiny bit. His eyes shoot to you and fall comically large at the view, turning hazed in sequence as his cheeks color red.

“God, baby, don’t do this to me,” Iwaizumi grunts, hand adjusting his cock through the jeans as his eyes try to flit between you and the fairly empty streets. 

“I’m not doing anything to you though, I’m doing it to me.” You moan and the car loses balance for a second, sliding to the side and back as you laugh. 

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“Try not to kill us, Iwa.” Is all you answer, moan slipping out at the way you let your fingers alleviate the pressure at your clenching center. Iwaizumi looks as if he’s in pain. One of his hands shoots down to hold on your left thigh, bruising strength delicious.

“You wanna play dirty, huh? That’s what you want?” The tinge of aggression in his voice makes your pussy throb around your fingers and for a moment it feels like he knows. “I can play dirty, baby. I can either make you cum like a good girl or let you hang the whole night like a brat, so what do you want?”

Your voice is nowhere to be found and your eyes are locked on Hajime as if he’s the one who hung the moon and stars. He even has the gal to smirk.

“I can be so good, baby, but I’m even better at being bad.”

You skyrocket shamelessly into a little bout of pleasure, a short-lived thing resembling a climax that’s caused by the whiplash of Hajime’s dominance and the pressure bursting inside you as you abuse your own fingers' expertise. 

You tremble on his side, head thrown back with a moan of his name and Hajime curses loudly, hand at your thigh awkwardly reaching your slit to slide over it and push two fingers inside, catching the last of your short-lived climax. His face turns solemn, eyes darkening with hunger as a vein rises in his jaw and a renewed wave of wetness stains his digits.

Those forest-green eyes settle on you as he speeds down the empty street. “I’m going to end you,” Iwaizumi presses deeper and you arch your body, legs falling wider for him as fingers you effortlessly, driving and stretching you on thick digits that make you gasp on your own breath. 

“This is how it’s going to be.” Hajime starts, voice rough and hot. “Once we’re out of this car and private enough, I’m burying myself inside this pretty pussy in one go.” Your whole breath leaves you in one quick breath, eyes falling open as Hajime’s thumb rounds your clit and a third finger starts pushing inside your walls, burning stretch making you delirious as his words take you apart, one by one. 

“Then, I’m fucking you the whole night until you cant even think about a time where I wasn't inside you,” his fingers curve inside your walls, calling motion and upwards thrust that makes your pleasure sparks through your whole body, one hand closing around his wrist as the other locks on a breast. “Until you feel empty without me inside.”

He pulls his hand back as you all but sob, eyes literally welling with tears at the loss of your quickly rising bliss but one look at Hajime has you sobering up, his focused eyes on the street as he hurries down the rest of the way. 

As it ends up, Iwaizumi stays true to his words. 

He presses you up against the door of his apartment while you two are still on the corridor, brings his hands to your thighs and hikes you up against the door, your dress sliding way past your ass as your bare, throbbing pussy glides over his clothed length. Your whole skin feels like a live-wire, hypersensitive and vibrating.

Hajime’s mouth is closed in a bite on your shoulder as he uses his abilities to open his door without interfering with the sinful way you roll your center against his big cock, needy and lost, pleading for him to just fuck you. 

When it clicks open, both his hands fly to your ass as he pushes past the door and close it with a bang as he presses you against it. His mouth is back on yours, tongue invading your lips with a groan and hand flying to tear his jeans open and down just enough for his big, hard cock spring free.

"Yes!" You break the kiss to cry at the first touch of his weeping, hot cock against your cunt, the sheer amount of wetness making it slide from your hole to your clit and then down again. 

Hajime sucks a breath to still himself, slowly angles his hips back and let the thick head slide to  your entrance with perfect precision, slamming himself half the way inside with one powerful thrust that have his head falling on your shoulder with a blissful groan, your cries of agreement thrown around the air above as you angle your head back.   

Your walls fall open for him brutally, soaking wet and ready but still struggling against the stretch. It burns, his fat cock pulsing inside you and as you clench around his girth you realize he's not even all the way inside. 

"Oh my god," you breathe out and Iwa sighs, fist slamming on the side of the door as he braces himself and rolls his hips, pushing steadily, sheathing his cock inside you slowly. You choke on a breath, suddenly silent, legs kicking out without your brain to rein on it.

"Jesus," Iwa grunts as he bottoms out, his legs trembling from the effort of holding himself back, mind stumbling as every single cell in his body seems overwhelmed by the feeling of reaching paradise. “You feel like heaven.”

Hajime tells you mostly because he wants to feel you clench around him and you do, his heart soaring with the delicious high of knowing exactly what makes you tick; but the throbbing of his cock reminds him just how long he’s been forgotten and Iwaizumi adjusts his stance, locks his arms around you and simply mutters, “Now, to fucking you the whole night.”

You skyrocket quicker than ever, few presses and pulls igniting a supernova bliss in your veins, tongue useless as it feels alien in your mouth, brain short-circuiting at his thrusts. You’ve never felt like this and you’re pretty sure you’ll never would, not without Hajime.

You’re so lost you don’t even realize he moves you from the door to the wall, Hajime’s hands grabbing a handful of your hair to pull you to a blistering kiss, the trimmed hair at the base of his cock doing wonders against your clit every time he bottoms out, nestled inside a place you never even felt before. 

You’re so oversensitive, wound up and tense as your pussy holds him as a vice, grunts falling from his lips that make you skin all but burn at the delicious praise. 

As you squeeze “Hajime” past your mouth in a painful breath, frenzied eyes searching for his,  he soothes you with kisses all over your face. 

“Go ahead, baby.” He tells you with his lips against your skin, “I got you.”

You explode. 

There’s no other way to explain the way your pleasure blows you over, sharpshooter through your veins and short-circuits your brain. It feels like being caught in an ocean wave, unable to swim as it carries you underwater and the tides hold you down, unending twirls that assault you through every side until you’re finally reaching shore, rising above to suck a deep breath.

Hajime is peppering your face with kisses as you settle back inside your skin, blinking hazy eyes to his perfect face with a ridiculous smile that must show just how fucking much you’re smitten. But there’s an edge of something painful on his face.

“Wow.” You breathe and his cock responds inside you with a nod of agreement.

Hajime chuckles, plants a big kiss on your wet lips and tries to smile despite the strain on his face as he calls your name. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” you smile dumbly at him, loose and fuzzy around the edges. “Go ahead. Not sure I’ll be of much use, I think I just had a outer body experience.”

“Hmmm,”  Hajime smirks, tight around the edges with his throbbing cock buried in your pulsing heat. as he seems pensive  “No can’t do, baby.”  He rolls his hips for a moment, lecherous noise echoing around the silent flat, then decides to bring you across the short distance to his couch, letting his ass fall on it graceless, cock pressing deeper with the movement. He drinks the little gasp straight from your lips. 

“I think I’ve earned my turn to sit back and relax.” Hajime smiles, predatory, hungry and you decide you just may love him like this. “So why don’t you do us both a favor and ride it?”

-

[some-kindofgnome]

these violent delights, pt. i

In an immersive theme park where cutting-edge technology makes your wildest dreams come true, the line between fantasy and reality begins to blur. enter westworld, where artificially intelligent automatons known as ‘hosts’ are programmed to fulfill your every delight.

(westworld AU, eventual host!dabi x reader, host!keigo takami x reader, eventual shouto todoroki x f!reader)

part one | part two | part three

featuring: hanta sero, denki kaminari, katsuki bakugou, momo yaoyozoru, eijirou kirishima

part one: you prepare to enter the park for the bachelorette party your bridesmaids wanted. meanwhile, westworld’s capable employees prepare to roll out the latest programming update.

wc: 8.7k

pt. i warnings: smut (18+!), sci-fi dystopia, artificial intelligence, medical/surgical procedures, body modification. gun violence, robbery, kidnapping, drinking, death, no beta we die like teddy

notes: this is part one of my entry for The Smut Pile’s Western Collab! this is my very first server collab and I am so thrilled to be kicking it off with this plot monster. this is the first of three parts- it leans a little heavy on the world building, so stay tuned for parts two and three. the action dials up from here, promise! i’m excited to be putting out one of my first plot-heavy stories on this blog!

please note: part one borrows several events from season one, episodes one and two of the series. the story will branch off in its own direction in parts two and three. you do not need to be familiar with Westworld to enjoy this fic- so please give it a try! 💖

(MASTERLIST)

“This doesn’t feel right.”

Livestock Management technician Hanta Sero drifts idly from tool cart to operating table with his raven hair pulled back. He’s clad in a protective latex apron and gloves, approaching the table with a blowtorch in one hand and a long, slim pair of forceps in the other.

“That’s what it says here.” Denki Kaminari stands across the black-tiled room, his back reflected in the glass walls of the operating facility. He scrolls mindfully through a folding datapad with a crease of deep concentration in his golden brow.

Snapping his datapad shut, he lifts his chin to find Sero’s conflicted gaze across the lab.

“The specifications were pretty precise.”

“I know what the briefing said,” Sero retorts. “I just…”

He ignites the blowtorch and takes a deep breath, letting his gaze over slowly over the pale, unmarked flesh of the body stretched out on the table in front of him.

“What?” Kaminari takes in the sight before him. He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh. Well-“

He gets up from his stool, tugging his gloves back over his shirtsleeves and crossing the room toward Sero and the body in question. He picks up a scalpel, making a clean little cut just below the subject’s left nipple without any hesitation.

“Dude, stop!” Sero reaches with the hand still clutching his forceps, blanching as a thin well of blood trickles onto pristine flesh.

“He’s offline,” Denki chuckles. “He can’t feel a thing. You’ve patched these guys up a thousand times, Sero. What’s the problem?”

“I dunno,” Sero muses, drawing the back of one glove nervously over his temple. “I dunno. I think they’re starting to get too real. It’s messing with me.” He shoots Denki a weak chuckle and shakes his head.

“What do they need this guy all burned up for, anyway?”

“Momo told me he’s for the new narrative,” Denki replies, puzzling over the red hair and immaculate pale skin of their unsuspecting victim. “Some kind of grizzly new villain who’s supposed to stir up trouble.”

“Better make him extra fucked up, then.” The blowtorch, extinguished in Sero’s panic, is ignited again, but he’s still hesitating.

“Hey,” Denki prompts. “Why don’t we start with the system update? That’ll kill some time. And then- hey.” He reaches across the tool cart, grabbing for the bottle of black hair dye that came with the host’s modification kit. He shakes it in Sero’s face, letting a smug grin cross his features.

“I’ll do the carpet if you do the drapes.”

Sero and Denki find their rhythm easily enough. Before long, the tension dispels and they’re letting conversation flow smoothly between them, making weekend plans while Sero pushes polished silver staples into the now-scarred flesh of the transformed host.

“This guy’s older than he looks,” Denki quips from the tool cart, where he’s selecting an appropriately sized needle for the delicate work ahead of him. “His systems haven’t been updated in years.”

“I’ve never seen him in the park before,” Sero admits. He’s finishing the clean row of staples that trail from the corner of the host’s mouth to his ear, struggling to push the staple into the skin at the edges of his face. The sharp prongs don’t hold as well in the spots where the muscle and flesh thin to just skin stretched over bone. He looks up in frustration, shaking the spots from his concentrated gaze.

“Whoa,” he starts as he spots the way that Denki’s moved up between the host’s lean thighs. “You’re really gonna-“

“That’s what it says in the briefing,” Denki presses. He’s got the aforementioned needle in one hand and a bowl of curved barbells in the other; he’s gone a little grin about the gills, too.

“Sick fucks,” Sero snorts, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel very historically accurate, does it?”

“Please,” Denki pushes. “If you think this has ever been about history, you’re in for a nasty surprise.”

“Christ, you wanna talk about nasty surprises,” Sero replies, blanching and averting his eyes while Denki inserts the first piercing. “Just wait’ll the guests get a look at him.”

"Bakugou's outdone himself this time," Denki agrees, brow furrowed with sympathy and panicked concentration as he unscrews the first barbell. "Those idiots won't know what hit 'em.”

“Bring yourself back online.”

Head of Programming Shouto Todoroki sits in front of the park’s newest addition, datapad spread across his lap. Sero and Denki’s work paid off; the new host is looking fiercer than ever.

Not new enough for Shouto’s tastes, though. He can still see the blue glint when “Dabi,” as his new narrative calls him, shifts into wakefulness and lets his eyes flutter open. He shoots Shouto a sinister grin but does not move from his seat.

Shouto doesn’t want to believe what they’ve done to him. He’s still nude, putting all his new modifications on brilliant display. The staples in his flesh look angry and inflamed. The scars, done perfectly to appear long-healed, still make his blood curdle.

He can’t even think about the flashes of silver that catch the light when Dabi crosses his legs.

“And who are you supposed to be?" Dabi growls an opening line that shakes Shouto more than it ought to. He sports a brand new drawl that fits the world he’ll be slotted into soon enough, but it’s too much, bouncing off the pristine glass and shiny tile beneath his bare feet.

“Lose the accent,” Shouto commands. Dabi's expression shifts a little, but he does not drop eye contact.

Shouto can’t help but wonder if they all stare like this. He hasn’t been alone with a host in a very long time. Especially not one with this kind of significance.

“Do you know where you are?” He presses, determined to push forward. The sooner he gets Dabi through analysis, the sooner he can pretend like the unsettling host doesn’t exist.

But Dabi’s voice with no drawl is even more spine-chilling.

“I am in a dream.”

“And… do you want to wake up from this dream?”

Dabi’s eyes drift away in a direction they’re not supposed to. For a moment, he casts his gaze down and to the left, letting it sweep across the edge of the room as his brow creases with terrifying subtlety.

The gesture is minuscule, almost as if he's recalling a distant memory. For a moment, Shouto can only admire its beauty.

Then he realizes it’s not supposed to be there.

“Yes,” Dabi continues, his voice soft and lilting and almost wistful. “I’m terrified.”

“Freeze all motor functions.” Shouto’s heart pounds in his chilled throat. His extremities have gone cold. But Dabi follows his instructions to the letter, freezing before he can even blink. Shouto questions why he expected any differently.

Not two minutes later, Head of Behaviour Momo Yaoyorozu ducks gracefully into Dabi’s glass prison. Shouto is still sitting exactly where he began, perched on a little rolling leather stool. Six feet away, Dabi has not moved, bare and frozen on a stool of his own.

"I got your page," Momo soothes, shutting the door quietly behind her and unfolding her datapad. The hinges go rigid when they sit flat, blending seamlessly into a broad tablet that she taps and scrolls quietly through.

“I checked his programming on the way over. There’s something new here,” she concludes. “But I don’t know who added it. Must have been one of the interns, or-“

“I know who it was,” Shou answers grimly, already scrolling meticulously through the lines of code that make up Dabi’s new personality. Momo freezes, looking up at him with cold surprise.

“You don’t think…”

“I do,” he confirms. He takes a deep breath to quell his racing heart and shoots his closest colleague a shaky look. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“Incredible,” Momo gasps a few moments later when Shouto asks Dabi the same series of questions and gets the same frightening response. He knows why it shakes him as much as it does, but it hasn’t occurred to him that someone like Momo would actually… appreciate them.

“It’s like he’s-“ she starts, then stops herself. The conclusion she’s drawn should be as impossible as it sounds. But it’s staring them both in the face.

