Chapter Text
You’re headed home on horseback, saddlebags overflowing with ore and weighing down your steed, when you overhear commotion outside the Saloon. An unusual occurrence considering what a quiet town Stardew is. As you plod closer, you distinguish the woman's voice as Emily's and the gruff, angry tone to be Shane's. Curious, you dismount your horse and lead it closer by the reigns.
“I’m worried about you, Shane! We’re all worried about you!” Emily cries, throwing her arms out in exasperation.
“Maybe you should all leave me the fuck alone!” The disheveled man spits.
Emily reaches a hand out to touch Shane’s shoulder, but ultimately drops it when he recoils.
“Shane, please. It’s only for tonight. Just go home," she pleads.
Pacing back and forth, the noirette sways precariously on his feet.
“Fuck you! I’m not even drunk! You’re just gonna cut me off? I practically keep this bullshit Saloon running, Em.” His arms are crossed, fingers kneading the worn wool of his sweater.
At that moment Emily notices you, looking up from her rowdy patron to your approaching figure.
“Oh,” she greets, relieved. "Hi."
“All good here?” You drawl, eyes darting between the young woman and the flush-faced drunkard at her side.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off an oncoming headache.
Emily huffs and waves her jewel-laden hand dismissively. “Yeah, everything’s fine, don’t worry. Just this one - he’s had enough for the night.”
“I only had four beer!” Shane whines. You hold back a snort, picturing him stomping his feet like a child throwing a tantrum.
“I don’t care, Shane, I said you’re cut off!”
When Emily shouts, she goes red in the face. She isn’t a person who yells, as a general rule, since she considers it unhealthy and says that it binds up her spiritual energy. For this reason, Emily's raised voice is enough to shock the recipient into silence. Even you are somewhat galled.
Concerned by the ruckus, Clint pokes his head out of the bar. He looks like some kind of nervous gopher, peering out from its burrow. “Uh… is everything alright?”
The woman in question takes a deep breath, brushing non-existent crumbs from her dress, and turns to Clint with a too-tight smile.
“Of course!" She chimes through gritted teeth. "Our friendly neighborhood farmer was just about to escort Shane home. Weren’t you, hun?”
Her eyes meet yours shadowed by an icy threat that has you wasting no time to cooperate. She is, after all, your sister-in-law.
“I sure was.” You tip your hat. “Have a good night now, y’all.”
Clint nods absently, slipping back inside once he sees Emily approach the doors.
“Take care of him, please,” the blue-haired woman exhales, glancing at Shane before bidding you a grateful farewell. “And thank you, really. You're a lifesaver.”
You nod, before turning back to your newfound burden. The man in question has unearthed a flask of whiskey from somewhere in his jacket, and is now taking a hearty swig. He glowers at you. You roll your eyes.
“Hop on, then,” you grunt, turning to smooth a hand down your horse’s chestnut coat.
"Absolutely fucking not. I can walk."
You look over at Shane, deeply unimpressed by his squabbling.
"It's not even that far!" he defends, arms tightening around his midsection. "I do it all the time. It's fine." He takes another swig of whiskey, tongue darting out to chase amber droplets along his bottom lip.
"Shane, I've had a very long, hard day," you breathe, reflecting on the hours you'd spent fighting for your life in the mines. "I do not have the energy to humor your particular brand of bullshit, tonight. Get on the damn horse."
The young man scuffs the toe of his sneaker in the dirt, before shuffling forward hesitantly. You mount Matilda, the mare, and hold out a rough palm to help him aboard.
He chews his lip. Glances from you to your hand, then back again.
"I don't bite," you promise.
He snorts, grasping your hand in his. You pull him up with ease, hoisting him in front of you so you can brace your arms around his midsection as you ride.
"This is humiliating," he grumbles. "I just want to be left alone."
"You do it to yourself. If you were sober I'd let you sit behind me, but as it is, I don't trust you not to fall off and concuss yourself."
He huffs, shifting in front of you. The movement is distracting. You briefly consider pinching his side and telling him to quit his godforsaken squirming. Ultimately, you decide it would be more trouble than it's worth.
As the pair of you trot further from the Saloon, Shane relaxes. His shoulders slump and his broad chest presses back into yours, heavy in way that's more grounding that smothering. He's warm. Almost unnaturally so, like cuddling up to a space heater.
The unscrewing of a cap echoes throughout the silent town square as Shane takes another long swig from the bottle. You don't say anything. Not your monkey, not your circus.
"Why'd you move here?" He mumbles after a pause.
"My grandfather died. Left me the farm," you reply. "Thought everybody knew that."
He nods to himself, unconsciously leaning further into your embrace.
"Yeah… but like… you didn't have to take care of it. Could've sold it, 'f you wanted to."
You shift, flexing your forearms around his soft middle. He smells like whiskey and mothballs. Must've been working dusty freight at JojaMart all day.
"Needed a change, I s'pose," you allow. "Things in the city weren't panning out like I'd hoped."
Shane nods. Sways with each plod of Matilda's hooves.
"Why do you stay?" You ask, unable to stop yourself.
He laughs. It's a low, derisive thing.
"In Stardew Valley? Got nowhere else to go."
And that's stupid. You tell him as much.
"Bullshit. There's nothing keeping you here. Marnie could take care of Jas, if you left. She practically does already."
You feel yourself growing bitter. "You're just a coward. Scared to find out that this town's got nothing to do with it - whatever's making you so damned miserable. Afraid that you'll leave this place and be just as unhappy everywhere else."
Shane elbows you in the side and tumbles off your horse. Luckily, you're almost at his porch now, so it's not much of an issue. Still, your ribs twinge from the assault as he crashes into the cobbled road. You hope it hurts.
"Fuck you!" Spittle flies from his lips as he shouts. "Don't act like you fucking know me!"
He waves an accusatory finger in your face, hair ruffled like a baby bird. Squawking like one, too.
"Aw, but sweetheart," you croon, "I do know you! Met a thousand sad sacks just like you."
You dismount your horse just to get in his face, because you're feeling petty all of the sudden. Petty and startlingly livid. The energy that had been sapped from you in the mines is returning full force, fueled by hatred.
"You're not special, Shane," you spit, so close you can smell his breath.
For a moment his face crumples, but just as fast he's snarling again, lunging forward. You brace yourself for an attack that doesn't come. Instead, his lips crash into yours hard enough to knock your teeth together, clammy hands rising to grip at your bearded cheeks like a man drowning.
You rear back, glancing around for potential witnesses. There