“Like he’s remembering something.” She finishes her thought this time, and Shou clenches his jaw.

"He must have slipped the code into the update," he determines. "In the programming, he's calling them Reveries."

“Kind of poetic,” Momo muses, still admiring the way that Dabi’s eyes seem to mist as they stare into the middle-distance. “It makes him look so real.”

“The code pulls memories from his earlier programming,” Shouto continues, looking up at Momo and waiting for her to be as spooked as he is.

He’s almost frightened that she’ll be defensive. But she’s sharper than he’s given her credit for, and that revelation is enough to pull her from her stupor.

“That could cause a lot of problems,” she muses. “Especially if the loops haven’t been closed properly. They’re supposed to be wiped after every cycle, but if there are links pulling them back…”

“I know,” Shouto emphasizes. Momo straightens, planting matter-of-fact hands on matter-of-fact hips.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” he confesses, turning back to catch another blood-chilling glimpse of the all-too-familiar host. “I can’t just pull the programming out from under him. He’ll know.”

“You can’t send him into the park with it. If it’s slotted in with the update, he could spread it to the other hosts.”

Shouto pushes his datapad aside and leans forward, steepling his fingers as he sighs deeply and descends into even deeper thought.

Momo’s right. With the Reveries included, the update has potentially disastrous consequences. But that’s operating on the assumption that his father makes mistakes, which most people would confirm is simply impossible.

If he clears the programming before letting Dabi go through, however, he’ll be facing the wrath of his father.

Shou purses his lips, lacing his fingers together but leaving the pointers extended and pursing his lips against the smooth joints.

“I think we’re going to have to.”

The glossy, perfect train- the first of many you'll take today, as you're told- pulls into a station that's even whiter than the train itself. Polished white floors and perfect whitewashed columns are the first things you see out the massive panoramic windows as the cars pull to a complete stop. When the doors glide open, your maid of honour touches your sleeve as the other girls filter out of your private compartment and onto the platform.

You’re far from the only ones disembarking the train. The rest of the platform is soon crowded by immaculately-dressed guests from all over the world. They bow and shift like a flock of starlings, moving in stark contrast past the perfectly-still bodies of the white-clad staff waiting to greet them.

A tall, statuesque woman with raven hair steps forward, addressing your maid of honour by name. She gives you an apologetic wave and a see you in there before disappearing amid the writhing sea of people.

You’ve been reading up on this place for weeks, scouring pamphlets and websites and guest reviews for every detail about the induction process you can glean from public knowledge. Details of the park itself are kept very private, but you’ve learned all you can about the way you’ll be introduced to it.

This place was not your first choice for the occasion at hand, but your friends practically insisted. You know it’s for selfish reasons- it’s the only chance they’re ever going to get to see the place for themselves- but you can already think of several places you’d rather celebrate your coming nuptials.

Not exactly your typical bachelorette party fare. But your friends agreed to wear matching dresses in that shade of pale green you couldn’t stay away from, so you’re giving them this.

Before long the platform is nearly cleared. You’re just starting to make your way toward the escalator, wondering what exactly became of the host who was supposed to greet you, when a soft croon of your name over one shoulder nearly shocks you out of your sandals.

Your host has arrived, and he’s even more gorgeous than you feared. Graceful and lithe-looking, he’s clad in a pristine white suit and turtleneck that contrasts the bold flashes of his golden hair perfectly. He shoots you a smooth smile, lit by razor-sharp tawny eyes and as he turns his face to catch the light, you can see that his jaw is grazed by the barest hint of scruff- perfectly groomed, just like the rest of him.

"Hello," you greet, trying not to lose your breath. You clasp the fingers of your right hand around the ring finger on your left- the remnants of your favourite new nervous habit. You've taken to twisting your engagement ring in moments of idleness or anxiety, but for safety's sake, you've left the flashy diamond at home.

You know you’re engaged. That’s what matters most.

“Good,” the host croons. You’re getting quickly used to his honeyed brogue, strong and low and sweet as he takes your hand and drops a suave kiss to your knuckles. “I’m glad you found your way here.” He jerks his head toward the emptying escalator, eyes never leaving yours.

“Follow me.”

As you’re ascending through the polished storeys of the park’s immaculate headquarters, your attendant rattles off a long list of mundane medical questions. He’s tapping away on a datapad as he walks, and you’re sure that whatever information he’s taking down will be swept away for later use.

Finally, he brings you to a plain-looking white door. He tucks away the datapad and slips his hands into his pockets. He’s graceful and perfect- too perfect. You’re starting to suspect that he’s no ordinary employee.

“Go on,” he urges, nodding toward the door. You shoot him a sideways little glance but step forward, hooking your fingers around the polished handle and pushing it open. You step inside.

The interior of the room- or closet, as it would be better described- is lit almost exclusively by glowing strip lights hidden in the crevices of the doorway, racks of clothing, and bordering a large series of mirrors that stud each wall.

It’s the biggest walk-in closet you’ve ever seen. And it’s filled to the brim with racks of clothing, all appropriate to the vague late-19th century setting of the park.

“Everything is bespoke,” pipes your immaculate attendant as he shuts the door behind him, “and exactly your size.” Painfully, you remember being asked for your body measurements in anticipation of this visit. Did they custom-tailor everything for each guest?

Or are you being given special treatment?

“You can pick out anything you’d like,” he continues, moving toward you, “and your other clothes will be waiting for you when you’ve finished your stay.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you muse, fingering the raspberry-coloured silk of a lavish-looking day dress.

“The clothes you choose will determine the course of your experience.”

Your attendant is right beside you now, so close that you can see the way his golden eyelashes brush his tanned cheeks. He’s leaning in to examine the silk same as you, but his shoulder pushes just a little close to be solely practical. As he grips the material between lithe fingers, he lifts his gaze to yours on purpose. There’s a charming lilt to his smile that you can’t help but admire.

He pauses, dropping the silk and turning to face you head-on. Though the smile has slipped from his features, he still eyes you with interest.

“You want to ask, don’t you?”

Your brain catches up immediately, confusion swelling and fading in the span of a heartbeat. It tightens to thick dread in your chest.

He’s right. You do.

“Are you real?” The words sound even more ridiculous in the air between you than they did in your head. But ever since you boarded the train it felt like you could never be sure. And he’s perfect. Too perfect. Even the way he takes your question seems scripted and rehearsed.

He gives a low chuckle and takes your hands, stroking smooth thumbs over the backs of your knuckles. Then he peeks up at you from beneath flawless dark lashes and flashes a hint of pearly canine as he speaks.

“If you can’t tell, does it really matter?”

You don’t need him to expand.

“Come,” he prompts gently, dropping one hand to pull open a drawer of delicate slips and shifts, sitting in neat, folded piles of undyed linen. Some are plain, others trimmed excessively with lace and ribbons. You’re drawn to the coloured ribbons immediately- pale peach, soft blue, mint green. But the brassy gold of your attendant’s eyes is even more magnetic and you can’t look away for longer than a handful of seconds.

“You know,” he continues, squeezing your fingers gently and moving back in to run his knuckles up the inside of your wrist. Every single one of his touches is delicate, fluttering like a songbird against your skin. But there’s nothing gentle about the way he looks at you.

“Some of these clothes are a little difficult to put on alone.”

He does not explain further, but he watches as you’re drawn to the same conclusion that he is.

You have to roll this one over in your mind for a long while. You left your engagement ring behind, but the engagement itself still stands. Then again, he told you to enjoy yourself here. ‘Make every use of the park’s benefits,’ he’d suggested.

He’s just a computer, you tell yourself. A glorified sex toy. Maybe he walks and talks and flirts like a real human being, but…

There’s something about him that’s making it hard to turn him down.

After a silence long enough for any normal person to question, you look up at your attendant once more. He’s patiently awaiting your response, having gone uncomfortably still. You're not even sure he'd blink if you stare long enough.

You give a tight little nod and he’s smiling again, the same lazy smile as before. His default expression, you’re beginning to gather. He reaches for your coat.

“Wait.” You stop him with one hand on either forearm. He’s touched you before, but it’s still shocking how warm he is. Even though the sleeves of his perfect white jacket, he feels unquestionably alive.

"Don't you have a name or something?"

“Of course I do,” he responds. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Um…” Your brow knits. “Yes.”

He slips around behind you, curling his fingers into the open folds of your jacket and beginning to slide the weighty material off your shoulders. As he does, he leans forward, letting his lips draw close to your ear and making you shiver.

“Call me Keigo.”

“Keigo,” you repeat. It’s pretty and rolls easily from your mouth in a slow purr of desire. You can’t help yourself anymore. Keigo’s been programmed to put you at ease, but he’s doing much more for you now.

He undresses you methodically, pausing only briefly to run a hand down the curve of your waist or dip his fingers under the point of your chin when he catches you looking down. Even when you’re standing completely naked in front of him, he does not move to touch you in any untoward manner.

Whatever unspoken arrangement you thought you had formed is obviously not as unspoken as you’d hoped.

With his help, you select some period-appropriate undergarments. He helps you into your breezy linen shift first, lovingly tying the drawstrings into a neat little bow at the centre front. The corset is not as uncomfortable as you'd anticipated, fitting you devastatingly well. Keigo’s skilled hands pull the laces with precise tension, and the whole time he breathes soft commands and inquiries over your shoulder.

“Too tight?” He whispers, holding the laces taught at your waist. You take a slow, deep breath, then shake your head.

“Good.”

He ties the laces off and helps you into two petticoats- one of plain white cotton, the other of decorative silk and lace. Then he sits you on a cool, leather-covered sofa on one edge of the room and drops to his knees in front of you.

“Uh-“ you start, but he produces a pair of silk stockings from seemingly nowhere, smirking over the tops of your knees.

“Let’s get this out of the way.”

He pushes your airy petticoats up from your ankles, letting the backs of his palms brush the insides of your knees. He shoves the material up to your thighs and your confusion is multiplied now- is this what you think it is?

The way he admires your thighs as you shyly press them together certainly makes it seem so.

"Keigo," you gasp, curling your fingers against the edge of the sofa. The leather is supple and delicate beneath your touch like you could tear it if you wanted to.

He looks up just in time to watch you hook a bare thigh over his shoulder, and his brows shoot into his pointed hairline.

You’ve decided what you want out of this trip.

"Dove," he chides, setting down the stockings and pushing them gently aside. He takes both hands up the backs of your calves, stroking perfectly manicured fingernails into the tender skin at the backs of your knees.

He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His face disappears behind the swath of frothy white petticoats gathered in your lap, but you feel his hot breath on your skin clear as day.

“If you wanted something from me,” he purrs, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I’m asking now,” you hum, letting your head fall back against the back of the couch. He’s easy enough to convince. Somehow, the fact that you didn’t have to work very hard for this almost makes it feel more acceptable.

“Here’s my answer,” he replies, sinking his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh. You let out a strangled gasp, thigh jolting against his face as he slips his hand under the other leg- still hooked over his shoulder. You let out a low, shaky breath, trying not to think about the mark he’ll leave.

He pushes your leg away after biting it, shoving your knees apart and leaning eagerly forward. His head is fully buried under your gathered petticoats at this point, and you can feel him nosing his way into the crook of your groin, sliding a few free fingers up to prod gently for your hair-dusted folds.

“Wet already, bluebird?” He chuckles into your skin, sending shivers up your spine. “I’m flattered.”

“Stop,” you groan. There’s heat rushing to your cheeks with every word that tumbles out of his pretty mouth. You don’t want any of this to stop, but the heat between your legs is the one quickly growing unbearable.

“Do you want me to?” Keigo sits back almost immediately, ridding you of the delicious tingles his close breath were sending across your skin.

“No, no!” You yelp sharply, indignantly, digging your bare heel into his back to keep him close. He stops as soon as you apply pressure, letting out a quiet little chuckle.

“Keep going,” you pant, curling your toes against his pretty jacket.

“Your wish is my command,” he hums, already leaning into your flesh again. He does not hesitate this time, burying his head between your legs and giving the weeping slit of your cunt a long lick.

His first touch is all it takes to remind you how long it’s been.

“Fuck,” you gasp, low and languid. He doesn’t hesitate to close his lips around your swelling clit and suck. He makes sharp, sloppy noises with his lips and tongue, and the way they resonate in your ears near-doubles your pleasure. He’s eating you out perfectly, with terrifying precision. The strength of his jaw and tongue remains almost painfully consistent.

All the better for drowning him out. Despite his easy-flowing attitude and suave charm, he’s not a person. And it isn’t unfaithful to want him like this.

Even if you know he wouldn’t like it.

Keigo is diligent and careful, plunging his tongue in and out of your needy hole before finding the nub of your clit again, hard and sensitive. When he flicks the tip of his tongue against the tender front of it your legs spasm and you cry out softly as sensitive goosebumps rush across your ribcage.

“Like that,” you plead breathlessly, drawing your foot up between his shoulder blades as the tension builds. “Again, please.”

You’re holding the swells of your petticoats up around your thighs for him, but your fingers are beginning to clench in the delicate material. You’re not going to last long at all beneath a tongue as talented as his.

“Don’t worry, dove,” he purrs into your body, sending thick vibrations through every nerve in your system, “I won’t leave you unsatisfied.”

As he settles into his rhythm again, he plunges two fingers into your messy depths. He curls them tightly inside you, massaging your tender walls with a blunt and careful touch.

It takes little more than a few methodical strokes to make you fall. You cum with a tight little squeal, closing your thighs tightly around his head while you spasm and buck and sigh. He’s attentive enough to keep pumping his fingers through your orgasm, drawing out the pleasure as much as possible and greedily lapping at the wetness that trickles from your clenching pussy.

"That's it," he soothes, easing you down from your high with one calming hand on the column of your twitching thigh. As you settle, sweat-soaked, back into your seat he surfaces, sweat and shiny, sticky fluid sticking in the bristles of his perfect scruff. He licks his lips and you realize you’ve unconsciously mirrored him, doing the same.

In the moments directly following your peak you say nothing, looking down to meet his brassy gaze as deep uncertainty settles into your gut.

What happens now?

Keigo sits back on his haunches, pulling the folded pocket square from his breast and mopping up the mess on his chin and jaw like he'd done nothing more than spill a glass of wine or splash water over his lips.  

“Much better,” he croons, reaching for the discarded stockings from before. “Feeling a little more relaxed?”

You swallow hard.

“I’d say so.”

His smile is surprisingly bright and sunny.

“Good.” He hooks his fingers under your knee again, unhooking your leg from his shoulder. Sliding a palm down to your ankle, he fits one stocking deftly over your foot and slides it up your calf, continuing his work as if uninterrupted. He fits the stockings over your knees and ties them off carefully with slips of silk ribbon, sitting the knots just below your knees so the stockings won't fall. Then, he gets to his feet and offers you a hand.

“Let’s pick out the rest of your clothes, shall we?”

The park is even more immersive than you imagined. The photos do it no justice. When you step off the (genuine steam-powered) train at Sweetwater Station, it’s accompanied by a very real twinge of anxiety. The village is like a scene out of a Clint Eastwood movie. Only there are no cardboard sets here. The saloon doors really swing inward. The shops and businesses that line the main street are built from real, weathered lumber. The dust that’s kicked up by the hosts that go about their daily lives is already beginning to coat your new boots.

You sneeze.

“God bless you,” greets a kind stranger in a rough-hewn grey coat and white hat. He’s got a very apparent drawl to his voice, but the glint in his blue eyes is kind.

Back at the facility, guests and hosts were easy enough to distinguish from one another. Out here, it’s a little more difficult. You’re not sure whether to believe that everyone is real or assume they’re all fake.

Luckily, there are four women beside you whose humanity you are acutely aware of. You’re lucky enough to have found your bridesmaids on the train in- all clustered in the bar car, but together nonetheless.

And they’ve insisted on keeping the party going.

“C’mon, bride-to-be,” your maid of honour chides, grabbing you by the hand and pulling you out of your reverie. “I know exactly where we need to go first.”

“It’s not even noon yet,” you protest, but the others are already miles ahead of you. You’re dragged easily into the broad, dusty street and toward those broad, swinging doors. The saloon stands proudly in the centre of town on a prominent corner with faded signs advertising its wares. And your maid of honour eagerly bats the doors open, striding boldly into the sun-soaked saloon.

The tables are surprisingly crowded for this time of day. It’s most likely a flood of guests, disembarking the train and heading straight for the local watering hole for a real taste of the action.  Beyond their idle chatter tinkles the bright keys of a player piano against one wall. You can see the player scroll turning in the piano’s upright fixture, but that doesn’t change the unsettling way that the keys seem to press themselves.

It’s an eerie fixture in a town populated by walking, talking player pianos.

The man behind the bar bleeds Old West stereotypes from every pore. He’s got a huge, exaggerated greying moustache and a tweed waistcoat with shirtsleeves bound back for work. He’s polishing an empty glass with a cotton rag, but you spot him just in time to watch him politely greet a guest and reach behind him for a frosted bottle of unlabeled whisky.

The only other fixtures in the place are the women patrolling it, clad in colourful, lacy outfits that you’re certain violate some kind of historical convention. But they’re all breathtakingly beautiful, bosoms heaving over tightly laced corsets and fluttering from table to table like songbirds. They seem to provide little more than decoration and, as you settle into a table not far from the door, they fade easily into the background.

Until one of them screams.

You’ve read as many stories as you could scour the internet for before coming here. You know this place can get intense. Details of the park’s narratives and interactive storylines are kept under wraps as much as possible, so you can’t be sure whether this is out of the ordinary or not.

But when you whip around to find the source of the blood-curdling shriek, it doesn’t feel scripted.

It doesn’t feel scripted when the pretty girl in peach lace flings herself to the feet of a brand-new guest, here with his wife and their young son gaping from across the table. It doesn’t feel like she’s supposed to be wracked with sobs having never exchanged a word with this man.

It doesn’t feel like she should be pleading with him.

But the sobs wrack her body anyway, and her rosy little cheeks are flushed deeply now as she sniffles and blubbers.

“My daughter,” she begs hoarsely. “My girl, my daughter, please, I know you have her. Give her back to me, please. I know you took her. Give her back to me, I’ll do anything.”

Whether the father-of-one knows what she's talking about or not he's white as a sheet, stumbling backwards against the edge of his wife's table and pushing his arms forward, trying to keep her away.

The player piano finishes its tune, keys stilling as the saloon’s patrons look on in shock. And for an honest handful of heartbeats, the saloon is silent save for the host’s ragged sobs.

It takes a few moments for the player scroll to re-align itself before the tune restarts, and as the familiar notes cycle back through the saloon the host re-centres herself, climbing to her feet. There's a hardened resolve on her tear-stained face as her target looks around, gathering his wife and son with a this is bullshit and turning to leave.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me-“ the host begins to snarl. She lunches for the man, hands outstretched for the back of his brand new jacket, or maybe the brim of his crisp Stetson.

“Freeze all motor functions!”

A deep voice booms from the door of the saloon, amplified and simultaneously muffled with the use of a megaphone. The girl, and every other host in the saloon, freezes in place as though they’ve been paused. They don’t just stand still- they’re paralyzed. The smiling bartender is stalled with a glass in his hand; he doesn’t even blink.

In the doorway stands a hulking man of at least six and a half feet, seeming nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall. He wears a black uniform, armored black vest and heavy combat boots with a head of brilliant red hair spilling over his shoulders. As he lowers the megaphone he’s grinning, the bare flash of a sharp canine catching the low light of the bar.

“Sorry for the intrusion, folks,” he declares, striding across the floorboards toward the frozen host. Her expression is paused in a sneer of sheer horror and aggression, her hand outstretched for the man who has long since stepped aside.

The red-haired guardian angel, who has the name Kirishima stitched neatly onto the breast of his protective gear in white thread, catches your gaze. He shoots you a familiar little wink and a nod, a soft y’alright? escaping his throat in a quiet little growl.

You lick your lips, nodding slowly. Kirishima averts his gaze and reaches for the frozen host. As soon as he touches her skin she goes limp, falling easily into his powerful hold. He hoists her body over one shoulder and surveys the saloon, touching two fingertips to his forehead in a bright little salute.

“Please, don’t let me intrude on your stay any longer,” he continues. “As you were, everybody. Resume.”

The last word seems to be a command for the hosts in the room, as they spin to life again. They resume their rounds as if no time had passed at all; as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever transgressed.

Spooked, but encouraged by Kirishima’s smooth removal of the offending host, the guests around you go hesitantly back to their conversations. The player piano, also halted by Kirishima’s commands, has resumed its delicate play, and slowly the environment returns to the way it was before.

Your friends are among those willing to brush off the incident.

"What happened?" mumbles your maid of honour across the table, as if the host were still around to overhear her. As if the host's friends might be listening in to see if anybody's talking about her.

“No idea,” quips one of the other girls. “Must be some kind of glitch.” She looks over her shoulder, watching the remaining hosts at the bar. “I wonder if it happens often.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Head of Narrative Katsuki Bakugou slams a stack of papers onto the table in front of him, disrupting the intricate hologram that provides a real-time, scale model of the park to the room’s occupants.

“Katsuki!” Momo scolds, watching the hologram stutter and flicker. It’s not the first table he’s damaged.

“You’re not pulling my fucking narrative. It rolls out today. Do you have any idea how many writers I had busting ass on that thing?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she retorts, tapping the screen of the datapad she’s got hooked tightly in the crook of her other arm. “You saw the host that Eijirou pulled, didn’t you? The fact that he had to step in at all means things got way out of hand…”

“Bullshit,” Katsuki retorts, sweeping his papers off the holo-table (and shattering the image one more time). “That was a fucking glitch. You don’t even have the results back from Behaviour yet.”

“I already know what they’re going to say,” Momo continues.

“That’s right,” Katsuki snarls. “I forgot you know everything around here.”

“She was carrying the latest update. There must be something wrong with the code.” Momo tries not to remember Dabi and his distant stare. She swallows the part about the extra coding slipped in by the man who could do no wrong.

She flips her datapad shut- it’s doing her any good, since Katsuki’s right. The results from Behaviour regarding the misaligned host won’t be ready for some time.

“You can’t. Pull. That. Narrative.” Katsuki’s squared up now, all the gathered papers tucked under his arm. His jaw is ticked, nostrils flaring as his eyes flash. “An entire trainload of guests is wandering around Sweetwater looking for the stories they fucking paid for. If you pull the plug, there’s nothing left.”

He’s right again.

“Look.” Katsuki crosses to the holo-table one more time, only this time it’s without the murderous intent in his gaze. For once he’s ready to use the table as intended, pin-pointing the broad, dusty street of Sweetwater’s main strip and bringing up a live feed of the bustling little town.

"Dabi is riding through here in less than two hours," he continues. "Dial-up his aggression a little. Make him shoot up the place. If you want to pull the hosts, at least let them go out with a bang.”

Momo isn’t convinced. But it’s the closest thing to a happy medium she can picture at the moment. Katsuki, as prolific as ever, knows how to think on his feet.

“How many d’you think he’ll take out?” She probes quietly, quirking an interested brow.

“Enough to keep the guests AND your Doctor Frankensteins entertained while I find us some more loopholes.”

Her mind races through more questions. But the panic, fluttering high and shallow in her chest, has somehow been replaced by a delicate sort of reassurance.

She flips open the datapad one more time, activating the remote host commands available only to an employee of her standing. Finding Dabi’s program file, she does exactly as Katsuki suggests and dials up the aggression in his behaviour stats by eighty percent.

“This had better work,” she threatens softly, but Katsuki’s already folding his arms across his chest, looking far too satisfied with himself. His ego is insufferable, but his talent is unmatched. Worth suffering for.

His mouth splits into a triumphant grin as he shoots an idle glance at the live Sweetwater feed. The only stage he’s ever needed.

“’Course it will.”

The afternoon sun has nearly dipped behind the tallest rooftops in Sweetwater when your friends stumble out of the saloon. Your friends are already tipsy, giggling and clutching each other as they try not to trip over the hems of their skirts. They’re all a little too eager to pull out the extravagant lace fans that pair perfectly with their colourful dresses and fan at their heaving bosoms.

As you bound down the steps and into the dirt road, you dive seamlessly into the milling crowd of hosts and guests, starting to swim. If you’re about to be caught in the eye of a devastatingly orchestrated narrative maelstrom, you’re blissfully unaware.

“Give me the time,” Katsuki grunts from the Sweetwater side of the holo-table. Momo glances up at the digital clock on the wall.

“Thirteen fifty-eight, forty-two,” she notes. Katsuki’s got the camera feed trained on a lone trio of riders, clad in black and plodding steadily toward Sweetwater. He watches carefully, keeping an eye turned on the clock.

“They’re going to be late,” he grunts bitterly, folding his arms over his chest. Sero, Denki and Kirishima, who have all crowded around the holo-table on their lunch breaks to watch the show, snort in near-unison.

“I don’t think anyone down there’s keeping track,” Denki quips, smoothing his palms down the front of his crisp shirt, apronless for once. Katsuki shoots him a vicious glare.

“You wanna go back to your sewing room or what?”

Denki goes quiet.

Inside the park, the sun passes behind a cloud. The light shifts just enough to draw your gaze, and when you look up, you’re among the first to spot a few dark shapes approaching. They’re close enough that you can make them out as riders, all on horses as black as the wide-brimmed hats on their heads.

There’s something about them, their precise formation and the slow, plodding, deliberate pace of their horses that holds your attention. You can’t quite write them off as guests, no matter how much they stand out from the dully-dressed villagers around you.

You glance across the street just long enough to spot a WANTED poster tacked to a column not far off. You can’t make out any of the writing on it, but the face is distinct- dark, shaded patches covering his jaw, chin and lower lip, carving out two shadowy patches under his eyes.

There’s something about the narrow shape of his cheeks that pulls familiar.

But you don’t have to wonder much longer.

The three riders ride quietly into town, the crowd parting around them with little more than low murmurs and dull, lidded fear. They pull to a stop in front of the saloon, barely twenty feet from you.

The cowboy in the grey tweed coat who caught your eye fresh off the train approaches the riders. He’s got a revolver holstered on one hip, and he draws it slowly out of its pouch as he squares up with the horse at the lead of the pack.

“Haven’t you seen the signs with your mug on ‘em?” He drawls, his face drawn into an expression of tense righteousness. He jerks his chin toward the nearest one, the WANTED sign you’d seen seconds earlier. “You’re not welcome here, Dabi.”

The taller rider in the centre- Dabi- tilts his chin into the sunlight, and that’s when you catch sight of its purplish colour. His face glints with silver, a perfect match for the drawing posted across the street.

He does not hesitate, drawing his own revolver in one smooth motion and shooting the cowboy in the chest. The gun discharges with a crack that’s louder than you ever imagined it could be, punctuated by the screams of bystanders nearby.

As the village descends into panic you stand there dumbstruck, watching the chaos unfold.

“Wait for it,” Katsuki grunts, hiding his satisfied grin as his colleagues watch in rapt fascination. Sero hasn’t blinked since the action began.

“You sure?” Dabi rasps, voice muffled by the feed. He produces a shiny golden badge and flipping it, like a silver dollar, onto the expiring corpse of the righteous host.

“No,” Denki whines. “He killed the sheriff?”

“Shut up and keep watching,” Katsuki growls, quelling the proud adrenaline pumping through his veins. There’s nothing quite like seeing his hard work come to life- supremely worth fighting with Momo over.

Dabi smirks, tipping the brim of his hat.

“Seems like invitation enough to me.”

He swings capably off his horse and you can’t deny your fascination with the mystery surrounding him. You should be terrified, but there’s something about the cool confidence with which he carries himself that you can’t quite put aside.

If the women flocking to the windows on either side of the street are any indication, you’re not the only one who feels that way. In a brief moment of lucidity, you take a glance around you. Your bridesmaids have disappeared, disappearing in the panicked mass of flooding crowds after the scarred rider fired his first shot.

He’s followed by a second rider on his right flank, both quickly disappearing into the bar. The third rider- a petite blonde woman swathed in a heavy coat- gets down off her horse and turns quickly toward her saddlebags. When she comes around the front side of her steed, she’s got a shotgun in her hands.

She’s loading it. The pandemonium amplifies. At her feet, there’s a long, thick coil of rope that’s partially unwound and trailing into the saloon. It’s unwinding slowly, with dull screams and shattering glass echoing from inside.

That’s all you have time to notice before another shot goes off in front of you. The little blonde girl’s levelled her shotgun, emptying her rounds at anyone who raises a weapon against her. You’re barely standing ten feet away. But she passes you clean over.

Is it because you're a guest? The only ones who have fallen at her hand are the hosts, capable of being hurt by her gunshots. The guests who haven't taken off are clustered in the windows of shops or hiding behind broad wooden columns, but there is no fear painted on their faces.

You know the hosts can’t hurt you. But there’s something about the thrill of it all that sends adrenaline pumping through your veins anyway. There’s a cool mystery to all of the black-clad riders.

A part of you wants to join them. If you can be anyone you want in here… why not one of them? Why not swing cooly down from your horse and terrorize, when there are no consequences to your actions?

You take one step backwards, then another. Your senses are finally coming back to you. You should run. Disengage. Maybe you can’t be caught in the crossfire, but you can’t stand dumbly in the empty street, either.

Something has to change.

Before you can make it to the safety of a storefront, a pattern of three gunshots in tight succession from inside the saloon triggers something in the blonde, still picking off hosts. There are bodies littering the street.  

She lowers her shotgun and hops back onto her horse, spurring it on with a sharp whistle. The beast takes off without hesitation, and it’s then that you realize the other end of the coiled rope is wound around her saddlehorn. As the horse strains its haunches and pushes forward the rope goes taut. And as the pair of them take off down the street, the spoils emerge: a heavy wrought iron safe, bursting out of the saloon doors and leaving nothing but splintered remains in its wake.

It bounces and rolls down the steps and slides smoothly as soon as it hits the dirt street. The blonde shooter and her horse disappear, safe in tow.

You wonder what became of the bartender inside and his friendly moustache.

Dabi emerges seconds later, a fresh rifle clutched lazily in one hand. His companion’s lost his hat in the turmoil inside- he’s blonde, too, with a deep scar splitting his forehead from hairline to brow.

"Let today be a lesson for every one of you," Dabi calls, re-cocking his shotgun as he surveys the fresh bodies and fleeing guests. You've stopped dead all over again, drawn to him like a magnet despite your best judgement.

He levels the shotgun, aiming it about five feet to your right. You follow his gaze. In the window over your shoulder, with her hands pressed to the glass, is a little girl no older than five. She’s watching Dabi and his riders with fearful fascination and does not seem to realize that she’s been targeted.

You don’t care if she’s a guest or not. She’s a human girl with big, lively eyes, and your adrenal glands work faster than your sense of logic.

Dabi shuts one eye, tilting his head. The corner of one lip curls ever so slightly as he concentrates, taking aim. “And that lesson is-“

“Stop.” You step in front of the window, spreading your arms and drawing his attention for the first time. When he looks at you over the top of his shotgun, his expression goes slack. He drops the shotgun and his eyes are wide, wider than they’re supposed to be, almost.

You’re close enough to see that they’re a shocking shade of blue. That blue strikes an achingly familiar chord in your heart.

You recognize those eyes.

“What the fuck!”

If the holo-table didn’t weigh half a ton, Katsuki would’ve flipped it on its end. The feed is as smooth as ever, but his face has gone scarlet as he paces away from the table, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” Kirishima’s well past the end of his lunch break by now, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back to work before seeing the way this plays out.

“He stopped,” Katsuki growls. “He’s not s’posed to fucking stop.”

Dabi’s been stopped on the brink of a speech that took Katsuki days to put together. He’s been waiting to hear it delivered for weeks. It’s the speech that Dabi’s entire narrative was hinged on, forged out of countless sleepless nights and careless notes scribbled idly on coffee breaks.

“Holy shit.” There’s a genuine shock in Denki’s voice that’s enough to make Katsuki turn around. Denki’s gone white, Sero beside him, too.

“You’d better get over here and see this, dude,” Kirishima mutters, jerking his chin toward the feed. Momo’s watching over his shoulder, too, one hand pressed to her pursed lips.

“That’s a guest, isn’t it?” Sero quips. Silence settles over the room.

“I’ll get Shouto,” Momo declares, turning away and opening up her datapad.

“What’s going on?” Shouto bursts into the holo-room not two minutes later, mismatched eyes lit up with urgent concern. “Did I read your message right? I-“

Katsuki’s pacing the room, quieter than ever. Denki, Sero and Kirishima are still gathered around the feed, winding back the stream to replay the events that have sent them all spiralling. Momo’s the only one who even acknowledges his presence.

“Something’s happening in the park,” she explains, hushed and tight as she meets him at the door. “Another updated host is off-script.”

“How bad is it this time?” Shouto asks, hiding the dread that’s spreading in his gut. He had hoped that the girl from the saloon was just an unexpected glitch, but the results from Behaviour told another story.

Still, two deviances in just the first day of the update feels worse than he dreaded.

“You’d better take a look for yourself.”

Momo leads him to the holo-table and the feed, letting the other boys step aside. Shouto steps up to the projection, watching Dabi ride into town. Watching him break into the saloon with Twice and Toga, two other repurposed hosts, by his side.

He watches Toga ride off with the safe behind her and watches Dabi start his speech. And then, from a near-birds-eye view, he watches Dabi spot you of all people. Dabi lowers his rifle and strides toward you.

Shou’s heart leaps into his throat.

With dull horror he watches Dabi slip a leather-gloved hand under your chin. He watches you tilt your jaw into his touch. You’re fascinated by him. Even though the dust and pixels it's painfully obvious.

Dabi seems to notice, too, since he stoops low and hoists you over his shoulder without another word. You struggle, but he holds you fast. He strides across the road to his horse and sets you- still squirming and fighting- in the saddle, climbing on behind you and grabbing you tightly before you can escape.

Just before he spurs his gargantuan black steed forward, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. Shouto can’t be certain, but for a moment it seems like Dabi’s found the camera, staring plainly up at Shouto through its low-quality lens.

A breath passes. He looks away, gives a whistle, and disappears into the wilds beyond the town.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Kirishima presses. “Katsuki, you didn’t program him to kidnap a guest, did you?”

“Of course not,” Katsuki snarls from across the room, his nerves fraying dangerously. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? Do I look like a walking liability to you?”

“Look, it’s fine,” Denki chimes in. “It’s not like he can hurt her or anything. Just chalk it up to the park experience. Tell her Dabi kidnaps random nobodies all the time.”

The room goes quiet as a crypt. Kirishima looks at Shouto. Shouto looks at Katsuki. Katsuki looks at Momo, and Momo takes a slow, deep breath.

“Do you want to tell him, Shouto?” she asks, “or should I?”

Shouto closes his eyes and tries to quell the panic rising in the back of his throat. He shoots Denki a cold look, jaw ticked but eyes blazing.

“That’s my fiancé,” he mutters, low and shaky. “Dabi kidnapped my fiancé.”

[kurokoros]

spider lily | part one

Rated: M (violence, language, etc)

Words: 7K

Pairing: kuroo x fem!reader/oc?

Summary: No one can outrun the past. Kuroo already knew that before he started bounty hunting. [cowboy bebop!au]

AN: Written for the @the-smut-pile​’s western!au collab. This is barely a western, but the word “cowboy” is used so it counts. This fic is going to be multiple parts. The romance doesn’t come in for a while, just a heads up. I’m sure there’s more I meant to say here, but my brain is mush. I wrote most of this in the last three days and need a nap lmao

The dealer is watching him.

Eyes burn into his back as the bartender sets another glass of whiskey in front of Kuroo. In the mirror above the bar, Kuroo watches as one of the players, a middle-aged man with a cigar, requests another card. The dealer flips the card, revealing a Jack, and the man curses. A bust.

The dealer ignores the seething player, a look of boredom on his face. He’s thin, his hair parted to the right. Early twenties at best, but his eyes are tired and apathetic as they start to wander around the room.

It’s subtle. The dealer’s gaze doesn’t linger on Kuroo for long—it almost doesn’t linger at all, a stutter in that smooth glance around the room. If he wasn’t waiting for it, he might have missed it. But Kuroo has been painfully obvious tonight, making a show out of staring in that mirror every time a new card is drawn before making his move. It was bound to catch someone’s attention eventually. He just thought it would be sooner.

Kuroo spins the blackjack chip in front of him. White and turquoise blur together as the piece of ceramic whirls around on its edge. Gold glints under the dim lights above him.

A waitress passes the blackjack table behind him. The dealer glances at her. His mouth moves. His chin dips towards the bar where Kuroo is sitting.

“Kuroo.” Static crackles in his ear. His fingers twitch, seizing around the still spinning poker chip. It comes to an abrupt halt. Topples onto its side. With a sigh, he rests his elbow on the counter, props his chin up on his palm, and brings his drink to his mouth. “Anything?”

The whiskey burns in the back of his throat. “Not yet,” he says under his breath, glancing at the bartender to make sure he’s distracted. His fingers brush against the studs in his ear, following the steel bar attached to one of them until he reaches the attached earbud.

A disgruntled sound buzzes through the miniature speaker in his ear. “Then what are we wasting our time here for?” Tsukishima demands. The words aren’t minced, irritation mixed with his typical haughty tone.

“Getting bored out there, Kei?” Kuroo asks the younger man, keeping his tone light and amused. He specifically uses his first name, goading him. “I told you to come inside earlier. You still can. Unless you’d prefer to sit in the ship and sulk.” He takes another drink. “Besides, haven’t I told you to be patient?”

Tsukishima is silent on the other end.

The lapse in conversation stretches out. Kuroo’s gaze trails away from the card table behind him as he seeks out the rest of his crew in the reflection of the mirror over the bar. They’re still waiting where he left them, on opposite sides of the gambling floor. Akaashi is tucked close to the back wall, nursing his own drink and casually watching a game of poker, making no move to play himself like Kuroo has in the hour they’ve been here already. On the other end of the room, Bokuto is eyeing one of the card tables, starting to wander away from the slot machines and naturally gravitate towards the center of the room where a larger game of poker is being played. The prize pool has been steadily growing, attracting more attention as the night wears on.

They just have to wait a little longer for their target to show.

Eventually, Tsukishima huffs. “How do you even know Ikeda will be here tonight? He’s running. There’s no point in going to a high-traffic casino.”

Kuroo’s eyes narrow at the snappish tone, but he decides to let it slide for now. “Source said he’s headed this way,” he reminds Tsukishima. “You don’t come this close to Titan without stopping by Blue Castle. Not with a pool like that on the line.” He glances at the table Bokuto has been eyeing. “It’s up to a couple hundred grand already. He’s desperate for cash. Places like this don’t ask questions. Don’t give a shit so long as the house keeps winning.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

He shrugs, gaze wandering away from Bokuto. “Guess we’re fucked for a while.”

Tsukishima snorts. “How reassuring.”

Movement catches Kuroo’s eye in the corner of the mirror before he can ready a retort. There’s a man with dark hair shoving his way through the crowd of people gathered on the gambling floor. No, not shoving. The crowd is parting for him, scurrying out of his way as he storms across the room. Expression set in a scowl. A scowl that’s locked on Kuroo’s back.

Right on time.

He drops his hand from his face, sitting up straighter on the stool as the man comes closer. “Seems like security is finally coming to get me,” he tells Tsukishima off-handedly, abruptly ending the conversation. “Oh, and tell Kou to stop eyeing that table. His poker face is shit.”

Tsukishima pauses, like he wants to ask Kuroo what he’s talking about, but decides it’s simply not worth the effort. A grumbled response eventually comes over the radio, but Kuroo has already stopped listening. Low static buzzes in his ear as Tsukishima switches channels on his headset.

For once, he’s glad for Tsukishima’s lack of interest, though it isn’t bound to last long.

Kuroo grins into his drink as the man drops onto the stool beside him not a moment later. “About time someone got you, Iwa.” He tilts his head to the side, lazy gaze meeting a familiar stern expression. Green eyes glare back at him, and his smile widens. “I was about to bring the house down.”

A snort. “Like hell I’d let you walk away with that much,” Iwaizumi tells him. The tension in his clenched jaw loosens, but the scowl stays, and it doesn’t make him look any less disheveled. His clothes are rumpled. Shirt buttoned haphazardly; the sleeves rolled up. Iwaizumi jerks his chin towards the chip Kuroo has gone back to idly toying with in his free hand. “What are you up to anyway? Hundred thousand?”

He leans forward to look past Kuroo and braces his elbows on the counter, gesturing to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Two,” Kuroo corrects, glancing at his acquaintance. “What can I say? I’ve always had good luck.”

That gets him a chuckle. Though, it’s more disbelieving than amused. “Bullshit.” Iwaizumi shakes his head. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Counting cards doesn’t make you lucky.”

Kuroo shrugs, a wicked glint in his gold eyes. “Not getting caught does.”

The corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitches. “Yeah? How’d that work out tonight?”

“I’m still winning.”

The bartender places a drink down in front of Iwaizumi without a word, though he hesitates on the other side of the bar. A curious gaze strays towards Kuroo. The young man flinches when gold eyes snap up to meet his.

“On the rocks?” Kuroo comments as the bartender is called away by another patron. He watches the man leave, aware of the gazes lingering on him now that Iwaizumi is here. Bokuto must have mentioned the other man’s presence to Tsukishima because that familiar buzzing sound vibrates in his ear. “Didn’t think you’d be one to drink on the job. What would he say about that?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes as he downs half the drink. The single ball of ice clinks against the edge of the glass. Kuroo watches it bob in the amber liquid. “I put up with his dumb ass twelve hours a day. He owes me this much.”

“That why you look like shit?” Kuroo asks, giving him another once-over. He smirks when he sees something he hadn’t noticed before. “That shade of red looks good on you, by the way.” He gestures to the lipstick stains half-hidden behind Iwaizumi’s collar, low on the side of his throat. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing.”

“Piss off.” Iwaizumi glares at him, flustered. A flush starts to creep up his neck, but it doesn’t get under his skin the way Kuroo wants it to. They’ve known each other too long for that. “What are you doing here, Kuroo?”

He takes some satisfaction in how quickly Iwaizumi changes the subject. Pleasantries gone.

Flicking the rim of his glass, Kuroo wonders how much he should say right now, mindful of the audience listening. “Passing through,” he finally settles on, watching the ice in his own drink bob. He sends Iwaizumi a pointed look. “Hopefully, we won’t be here long.”

“We?” Iwaizumi repeats, eyes narrowing as he furrows his brow. It dawns on him a second later. “You’re here on a job. Fuck.”

The glare aimed at Kuroo doesn’t soften as he waves off Iwaizumi’s concern. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Tell him that,” Iwaizumi spits back at him. He leans back on his stool, rubbing his temple. “You’re lucky Kunimi sent the waitress to me and not Kyoutani.”

Tsukishima is silent over the headset, but Kuroo knows the younger man has been listening intently since he got back, just in case Kuroo slips up and says something he shouldn’t. But Kuroo has practice. There’s always someone listening.

Kuroo taps the blackjack chip on the bar counter, tracing the Blue Castle written across the coin in an elegant scrawl. “Blond guy in the back?” With a twist of his fingers, he sends the chip spinning again. “He’s been watching me since I walked in. Looks like he wants to kick my ass.”

“You’d deserve it.” Iwaizumi looks at Kuroo. “You gonna make this easy for me?”

The chip stops spinning and falls on its side with a quiet clatter. A turquoise crown is printed in the center.

“Why not?” Glancing in the mirror one last time, Kuroo makes eye contact with Akaashi. Static buzzes in his ear, the radio crackling again. Before Tsukishima can speak, Kuroo casually flicks the switch on his headset, silencing the static. He downs the rest of his drink and slides off the stool with a lazy stretch. “It’s been a while since I saw the Great King.”

Iwaizumi leads him to the elevator.

Neither speak as they wait for it to reach the bottom floor. Kuroo takes a subtle glance around the room. The blond that Iwaizumi mentioned—Kyoutani—is still watching him. So are Akaashi and Bokuto, who have strayed from their positions closer to the door. While Bokuto seems more confused than concerned, there’s an uneasy look on Akaashi’s face. His mouth moves as he speaks to Tsukishima over his earpiece. Kuroo doesn’t bother trying to read his lips.

The ding of the elevator draws Kuroo’s attention back to Iwaizumi, who waits for him to enter the box first.

It’s been a while since Kuroo has been in Blue Castle, but as his gaze roams the panels of heavy glass surrounding the box, he figures not much has changed. The elevator juts from the main building. Three walls made of Saturn glass that reflect the neon lights from streets below. The doors slide shut as Iwaizumi follows him inside, and Kuroo leans against the wall, head tilted back. The ceiling is made of glass too.

From here, he can just barely see the stars.

Iwaizumi fishes a set of keys from his pocket. Thumbing through them, he stops when he finds the one he’s looking for: small and silver, a crown etched onto the side. The key slots into a lock at the bottom of the button panel, and the button for the fourth floor glows blue when Iwaizumi turns it.

Kuroo glances at the other man as the elevator starts to move, hands casually slipping into the pockets of his suit jacket. “Is there going to be a gun pointed at my head when I get to the top floor?”

“No promises,” Iwaizumi says, leaning back against the wall as well. The muscles in his jaw clench as he rubs the back of his neck. The lipstick stains on his neck are smeared, not nearly as noticeable as they were before. “You know how he is.”

Leaning in closer, Kuroo squints his eyes, a sly grin on his face. “You missed a spot,” he tells Iwaizumi, who glares at him.

“Fuck off.”

Kuroo’s chuckle is cut off by the doors to the fourth floor opening in front of them. There are no guns pointed at him. No guards. No dogs. Just an empty hallway leading to a set of double doors.

He hopes his shoes scuff the ridiculous marble floors as he follows Iwaizumi out of the elevator. They’re startling white, inlaid with streaks of gold.

Iwaizumi doesn’t bother knocking on the doors. He shoves them open wide, grumbling something under his breath that Kuroo doesn’t pay much attention to, immediately focused on the wall of windows across the room and the man perched behind the large, white desk centered in front of them.

He’s sprawled lazily in his chair, slumped against his desk, and unsurprised by their sudden arrival. “You truly have no tact, Hajime,” he complains, sighing as his head of security enters the room. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes as the other man runs a hand through his brunet bangs. “Though, I suppose that can’t be helped.” His lips curl into a practiced smile when his dark eyes land on Kuroo, his expression brightening as he lifts his head from where it was cradled in his hand.

“Oikawa.”

“Kuroo.” The returned greeting is clipped. Oikawa sits up straighter behind his desk. “What a surprise.” He raises an eyebrow, silently observing his old acquaintance, his stare critical as he looks over Kuroo’s rumpled suit: jacket left unbuttoned and tie loose around his neck. “You look like shit,” he says, as Iwaizumi closes the set of doors and leans against the wall beside them.

Kuroo huffs. “Good to see you too,” he responds, sarcasm thick on his tongue as he walks further into the office, eyes wandering around the space.

It’s open. Clean. Decorated in blues and whites and golds. Expensive, but not tacky. Even Oikawa is wearing a nice blue button-up, looking more presentable than either Kuroo or Iwaizumi. The man in question slides his work aside, gesturing for Kuroo to sit in one of the sleek armchairs in front of him.

“How long has it been since we saw each other?” Oikawa asks him, clasping his hands together on his desk, head tilted to one side in thought.

“Almost two years.” Kuroo eyes the chair before sitting on it and stretching out like an overgrown housecat. “Back on Ganymede. When everything was going to shit.”

Oikawa hums low under his breath. His gaze seems to darken with the memory. The room feels colder suddenly. Heavier. Oikawa watches as Kuroo absently spins one of the rings decorating his fingers. He changes the subject. “You’re working with a team now. I suppose you always were a natural leader.”

Kuroo shrugs—grits his teeth. “I keep picking up strays. Bad habit.” He nods towards the paperwork shoved to one side of the desk, piles in various states of disarray. A small crack in the façade Oikawa likes to put on. “How’s the casino these days?”

It doesn’t catch him off guard like Kuroo hoped. Oikawa’s brows furrow, his smile slipping. “You don’t care about my business ventures.”

“You don’t care who I’m working with so long as they aren’t after you,” Kuroo counters.

The stare Oikawa levels him with is matched by Kuroo’s own, gold and brown clashing. It’s Oikawa who backs down first, though Kuroo knows better than to call it a win. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “Now, are you really going to make me ask why you’re here?”

“Bounty’s for some guy named Ikeda,” Kuroo tells him. “From what I’ve heard, he was a dealer for some kingpin on Callisto who took over within the last year, after the Widow Maker Conflict.” Kuroo’s eyes narrow. “He made off with four-hundred-thousand worth of some shit called Paradise. Nasty hallucinogenic. Some places are calling it Reaper. I don’t know much about it yet.”

Oikawa and Iwaizumi exchange a look over Kuroo’s shoulder. “So, the kingpin wants this Ikeda taken out?”

“No.” Kuroo shakes his head. “ISSP put out the bounty because they think he’ll talk. They want to get rid of this shit before one of the Mars’ Syndicates gets ahold of it. Bounty is set at over half a million right now.”

Iwaizumi scoffs by the door, arms folded across his chest. “They think the Syndicates don’t already? Dumb fucks.”

The sneered comment is followed by stark silence.

Behind his desk, Oikawa sighs. “I see,” he mutters. What little of his smile was left falls away, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The bounty does make it harder for the dealers to put out a hit instead. Too many people will be looking for one man. Once this Paradise ends up with one of the Syndicates, it’ll practically be untouchable. It makes sense they’d put out such a high bounty for it. Why do you think he’s coming here?”

“That pool downstairs is at almost five hundred thousand, right?”

This time, Iwaizumi outright laughs. “Ikeda thinks they’ll let him pay it back? They’ll make him bite the curb. Poor bastard’s good as dead already. If the kingpin doesn’t take him out now, one of the Syndicates will after he’s already in custody.”

“We got here early thanks to a tip from a friend of mine,” Kuroo explains, looking out the window. “As of about five minutes ago, every bounty hunter in the area is headed this way. By the time they get here, my crew downstairs will have caught Ikeda and left for the Juno station. Titan is going to be crawling with bounty hunters before long,” he tacks on. “And you don’t come to Titan without—”

“Without stopping at Blue Castle,” Oikawa finishes for him, tone dry. He rolls his eyes. “I’m aware.”

Kuroo leans back further in his seat, a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. There are no ships in sight yet, but he knows better than to think they aren’t coming. “With no bounty left, they’ll have nothing better to do but drink and play blackjack.”

Oikawa doesn’t look convinced. “They’ll be broke,” he says simply. “All of you bounty hunters are. What good does that do me?”

“It’s not my problem if they don’t know when to quit.” His golden eyes cut away from the window, catlike gaze settling on Oikawa. “Besides, when has that ever stopped you from letting someone rack up a gambling debt before?” Kuroo asks.

“I paid off yours, didn’t I?” Oikawa throws out casually, gaining a scowl from Kuroo in response. He ignores it, glancing down at his paperwork instead, then at Iwaizumi, before returning his attention to the bounty hunter on the other side of his desk. “And why wouldn’t I go after the bounty myself if he’s worth that much?”

Kuroo’s response is immediate. “You don’t like to get your hands dirty unless you need to. This one isn’t worth your time.” He shifts his weight on the chair, grinning. “And you still owe me a favor from back then.”

This time, Oikawa frowns. His eyes narrow in irritation. “I thought we settled that back on Ganymede?”

“You owed me two.”

Iwaizumi snorts, grinning as Oikawa sends him a withering look.

Instead of arguing like Kuroo expects, Oikawa pauses as he considers what Kuroo has told him so far. It does make sense. The bounty isn’t worth it to him, not when he’s unprepared. Even so.

“Why didn’t you join the poker game downstairs?” he asks. “The pool right now is more than your cut of the bounty. You could have taken it and run. Left someone else to deal with the bounty. It would have been easy for you.”

Kuroo smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Oikawa clasps his hands together, fingers linking together. “What exactly are you planning, Kuroo?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Kuroo promises.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t have to.” He shrugs. “All I’m asking is for your boys to stay out of my way.”

A pause. Oikawa is still frowning at him. “And if they don’t?”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi cuts in again. He still hasn’t moved from the spot he took up near the doors, staying out of it but remaining close. Just in case. Kuroo and Oikawa are too similar sometimes. Slick-tongued. Both of them piss Iwaizumi off like that. “It saves us a mess to clean up ourselves. Besides, business is business.”

Oikawa purses his lips, acknowledging Iwaizumi, but keeping his gaze firmly on Kuroo.

Instead of answering, Kuroo reaches under his jacket. Iwaizumi tenses where he’s leaning up against the wall, but before he can reach for his gun, Kuroo places a stack of blackjack chips on Oikawa’s desk and slides them across. Over a dozen ten-thousand-dollar chips clatter against the wood. “The house always wins, right?”

Oikawa lets him leave, dark brown eyes trailing after Kuroo as he heads for the door.

He stops beside Iwaizumi. “There is one more thing.”

“Oh?” Oikawa muses. “And what’s that?”

The ground floor is still bustling with activity when Kuroo and Iwaizumi step out of the elevator. A quick glance around the room tells Kuroo he hasn’t missed much. The all-in poker game hasn’t started yet, but there are more people milling around now, lingering closer to the middle of the room. He doesn’t see Ikeda, not yet anyway. It won’t be long until he crawls out of whatever hole he’s hidden away in.

He just hopes that’s before more bounty hunters start showing up. Despite what he told Oikawa, Kuroo isn’t so foolish as to think he’s the only bounty hunter with friends in the ISSP. If he wasn’t already headed towards Titan, they might have been too late getting here.

Catching sight of Bokuto’s hair in the crowd below, Kuroo claps Iwaizumi on the shoulder. “Until next time,” he says, offering the other man a parting grin. “Also, I should probably warn you that Bokuto tends to break things. I’m sure Oikawa won’t mind paying for the damages himself, of course. As part of that favor.”

“Fuck off.”

Iwaizumi shakes Kuroo off, much to his delight, and he chuckles as he heads back towards the bar he’s supposed to be posted at. He doesn’t make it far before he pauses, hesitating before he reaches the floor. Iwaizumi quirks a brow at Kuroo’s behavior but watches silently as the other man stands there for a moment, only a few feet away from Iwaizumi. “Hey, Hajime?” Kuroo calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Thanks.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Whatever, space cowboy.” Leaving Kuroo there, he turns towards the back of the room where Kyoutani is posted. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed now.”

An amused huff slips past Kuroo’s mouth. “No promises,” he says under his breath.

It’s not until he makes it back onto the gambling floor that Kuroo switches his earphone back on. Predictably, white noise fills his left ear. That static sound ends when a furious voice breaks through.

“What the hell was that?” Tsukishima sneers at him, louder than usual. Kuroo wasn’t gone long. Fifteen minutes at most. But it was just long enough to piss the younger man off. “Why did you cut me—”

“Tell Kou and Keiji to get back into position and wait for my signal,” he says, calmly cutting Tsukishima off. “And then connect all of the lines. If you’re going to stay outside, make sure you have eyes on the front at all times. The final pool starts in about twenty minutes. Everyone is all-in. Ikeda will be here for it.”

Tsukishima is quiet for a long time. Kuroo knows he’s pissed the younger man off, but right now, he doesn’t care.

The radio in his ear crackles one more time. “Fine.”

It’s easy to drown out the chatter in his ear as he sits at the bar. Bokuto’s voice fades into background noise, Akaashi’s occasionally filtering through as he responds to his partner. Tsukishima hasn’t spoken since he linked the coms, still pissed at Kuroo.

He’ll have to deal with that later.

Sighing, Kuroo runs his fingers through his hair and leans back.

A whiskey glass clinks against the counter in front of him. Kuroo’s gaze jumps towards the sound. Ice bobs in the glass. Slowly, his hand falls away from his head. A frown tugs at his mouth.

The same bartender from before stands across from him. Under Kuroo’s gaze, he shifts his weight back and forth on his feet. “It’s on the house,” he says as Kuroo raises an eyebrow at the drink he didn’t order. “Enjoy.”

Kuroo stares at the glass for a moment, but he doesn’t dwell on it. If Oikawa wants to waste good liquor on him, who is he to complain about it?

Raising the glass to his mouth, he takes a drink. The taste that bursts across his tongue almost makes him choke. Kuroo struggles not to laugh, biting his lip to keep from coughing.

Apple juice.

“Bastard,” he mumbles, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head.

It must be just loud enough for the microphone to catch, because Bokuto’s idle chatter cuts off abruptly. White-noise buzzes in his ear before Bokuto calls out, “Kuro?” A glance in the mirror shows that Bokuto is already looking at him from across the room, head cocked to one side curiously.

“It’s nothing,” Kuroo says, brushing him off. “Try not to break too much tonight, Kou. It’s coming out of your cut this time.”

The sudden shift in topic makes Bokuto gasp, his pride on the line. But before Bokuto can whine about being called out for occasionally being destructive, Tsukishima speaks up, his familiar bored tone smooth over the speaker in his ear.

“Kuroo,” he says nonchalantly. “Ikeda is here.”

Using the mirror, Kuroo scans the room. At the very edge of the glass, Kuroo catches a glimpse of a thin man with mousy brown hair standing near the entrance, eyes darting around the room. He’s making himself more obvious than Kuroo was. Jittery. The kind that brings problems with him where he goes. Even if he hadn’t warned Iwaizumi and Oikawa, they would have noticed him themselves immediately.

“I see him. Three o’clock.” The others call affirmatives once they have eyes on their target, and Kuroo mulls over what they should do. They need to get out of here quickly. Once more bounty hunters arrive at Blue Castle, they’ll be in trouble. “Bokuto. Akaashi.”

“Want us to cut him off?”

Kuroo shakes his head. “No. Let him get close. We don’t want him running.” He doesn’t dare face Ikeda directly; he looks jumpy enough to take off if he notices. Instead, he follows him in the mirror. Just like he told Oikawa, the bounty heads straight for the counter, exchanging what little cash he has for Blue Castle chips. He’s closest to Bokuto, still lingering near the poker tables. “Kei, is there anyone following him?”

“It looked like there might have been three men tailing him on the street. They just walked in as well.”

Akaashi speaks up from where he’s carefully hidden himself in the shadow of the back wall. “They’re looking for someone,” he says, watching the trio of men’s eyes roam around the room, gazes more shrewd than if they were simply entranced by the sights. “Bounty hunters?”

Kuroo catches sight of them a moment later and grimaces. It only takes one look for him to know they have a problem. “Hitmen,” he corrects. So much for it being harder to put out a hit. Ikeda must have information that’s too valuable for him to be left alive if they’re sending this many after him. “Shit. Cut them off. Don’t lose them in the crowd.”

“You got it!”

“And you?”

Kuroo slides off his barstool. “Just leave Ikeda to me.” He pauses before grabbing his glass from the counter, taking it with him.

Bokuto and Akaashi linger further away, keeping their eyes on the hitmen trailing Ikeda, while Kuroo heads straight for the poker table. Ikeda skirts around the edge of the same table, moving to the side furthest from the doors, expecting to be followed. It would be smart. Except Kuroo is coming from behind him.

It should be easy. They’ve dealt with more difficult targets before. Craftier. Stronger. More desperate. As soon as Kuroo gets close enough, he’ll subdue Ikeda. Bokuto and Akaashi should be able to handle the hitmen by themselves if they’re working for some low-level kingpin on Callisto.

Halfway across the room, Kuroo bumps into someone on his right.

“Fuck,” he hisses. His drink sloshes in the glass, spilling over his fingers. The man who ran into him swears as well. Amber liquid stains the side of his white shirt. As his arms jerk away from the sudden cold, the sides of his jacket shift.

There’s a gun holstered at his side.

Kuroo’s eyes snap up. The other man is already looking at him. Jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed. His fingers twitch at his side. He hadn’t been on the first floor all night. They didn’t see him come in.

“Son of a bitch,” Kuroo says.

“Kuroo?” someone asks over the radio.

He sighs. “There are four of them.”

He throws what’s left of his drink in the other man’s face and lurches to the side as the fourth hitman draws his gun and shoots. The loud bang startles everyone in the room. Kuroo doesn’t see where the bullet goes as he ducks out of the way.

The gun is still trained on him when Kuroo rolls back onto his feet. There’s more distance between them now. A long blackjack table caught between the two of them. The hitman sneers at him. The gun levels with Kuroo’s chest. His finger pulls back on the trigger.

Kuroo lashes out with his leg. His foot collides with the underside of the blackjack table. It’s thrown onto its side. Two of the four legs lurch off the ground. Balanced precariously like that, the table blocks the bullets aimed at him. Wood splinters upon impact at point blank. Blue and white poker chips fly through the air.

All hell breaks loose.

There are screams in Blue Castle as the other hitmen draw their guns as well. People stumble from their seats on the gambling floor, shoving to get out of the way of gunfire that doesn’t come. Bokuto and Akaashi are faster.

Two of the men are caught off-guard and taken down.

Kuroo doesn’t watch his partners grapple for their guns. His eyes sweep around the room in search of Ikeda. He’s already taken off, racing towards the side door leading out to the alleys surrounding Blue Castle. He spits out a curse. It’ll be hard to catch him if he gets outside.

The hitman across from Kuroo seems to realize the same thing. Still blocked by the table, he trains his gun on Ikeda instead, ready to take the shot.

As the other man fires his gun, Kuroo throws the whiskey glass still clenched in his hand. The bullet smashes into the specially made Saturn Glass which explodes with the impact, delayed by only a second. Shards of glass rain down. The bullet’s trajectory shifts off course; it ends up embedded in the wall inches from Ikeda as he throws himself out the side door.

Before he can take another shot, Kuroo throws his weight against the upright table. It topples onto the hitman, knocking him onto the ground. One of the wooden legs snaps off.

Oikawa is going to be pissed.

Kuroo doesn’t have long to dwell on that. One of the other three hitmen pushes through the crowd. Before Kuroo can grab his own gun, the other man is already halfway out the door.

He makes sure to step on the table as he races after them, knocking the wind out of the man beneath it.

Kuroo throws the door open, letting it bang against the side of the building. The alley is empty. Both men are gone.

“Shit,” he sneers. “Kei, any movement on the west side of the entrance?”

“None.”

He runs to the right.

From what he remembers, this alley leads to a dead end behind the casino. An area sectioned off by the man who owned Blue Castle before Oikawa. They should be trapped there. If not, the wall should at least slow them down long enough for him to catch up.

Kuroo rounds the corner. A bang. He throws himself against the alley wall. A bullet buries itself in the bricks behind where he was standing. Kuroo yanks out his own gun, leveling it with the hitman’s head.

Before he can take the shot, the hitman pulls Ikeda between them, turning his gun on their bounty instead.

“Drop it. Now,” he demands, shoving the pistol against Ikeda’s temple. “Or he’s dead.”

Ikeda inhales sharply, tensing. Wide, terrified eyes try to meet Kuroo’s, but he doesn’t spare the bounty a look, keeping his eyes locked with the hitman’s as his finger hovers over the trigger.

Kuroo’s grip on his own gun is loose. He raises an eyebrow at the threat. “What do I care about that?” he asks. The hitman’s eyes widen. His shoulders slacken momentarily in surprise. Ikeda tenses as Kuroo continues. “He’s dead either way, right? That pool inside is worth more than this bastard is.”

The hitman hesitates, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But you’re a cowboy, aren’t you?”

Kuroo shrugs with one shoulder, gun still pointed at the hitman. “I’m not here to save anyone,” he says truthfully. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as the pistol moves just an inch away from Ikeda’s head. “Besides. You really think you’re faster than me?”

He pulls the trigger.

Blood splatters across the side of Ikeda’s face. The hitman cries out as a bullet buries itself in his shoulder. He drops the gun. Kuroo shoots him again as he stumbles forward, this time in the leg. He hits the ground with a thud and doesn’t move.

Kuroo doesn’t lower his weapon until Ikeda stumbles back against the wall and slides down onto his ass, his legs giving out.

“Thank you,” Ikeda croaks after a minute of silence. His hands tremble as he curls further into the brick wall behind him, and he watches as Kuroo nudges the hitman with the tip of his shoe.

He kicks the man’s injured shoulder when he doesn’t react the first time, satisfied when the man groans, long and low under his breath. Good. He doesn’t feel like dealing with a body today. Too much of a hassle with the paperwork.

Kuroo leans back against the opposite wall of the alley and takes out a cigarette.

Ikeda sucks in a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he says again before Kuroo can light it.

Kuroo stills. “Don’t.” His voice is calm. Firm. “I meant it. You’re probably dead either way if you’ve pissed off the syndicates.” Ikeda flinches as Kuroo’s eyes finally snap over to meet his. “There’s not much the ISSP can do to protect you from them. You should have known that when you stole almost half a million worth of product.” He laughs at the face Ikeda makes, but there’s nothing humorous about it. “Hell, it might have been kinder to let him shoot you here, compared to what they’ll do after you’re taken in.”

He turns his back on Ikeda, lighting his cigarette. “You guys done inside?” he asks over the radio.

Akaashi answers. “We’re taking these three back to the Cat. Do you need help?”

“Nah, I should be—”

He stops abruptly.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kuroo finds a gun pointed at him again. This time it’s Ikeda holding it.

“Kuroo?”

He wets his lips. “Give me a minute,” he mumbles back.

Ikeda aims the gun at Kuroo’s head, trembling finger hesitating to squeeze down on the trigger. “I don’t wanna die,” he tells Kuroo, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Slowly, Kuroo raises one of his empty hands to his ear, silencing the radio. Ikeda’s hand won’t stop shaking. “You think running away forever is any better?”

By the time Kuroo gets back with Ikeda and the hitman he took out, the others are already lounging around in the common area of the ship. The other three hitmen are tied up on the floor, their wrists cuffed behind their backs. Tsukishima is lying on one of the couches, wearing his headphones as he plays some handheld game, Akaashi leaning against the wall beside him. Bokuto is sitting cross-legged in front of the hitmen. A grin spreads across his face when Kuroo walks into the room.

“About time you got back, man! We were ready to leave without you!”

Akaashi sighs. Ignoring Bokuto, he looks at Kuroo as he shoves the last hitman with the rest. Ikeda, he lets sit on one of the chairs in the room, though his hands are bound in front of him.

“What do you want us to do with them?” he asks, nodding towards the four.

Kuroo crouches in front of them, brows furrowed in thought. “Might as well keep them,” he decides. “I might be able to swindle my guy into giving us a bonus for these bastards. Doubt they’re worth much though.” Shrugging, he stands and stretches. “Ah, well. Guess that’s not our problem.”

Akaashi nods, and Bokuto scrambles to his feet beside him. “Want us to take them downstairs?”

“Keep them separate,” Kuroo tells them. The last thing they need is for one of them to get their hands on Ikeda before they can turn him in.

Bokuto gives him a two-finger salute before he helps Akaashi pull the men to their feet. They don’t put up much of a struggle as they’re herded out of the main area. Ikeda, too, follows them without making a fuss. His face is still streaked with blood, his eyes puffy and red.

Kuroo doesn’t look at him for long.

“You seem to know a lot of people,” Tsukishima comments after Akaashi and Bokuto are gone with the others. He’s still playing his game, but his headphones are down around his neck.

“Must be my sparkling personality.” Tsukishima scoffs under his breath, and Kuroo levels him with a look, catching Tsukishima’s gaze before he can turn away. When the younger man stays quiet, Kuroo narrows his eyes. “You got something to say, say it.”

Tsukishima doesn’t hesitate this time. “Why did you turn off your headset?”

“Now, that’s a secret,” Kuroo tells him, starting to smile. When Tsukishima sends him a blank look in return, Kuroo doesn’t bother to keep it up. “I had business with an old friend. I didn’t need some kid listening in.” It’s the wrong thing to say.

“Right.”

The snappish tone has Kuroo gritting his teeth. “Is that a problem, Kei?”

The younger man rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, getting off the couch. “The ship is on autopilot to Juno. I’ll be in my room.”

Suddenly exhausted, Kuroo drops onto the couch opposite where Tsukishima was sitting. A soft trilling sound comes from the open hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Kuroo’s head lolls to the side. A small smile tugs at his mouth as a fluffy, black cat pads into the room. Sumi chirps as soon as he sees Kuroo. The cat trots up to him, rubbing against Kuroo’s legs and winding around his ankles. He purrs loudly.

Clicking his tongue, Kuroo pats the seat beside him.

Sumi makes a sound as he hops onto the couch, immediately crawling onto Kuroo’s lap. “What the hell are we gonna do with him, huh, Susu?” Kuroo asks, rubbing the cat’s cheek. Sumi purrs louder, leaning more of his weight into Kuroo’s palm.

Predictably, Sumi offers no answers. Kuroo sighs as he runs his fingers along the cat’s spine, fingers brushing through his long hair.

Closing his eyes again, he leans his head back, thinking about what Oikawa said before. There was a reason he couldn’t have Tsukishima listening in.

He stopped beside Iwaizumi. “There is one more thing.”

“Oh?” Oikawa mused. “And what’s that?”

Kuroo glanced over his shoulder, baring his teeth in a grin that was too wide. Too sharp. “I was never here.”

At his desk, Oikawa arched a brow, chin resting on his laced fingers. An amused smile tugged at his lips. “Of course not,” he agreed easily, brushing off the unspoken threat and pacifying Iwaizumi, whose hand had twitched towards the gun at his hip. “How could you be?” Oikawa continued. “After all, you’ve been dead for three years.”

[messwriting]

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Western AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

(i'm gonna make you) feel it

a.k.a. ✨ MAKKI’S ADVENTURE TIME ✨

Hanamaki “Big Tease” Takahiro x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: Porn With Plot. Corruption Kink. Reader’s engaged to be married - a bride. Cheating. Highly inappropriate touching and dancing moves (that’s their job tho). Alcohol. Completely unresearched strippers industry. Lowkey exhibitionism. Fucking in a public space (private room). Fingering. Oral sex. SMUT: Doggy style over a sofa. Makki’s a little shit. Overuse of the word “cute” (for real, so many times omg). 

Word count: ~7.3k

Note: Saint Dymphna and poor little me would like to introduce you all to the:  🤠 LAWBREAKERS MULTIVERSE 🤠

So, @dymphnasprose​ basically came at me with: “what about we take cowboys and make them skskskskskssk like magic mike style strippers” and thus was born the wicked duo newest adventure. We had a lot of fun (and a lot of panic) but here it is!  Anyone asks why I’m doing two once again it’s also dymph’s fault and my sheer love for Iwaizumi. Also, dymph I love u and I’ve had lots of fun doing this little group project together🥺💕

That being said I’d also like to thanks @mixedhell  who once again is a mage of dialogue and helped me several times; Tay, my love @deathcab4daddy​, who helped beta part of this and also @xmyshya​ who was kind enough to beta this too <3

Makki’s songs: Cowboy Casanova (dymph’s courtesy) + Feel it 

You can also read: IWAIZUMI | MATTSUN 

Hanamaki is focused.

He surveys the screaming crowd inside the packed nightclub, sees the different groups occupying the big booths, the pretty decorations that never fail to distinguish his targets inside the dimly lit room. 

Makki likes the meaning behind the different outfits and colors; the details merging into the allegory of remarkability, crafting the idea of uniqueness in their special day where screams of freedom swimming inside intoxicated heads build a tendency into wildness. In building lasting memories of a singlehood that doesn’t really exist anymore, into falling prey of sexy, large men who could take them into a one-time intoxicating memory that they can savor into the end of times.

Marriages can end, Makki thinks, but memories like the ones he makes are forever.

And tonight he has already found the one. 

You must be the prettiest little thing he has seen in months, all beautifully clad in a sparkling white party dress, a sexy slit that shows the classical frilly garter adorning your thigh, with a golden black banner that announces for the whole world that you’re taken, soon to be married and enjoying your bachelorette party. It’s almost a challenge, really. 

Great. That’s exactly how he likes it.

A brilliant and ridiculous white cowboy hat decorated to leave a tacky gown falling from your head is perched on the table where your small group sits, about eight women dressed in black and a beautiful entourage of bridesmaids if he ever saw one, but it’s you; cute, happy little you who blushed at the very first look at his partially naked torso when all Hanamaki did was pass by your table in his low cut jeans and open flannel shirt, a tilt of his cowboy hat made with half a mind to compliment the ladies until his eyes laid on you. 

Your bright eyes had shined with embarrassment at your interest, chest filling with a renewed pull of air at the mere sight of him, a burning in your face that he could notice even in the poorly lit room, flashing lights giving him just the best of peeks -- your plush lips punished by the row of white teeth that closed around the soft muscle and pulled. 

That was all he needed, the smallest of sights and still, the biggest of hints. 

You were going to be his tonight. He’ll taint that pristine white and you’ll beg for his every move, he knows it just as he knows the women will scream for him as soon as he steps on the stage.

And, in fact, that will be sooner rather than later. 

He’ll make sure of it. 

The loud music is pulsing through his body, like waves crashing against his skin, his heart seemingly beating alongside the bass in deep, sexy strokes of the R&B music echoing through the club. The youngsters are doing their dance, a coordinated thing between the six newbies of the Club, while Makki and Mattsun wait by the side of the backdoor of the stage, ready to take their places in the next performance. 

“Anyone in your sights yet?” Issei asks him as he passes him the bottle of water, which Takahiro puts on top of one of the structures before sending a small grin at the dark-haired man. They’ve been here for four years now, and they have joined the place together, looking to make a good buck while going to College. Stripping is fun, easy, and profitable when you’re young and hot and Matsukawa and Hanamaki are nothing else but. 

“The one by the left, the table with the tacky cowboy hat and the golden balloons.”

“A fan of the work, I see.” Matsukawa pulls the curtain to the side just an inch, his eyes quickly surveying the space and centering on the acquired target. Makki knows exactly what he’s seeing, a table filled with a group of beautiful women and you in white shining over them all, the balloons above the wall seeming way more ridiculous once he knows about Makki’s plan of action. 

One dick for life. Ha. 

“Poor little thing doesn’t know what she’s in for tonight.” Mattsun’s grin is mischievous and all-knowing. Hanamaki has a type, it’s a running joke, but every good joke starts from a glimmer of truth. And in Makki’s case, it may as well be the truth itself. 

“And that’s a sexy little group.”

“Yeah, it is. But you already have plans for tonight, don’t you. I’ve heard about it from Oikawa.”

Mattsun doesn’t answer, only a chuckle and a lopsided grin marking his face as he keeps studying the crowd.

The group performance wraps up quickly, being one without public interaction and soon enough Oikawa is making a show, threading between the public with his mic, hyping the crew out with just the right few words. 

The lights start going down, softly casting the audience in shadows while the stage is tinged in bright colors before becoming red and by the time people’s eyes are focusing at the center again, Hanamaki and Matsukawa have taken their places.

The music starts to play, soft and calm, pulsing through the bodies of everyone as their eyes focus on the attractive duo in center stage. They’re not supposed to end up naked yet, that’s saved for the end, but as the choreography flows, sharp hip movements, thrusting motions like ocean waves crashing on rocky shores, still get women screaming at the top of their lungs enough for it all to merge with the song as if it’s part of the original bass. 

Makki’s wearing a half-opened plaid flannel shirt with nothing under it, and he pops every remaining button open along to the song, the screams getting louder. His jeans are tight enough that every plane of muscle is noticeable, and his belt is black and striking, with a big, bull-shaped buckle. Later he’ll change his outfit to leather chaps and a vest, but right now, he’s more laid back. He looks good, he knows it, but the appreciation in your eyes as you coily drink his from from across the room is like a fucking golden star on his pride.

On top of his head, locked tight, it’s his pinched front cowboy hat. As Makki throws it in the air and catches in the middle of dancing, the screams engulf him from all sides. 

But everything else is fading to the back of his mind as his eyes find yours in the dark, the appreciative, enthralled shine in them not lost to Makki. Could never be lost to Makki, who holds onto it as if it’s a life-line; You’re interested.

Ok, that’s good. But it’s also the basics.

Makki twirls and fall on the floor, hips fucking into nothing as the crowd goes insane. He kneels on stage, his shirt flying to the spectators; two women take hold of it, pulling in contrary directions until it rips.

Makki throws you a wink, every woman in that direction claiming it as theirs. You, however, shrug into yourself, eyes looking away as your hands tight their hold around the champagne glass they’re holding. You’re so cute, hands in front of your face as if that would keep you from staring. Makki feels himself glowing, growing excited at the mere sight of your scurrying eyes as they choose the floor instead of his body. 

So fucking pure. 

Takahiro wants to force you to look up and revel in the guilty desire he’s bound to find there. There’s no need to avoid him if he doesn’t charm you, that’s the beauty of soon-to-be brides. There’s such a deep will inside them to be faithful to the allegory of a husband they do not have yet, lost in a daydream of happiness in finding the one when they haven’t even tasted anything but. Makki eyes the golden balloons floating around the table while he dances -- one dick forever. 

Poor little thing. He can’t let that happen, can he?

When Makki hops off the stage and walks over to your table between deafening screamings and pleads for him to take them, instead, his hand closes around your dainty little one, adorned with pretty french nails and just a single golden ring and even the soft, smooth skin of your hand against his rugged palm is a thrill inside his veins.

Your eyes are shining, nervousness sweeping from them as they lock with his. Hanamaki tries to be lowkey, giving you a reassuring smile supposed to be nice, to be trusting -- a complete disconnect of the way his guts stirs in the excitement of your touch. 

He lowers his lips to your ears, pretends the way his nose runs over the shell is a mere accident. “Let’s go for a ride, sweetheart.”

Your lips fall open by the side of his face and Makki can feel the way you suck a breath, a little gasp ruining your efforts when he lets his lips brush against your jaw. Another accident, whoops. He’s such a careless boy, isn’t he?

Your teeth punish your bottom lip as your eyes seem to look anywhere but him, trembling hands as you seem half-way into telling him no. Makki can't have that, though. He brings his face to look deep in your eyes, a lopsided smile he can manoeuvre into being just the right amount of kind by now. 

"You're not gonna let me go up there alone, will you?" He almost pouts, big hands finding their way on your arms in up and down motions that drag just the right amount of trembles from you for him to know he's winning. "There's no fun without you, sweet girl."

He dips his lips onto the shell of your ear once again, just in time to hide his mischief. "You're the star of the show. I'm just your ride." 

That seems to make you giggle and Makki uses that to bring his grin into your view, palms sliding down your arms to clasp your hands and - finally - guide you up with him.

One thing Makki knows is that he likes his brides sweet. 

Pliant. 

And as you get up and follow him quietly and sheepish, clumsy tripping over yourself when some of your bridesmaids erupt in cheers, he knows he is right once again -- you’re just his type. 

Thing is, Makki doesn’t waste time. He makes you twirl in your high heels just to have you falling in his arms, he picks you up without effort, a little gasp breaching your lips as your hands plant against his chest.

Makki just has to grin at the way in which you close your palms and retreat them back to yourself, quick, burning up in a beautiful, delicious expression of shame. Fuck, he wants to make you beg. 

When he’s at the stage, he drops you on your feet with enough aggression to get you to slide straight to the floor, unsteady knees opening under you until your ass is planted on the stage. 

Makki thinks your open mouthed expression, little breaths breaking through your lips as your anxious eyes stare up at him, have to be the best thing he’s seen in a while. And he’s just starting.

He bends at the waist, his hands to reach your knees and push them open, your bright little white dress sliding up so much he can steal a peek at your fancy underwear. 

Such a vixen, aren’t you? All wrapped in lace. 

Makki lets himself fall on top of you and you gasp, even as he stays holding himself in a plank, not one bit of skin touching yours. The song is pumping, slow and sexy even if the screams sound louder in the close space. He twists his hips, the rolling motion has them right between your juicy thighs. You’re forced to keep them wide open and the way in which you look mortified just may be what ends him. 

Makki drops his knees in the ground, lets the screams wash over him as he drags his hips against your center, soft, then hard. His hands by the side of your head, his toned chest right in front of your face. He knows by the way his skin burns that you’re staring at him -- good, he wants to be the center of all your attention tonight.

Your hands are in front of yourself as if you’re afraid at your own excitement, eager eyes looking for his in a wirlwind of emotions and it makes his fucking skin erupt with goosebumps that the most noticiable one is desire.

Oh, Makki’s going to wreck you. The song turns frantic just as he comes to slide over your body, nose trailing along your collarbone and chest, teeth nipping at your clothes as if he would prefer to be doing it to your skin instead, and he feels the way your shame almost consumes you, body shaking as he finally reaches destination: right above your beautiful open thighs, so close he can almost taste you.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. And Makki is forced by the choreography to climb back up your body even as he lets his hands linger a bit too close to your clothed center, every woman around screaming as if they can read his mind.

He gets back up and kneels between your open legs, thrusting in time with the music as if he’s actually still thinking about choreography and not in doing this to you later. You’re growing more embarrassed by the moment, your whole body burning and tense, but responsive to his movements and, better yet, his smiles.

His body is used to the motions, to swirling and grinding and thrusting in a wave motion, crashing over your hips time and time again until your lips fall open, and he knows he hit the jackpot.

Makki holds himself in a plank again, his skin turning clammy with the exertion, but he angles his crotch just right and has you singing a groan for him again -- then turning bright with shame in sequence.

Such a precious little thing indeed.

The ground choreo ends way too soon for Makki’s wishes, but he’s soothed by the way in which you let yourself be picked up, hands clinging to his shoulders with such a fierce hold he almost wants to test it out. He throws you up for a moment, relishes in your nails at his back, and his forearms hold you by the underside of your knee, closing on your hips. 

And that makes your pretty little clothed cunt roll right against his semi-hard on. There’s a ripping sound, probably your slit getting wider to acomodate your open legs and thus, him.

Lovely.

Makki rolls his hips, right against your center once, and the crowd erupts in screams just as he starts mimicking fucking you standing. A beautiful option he saves in the back of his mind for later. 

You let out a yelp, then proceed to try and hide your head against his neck, your pretty mouth gliding against his skin gives him such a high he almost loses the tempo of the song. He tells you to hold on and plants his hands on your bare ass, lifting you until he can have you in front of his face, a bit uncomfortable move but one that has every single woman in the club wet -- it’s in the air by now, and he can smell it. The idea makes his skin prickle, your hands holding his hair for dear life as if you’re afraid to fall, but your clothed cunt is right there, and he can’t pass the opportunity to steal a little touch as he pretends your hold is what pushes his head flush against your pussy. 

You let out a beautiful sound almost in time with the song, and he is letting you fall once again on his arms, the smile on his lips the last nail on your pure coffin.

And unfortunately that means time’s up.

Makki lets your legs fall but holds you by your waist, depositing you on your own two feet at the stage and snickering at how your legs falter to hold you up on the high heels. So, as a gentleman, he takes your hand in his, helps you down the few steps on the stage, almost groans at how your hand seems to not want to let him go. 

Before he leaves you, he pulls your hand into his lips, absolutely glowing at how breathless you look from the little action after he literally ravished you on stage. It physically pains him that he needs to pick up another bride into his show. 

“See you later, pretty one.”

Under you, your legs are faltering, knees trembling like a newborn deer as you’re left alone to fend for yourself in the long path back to your table. Women congratulate you, screaming on your sides at the men who was almost fucking you dumb on stage and his friend, as they continue their show.

Your heart is beating in your ears, leaving you stupid and lost as you’re finally - finally - rescued by your friend, who brings you back to the table with loud congratulations and happy cheers. You feel your body sweating and throbbing, weirdly pulsating for something you can’t name. 

Recognizing it would make it real and you cannot believe that after five years in a nice relationship with your only boyfriend and soon-to-be-husband, this is the first time you feel this wet.

You plop down on the closest seat, hands pressing to your chest as you try to both fan yourself and hide behind them. It proves, as expected, a hard task.

Your childhood friend has arrived and you hug her sideways, the short conversation you two exchange somehow lost to your poor heated brain as your eyes keep sliding to center once again at the stage.

The way he dances on stage feels overwhelming, this bride-to-be suffering way less touching and grinding than you, as “Big Tease Makki” stays standing up, his hands groping everywhere in his sculpted body as he dances to the sensual song, including the considerable bulge in his pants.

Something flashes and he turns his head your way so sharply you feel the need to melt further on the sofa, poorly hiding away as everyone around you cheers once again.

 His eyes on you were burning a hot trail that slithers over your warm skin even in the dark, the ghost of a feeling of touch, erupting goosebumps along their way as they circle your neck and dip down your side, strutting over your chest to end by your face. Even in the distance, you swear you can feel the way those lips slip into an easy grin, satisfied at the way they have you breathless and weak by thought alone.

The idle chatting of your friends, excited and drunk are dulled by the pounding of your heart inside your chest, and you feel constricted by their presence on your sides at the booth, both ways filled with testimony to your inner turmoils-- can they see your sinful thoughts while they stay that close to you? Can the pounding of your heart and the heat in your face be felt at such a short distance? 

The mere idea that they can pry inside your skull and discover the sinful dreams unfolding is too much for you right now, your spine shooting up while you balance yourself in your pretty heels and ask in a meek, nervous voice for the girls to let you pass. Some ask if you need help or if you’re going to the bathroom, and in both options it feels like you’re going to be flanked immediately, so you deny it and say you have to make a quick phone call about something you forgot to confirm and they all nod away, drunkenly squealing for you to be quick. 

You’re almost free when one of your bridesmaids, your childhood friend, looks up at you with puzzled eyes.

“Hey, everything's okay?” She’s not drunk, only happily buzzed with sparkling wine, but her eyes are attentive when they lay on your face, worry etched in her brow as she looks for hints hidden in your dolled up face. 

“Yeah, just need to take a breather.” You give her what you hope is a reassuring smile even as sweat drips down your back, but the place is dark and loud and she lets you go without much prodding. The place is full and swarming with women, groups of men present but fewer, waiters clad in skimpy clothing as they work the tables full of drinks, shots and champagne. Some are flirtatious, charming smiles along with muscles as they sweep women off their feet and leave their wallets thinner; others are pretty serious, and the mysterious aura has their pull, the ecstasy of conquest working as an aphrodisiac. 

You pull past the bodies, feeling a bit light headed as your chest pounds and the booze traverse your body, clumsy steps on too-high-heels you’re not used to, but your bridesmaids had pushed you to wear along with screams to live a little and say hello to the last night before you’re a proper married lady. You’ve never really felt the weight of those words as the last two days, tasting for the first time the sweetness of night as you’ve never before. 

If brown, bored eyes make a appearance in your mind as you flee to the corridor leading to the private rooms and women’s bathroom, you’re quick to stop the train of thought before it leads down a muscular torso clad in a tight jeans with a firm ass and a hot, big cock that humped against you in every opportunity while he took you to the stage. 

A drop makes it way past your cunt lips to stain your fancy underwear and you groan, ashamed. You’ve never felt this unbecoming need before, the arousal so thick your breasts seem to be heavy against your ribcage, dress feeling too tight on your heated, oversensitive skin.

You’re reaching the curve left that will take you to the bathroom when big hands engulf your frame, palm over your mouth and you’re pulled inside one of the private rooms, too breathless to even make a sound.

“Howdy,” his voice sounds right by your ear, as you’re caged against a burly body and the closed, probably sound-proof door. “Got a fugitive here.”

“Uhh, sir, I--”

“Sir?” He laughs, head thrown back prettily as you drink the arch of his throat. “Oh my god, call me Makki, pretty one.” 

The petname makes you flush, tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth around words. “Uh… Makki, I’m sorry but I, ah…” You fumble with your hands, avoiding touching him, eyes downcast as you try to also avoid even looking at him. It’s too much, he seems everywhere.

“You’re engaged? I can see that, love. You have a banner right there.” He sounds so nice, mischief and boyish glee as he stands way too close to you.

“Then you understand…”

“I understand this is your last night of freedom, right? The last chance for you to be bad,” He breathes against your jaw as he noses along your skin to your ear, his cowboy hat gliding softly against the side of your face, “To be wild.”

Your mouth opens and closes but not a single sound comes out, your brain completely lost to the science of mixing letters into words. All you can think about is how your blood seems to be galloping in your veins, the pounding of your heart so oppressingly loud the beat of the song seems to mimic it and not the contrary. 

You are lost to everything but the unbelievable feeling of painful arousal, so sharp and deep your bones seem to be melting out of their places and dripping into the outside by your cunt. 

“But,” Leaves your lips dumbly and Makki’s fingers silence you, his lips so close you can taste his every exhale, the flap of his hat managing to blind your vision to anything past his face.

“You’re going to be married to the exact same man forever, sweetheart. You can let go one night. One night for you to feel good.” Makki licks at your throat and your lips fall open with a shameless moan as you burn with shame. “Has he ever made you feel this hot, sweetie? Hm? Have you ever even felt like this? It’s your last chance tonight, right? Don’t lose it.”

Makki’s hands massage their way down your sides, grabbing at the flesh of your hips, brushing your ass, and you’re dead silent as you drool away in your panties. Unable to think, unable to speak, embarrassment clogging your throat together with an impossible, unacceptable yes.

“C’mon, sweetie, let me take care of you.” It’s a plea, and he knows your chest will hurt with the same need that is in his tone.  “Just this one time, so you can know what it feels like… how great it can be.”

“One time.” He promises you, earnest eyes boring into yours and, dumbly, enchanted, you nod… and agree.

Well, Makki ain’t waiting around for you to change your mind.

His hands loop around your thighs immediately, pressing you against the door until he can press his body between your open legs. The slit of your dress gives in just the little bit needed to allow his hips to make their way against your core, his lips busying themselves with planting kisses along the arch of your neck, teeth nibbling at the lobe of your ear, tongue gliding over the shell. 

His breathing is soft, but so close it feels like it engulfs the room, slithering inside your head and scrambling your thoughts. His crotch presses against your center enough to hold you high and open, one of his hands relieved of their place as it climbs your side and closes around your jaw, angling your head back until you’re trapped between his face and his chest. 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed as if you cannot hold them open, and Makki feels his skin prickling, warmth spreading from his limbs to his chest and down his hips to center themselves at his burning length. You’re such a little vixen, all big eyes and open mouthed staring at him while he has hardly done anything.

He can barely wait to see how you’ll burn when he buries his face in your pussy.

Right now, though, Makki reigns in his excitement, fingers caressing your cheeks until your pretty eyes open up again, dazed. There’s just something about getting pretty little things like you to yield, to breathe out as his lips plant themselves carefully, softly, against your cheek, then the line of your jaw, your chin and your nose.

Every little kiss has you getting restless, trembling in his arms while your hands close around his shoulders, painful little welts that he loves to see. Such desperation. 

It’s really the best.

His lips press against the corner of your wobbling plush lips and you shudder, but they push it back, and when Makki finally decides to kiss you, you’re opening your mouth in your eagerness, tongue lapping awkwardly at his lips as he chuckles and decides it’s time to stop playing.

When he kisses you then, you gasp, precious little sound leaving you as if you had no idea you could even make it, and then you’re melting against him, pressing against his chest as his mouth works its wonders on yours, tongue circling, searching, sucking. He nips at your lips, steals all the short bits of breath from your lungs until you’re writing against him, pressing sinful hips against his crotch in such a desperate way it’s endearing.

The hand on your thigh dips further under your dress, finds the plush meat of your ass and engulf it in its palm, delighted at how inexistent is the small little thing you’re wearing and how fucking delicious it feels. His fingers dig into your bottom until you break the kiss to gasp at how easily he can slip his long indicator from your ass to your pussy.

It’s his time to lose his air at how fucking wet you are, ruined fancy panties and moist thighs.

“Oh god, look at that. Little bride is so wet for this cowboy.”

You make a face, lips pursing in an awkward turn and coily shifting to look down, appraising looks on his chiseled chest. “Okay this one was bad!” Makki offers with an easy smile, the hand on your neck dipping into your breasts, palms pressing on your chest as he turns his focus on circling the hard nipple through your clothes, closing around the plush meat until your offending honest little lips part once again to him. He can see in the turbilion of your eyes how you’re still swirling against guilt, holding back from him. 

“But can you blame me? Look at me.” He makes a mention with his head towards the big bulge straining his tight jeans, which have you unconsciously looking down, his hand sliding over your jaw to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, charming, easy-going smile in his lips. “Look at you.”

He rolls his hips once against your sex, feels the blistering heat even through layers of clothes but he’s done this enough to know exactly where to aim, having a moan escaping through the tight cage of your lips before you can hold everything else in by the lock of your teeth.

He can’t have that, though. He thrives on applause after all.

“Now, beautiful, I’ll need you to stop that right there.”  His fingers dip under you to slide against the soiled fabric clinging to your folds and you all but tense, melting after as if you cannot conceive how good is his mere touch. “I want to hear you, c’mon.” Your eyes drop on his in hurt, but you free your bottom lip, mouth imediatelly falling open around a groan as Makki presses aimless around the entrance of your sex. Damn, Makki likes this. 

“Yes, like that. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” His cock is straining against his boxers already, length rolling in perfect aimed strokes over the apex of your sex as his fingers thread on the outline of your beautiful cunt and when he dips inside a single fingertip, your sex and hands cling to him, all the beautiful curves of your body against his and he just-- He wants to see.

“Ok, dinner time!” Makki chuckles as he brings his hands once again to hold you firmly by your thighs, fingers spread enough to keep rolling against the edges of your cunt. 

“Wha-What?” You give a charming yelp at the way he holds you effortlessly while abandoning the door to walk over to the couch. It’s just a cheap upholstered thing in front of the circular stage with the pole hanging from the ceiling, but it’s just the perfect length for what he needs. 

He lets you fall, open and disheveled over it, legs spread to show the lace he saw earlier, stained and soiled after just a bit of makeout. 

“You’re so cute.” It’s mockingly, really; meant to be a jab at how you’re so hazed and undone by just a few moves of his, but the way in which your doe eyes thread up to him, shiny and unfocussed; your hands closing around your frame as a hand plants in front of your breasts is just… cute. There’s no other word. You’re just a cute little thing and he wants your demise.

 Makki groans and pulls you to the edge of the sofa by your legs, easily dropping between your thighs in a wave move, face planting itself on your breasts to suck at sweaty clothes, teeth pulling the fabric down until your nipples peek through and he sucks them inside his mouth, too. 

You tremble so easily, even worse when he abandons it to nose his way down your body tightly clad in the white dress, kisses over your belly until he’s nosing at your clothed cunt, open mouth kisses adding to the moistness in your poor underwear.

“Delicious.” Makki says for no reason other than to state his thoughts, tongue rolling over the clothed slit as if its skin, reveling in how your poor legs start to shake, needing the aid from his hands spreading them to finally stop. “Tell me, honey, have your fiancé ever fucked you good? Hm?”

The mention makes you stiff, head pressing to the side of the sofa as if you’re fighting a battle inside your own mind, triggered by the piece of trivia question.

“I bet he hasn’t,” Makki laughs, nosing at your pussy with such pressure his whole face gets smeared in your juices. “Is he your first boyfriend? Tell me more.”

 “I--how do you--” You stutter through bitten lips, truth tipping out once he easily spreads you open with his thumbs on each side. “Yes.”

“What a waste, such a wet fucking pussy and not one single effort from your hubby to-” Makki pulls your underwear aside, tongue lolling out to lick a long strip from your entrance to your clit, “lick”, once, it”, twice, “clean.” and thrice.

You let out a cute little noise and he gets impatient, pulling the lace at the side with enough force it rips easily under his hand. Your indignant noise doesn’t even sound right, lost in a moan at the way he closes his lips around your clit and brings his tongue to play with it fast. His hand presses harder on the skin of your thighs, leaving you open as a present, ripe and wide.

If Makki says he eats pussy as a fucking meal, it’s not out of vanity. He doesn’t like to stroke his own ego, it’s just the plain truth. He works his tongue around your cunt, licks at your puffy lips, slither his way over the labia, gathers all the dripping …. and lets it drip over your pussy, just to suck it up and spit on it, after all he never understood the whole don’t spit on the plate you eat. If it’s pussy, he’s sure it’s the fucking other way around. 

You’re writhing and moving around, a symphony of gasps and moans fighting their way past your tight lips. Makki doesn’t mind. As he brings his thumbs to stroke up and down the sides of your cunt, he knows you’ll be screaming in no time. It’s just too much. It’s clear you’ve never had anything like this just by the frantic way you’re humping his face, hands grabbing at anything and everything they can, unable to hold on. His only shame is how busy his mouth is, unable to tease his way into the pure debauchery you’re demonstrating.

He pauses a bit to angle himself back, eyes trained at your pussy, dripping fucking wet all over the dress and the sofa. His thumbs spread at the sides of your entrance, pull it open just to see it blink and gap, begging for his cock without a word leaving your lips. Shit. His cock is straining against the tight jeans in such a painful way he has to let one hand go, open his button and fly, let the poor warrior fight its way past the band of his calvin kleins.

Then he’s back at his work, one thumb keeping you open as his hand returns to plunge his indicator inside slowly. Makki’s mouth almost falls open at the bewitching way your walls give in, letting him sink inside the velvety wet inside with ease. You’re clenching around him, groaning above and begging below, so he lets a second one inside at the retreat and advance of his wrist.

“Have your little husband ever made you feel like this, huh? Have he eaten this little pussy so good you make a mess?”

“Jesus Christ!” You moan above and Makki laughs. He loves this. Loves the little religious bout he gets from tight little brides when they actually taste heaven amidst sin. You try to ride his fingers, but he presses the back of your knees higher, and you let out a breathless “God!” at the new angle.

Then he starts the real game, fingers moving around your heat in search of a specific spot he finds with little prodding and then abuses until you’re begging.

“Oh my god! I, fuck--Jesus!” 

“Yes, just like that sweetheart. If you beg for me real pretty I’ll give you what you want.” He says as his fingers keep plunging in and out of your heat in an upwards motion, strong but slow, dragging the feeling of his thick digits inside your walls. It’s close, he can feel it in the way you’re swelling around him, restless kicking out legs and praying for God as if it isn’t Makki who’s giving you all this.

“My name, sweetie. Beg for it, c’mon. Say it out very loud, how you want my cock to fuck you nice and hard as you’ve never had before, huh? Just--”

“Fuck!”

“Just tell me more how you had no idea it could be so good and how you need me to show you how fucking good a man can actually fuck.”

“Oh my god,” you all but yelp, but then sighs a, “yes, please.”

“Hmmm? Couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh fuck, Makki please fuck me!” There’s a breathless, outstandly maniac laugh breaching your lips after that, a flow of quick words falling from your lips as a train of thought, “Jesus I’ve never felt like this, oh my god I think I’ll actually die without--”

“There we go!” Makki laughs, voice loud as he stops everything to get up and once again bends down to pick you up.

“Wha--Wait!” You squeak, body tense and trembling at the loss as Makki only kisses around your tearstained face and makes his way around the upholstered couch. “Makki!” That has to be the needier, whinier tone he has ever heard his name in. 

And he loves it. 

He lets you slide through his hands, bends you over the back of the couch, your ripped panties sliding to the floor by one of your legs. One of Makki’s hands descends hard on your ass with a loud slap, your lips opening around a beautiful moan. The other does the same, both circling and massing the plump flesh as your ass and pussy blinks seductively at him. 

That does it. Makki curses as he pulls his pants and underwear down, his hard, bloody-red cock slapping up against his navel; he closes his hand around it to slap it between the crack of your pretty behind and feels everything in him tingling at how wanton you sound in your moan, angling your back so that your ass can climb higher, head against the seat cushions.

“Yes, baby, just like that.” Makki praises you as he tilts his cockhead on your slit, up and down, up and down against your clit, labia and entrance. It’s absolutely delicious how you clench to try and hold his cockhead, but it slips up to bob against your ass. “Ops, let’s try again.”

He does the same thing a second time but then you groan and whine once again, “Makki, please!”

Well, fuck, who’s he to deny you, right?

He pats your ass and supports his weight at the back of his feet, cockhead right against the beautiful hole weeping for him and, carefully, slowly, deliciously starts dipping inside. Your pussy sucks him in as a vice, muscle clenching and releasing; loud, satisfacted moans in your lips. It’s almost choking to him that the loud noise in the room comes from him, too, mouth falling open in a growl.

When his hips are nested against your ass, Makki has the urge to kiss you but squatches it down in favor of holding you strongly and fucking you throughly. Motioning himself in waves as he had on the stage, his cock slides in and out of you with such delicious, timed precision he thinks you’ll come twice on him before he’s done. 

Your tight heat is velvety wet around him, squelching sounds sinful in the room as he grinds his hips against your ass, cockhead nestled against the firm pressure of your cervix. There’s babbles tipping from your lips, as if your mind has broken and you have to pronounce your mess of thoughts out loud. It’s cute.

Maybe he'd appreciate it more if his mind wasn't falling him also; his whole body feels constricted, strained, hips rolling in long, deep, strong strokes that make his cock into a pleasure antena, broadcasting to his whole being, blistering heat spreading through his veins and turning sharp at his spine and to start pooling at his balls. 

He is about to dip his hand to your clit and end you when your body seizes, legs kicking while dangling from the backrest of the couch and your pussy starts creaming hard like a vice around his cock.

“Fuck!” He groans, tensing his whole body before you bring him over with you, hand slithering to hold the base of his cock, hard. Then he laughs, no breath to spare. “Wow, baby, no heads up? Now you gonna have to give me one more, I’m not done with you yet.”

You let out an indignant groan, but rest boneless under him. Makki retreats his hips from your snug grip and starts pistoning his way inside your heat, unforgiving even as you yelp and whine, oversensitivity probably making you burn. Makki lets one of his hands let go of your hips and fall hard on your ass, in time to feel the way your pussy grips at him, yelp turning into a moan. Makki lets his hands slide down the side and curve his wrist so your fingers can find your clit, rubbing him frantically as he angles his hips just right, every wave of his body aimed against your precious spot.

“Yup,” Makki groans, growing exhausted. “Just like this.”

Your eyes snap open, hands frantically reaching to hold on anything by them as you look back at Makki with shiny, big, dazed eyes in absolute terror at the fact you are, indeed, going to keep cumming on his dick, second orgasm hitting you so hard and fast Makki actually tips over with you, the pressure in his balls releasing in one blissful climax at the incessant contracting of your cunt and the wave of your orgasm gushing out of your pussy in the closest thing to a squirt he could pull out of you amidst a unending orgasm.

Makki stays inside you as he rides his high, grinding his hips even as you cry from the oversensitivity. When he pulls out, he’s careful with the condom and also has half a mind to hold your body, throwing the used thing somewhere to be cleaned after. Almost as if perceiving the breach, his cellphone starts ringing somewhere, loud as fuck in the closed room.

“Damn, fuck,” Makki scrambles to the sound, his legs almost giving out under him and his fingers so numb it takes three tries to actually accept the call. Which he didn’t read who from. 

“MAKKI! WHERE ARE YOU, WE’RE STARTING IN FIVE.” Iwaizumi nags at him, stern and loud, piercing through his haze enough to make his brain drop some adrenaline into his bloodstream, suddenly alert and kicking, muscles straining but holding as he pulls his underwear and jeans quick over his ass and searches for his cowboy hat in time to dip and run to the presentation.

“Sorry baby, gotta go.” He saunters to you, plants a kiss on your sweaty head and another at your swollen lips and smiles the same sinful smile that ended up bringing you here, along with a tilt of his cowboy hat. “Duty calls.”

[pleasantanathema]

Smut Pile Collabs

Fantasy Collab 

Mafia Collab 

Western Collab

Apocalypse Collab

[messwriting]

AUTOR’S NOTE: I used to have a Masterlist with all my writing, now I’m doing it more focussed on what I’m mostly posting in this blog, which is essentialy anime (Haikyuu and BNHA, future AOT in the works). Updated in 10/03/2021.

Second Note: It’s a more interested to less interested fandom organization. All works are +18 unless stated otherwise. Be mindful of warnings.

Third Note: This blog contains possible triggering content. Please be mindful of warnings and notice the fact this is a NSFW and +18 space. Minors DNI.

HAIKYUU!!

 Tsukishima Kei

What we could’ve been (Bartender!Reader. University setting.)

Tsukishima with a praise kink hc (Drabble)

Sour Candy (University AU. Sendai Frogs. Frenemies to Lovers. There's only one bed.)

Iwaizumi Hajime

Aftercare (Ficlet. Post-sex themes.)

At your mercy (Blowing Hajime because he’s just that cute.)

Camera On (Pornstar Hajime. Virgin Reader. Defloration porn.)

SCARRED HANDS (Mafia AU. Smut Pile Collab.)

(my saddle's waiting) ride it (Western AU but make it strippers.)

Olympics. Oral comemoration. (ask. drabble.)

Osamu Miya

POISON AND PLEASURE (Dub-con. Mafia AU. Smut Pile Collab.)

Agonizing delight (in p and p universe? kinda?)

Lap dance (ask. drabble)

Heel kink (ask. drabble)

Oikawa Tooru 

You were good to me (Ficlet. Fluff.)

 Kuroo Tetsurou

Summer day (Ficlet. Fluff. Modern Family AU.)

Golden Eyes (Demon!Kuroo. Monsterfucking. Secret Santa gift.)

Matsukawa Issei

Dry Humping (Drabble/Ask)

Overstim/Hard Dom Issei (Drabble)

 Tendou Satori

Thigh ridding* (Drabble)

Hanamaki Takahiro

(i’m gonna make you) feel it (Multiverse: LAWBREAKERS. Corruption Kink. Cheating. Western AU.)

Shirabu Kenjiro

open wide: the doctor is in (Whorehouse collab. Porn tropes. Medical kink. CONSENSUAL NONCON. Roleplay.) 

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA 

 Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead

Dream Girl - ongoing (hiatus while i’m doing some editing)

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five

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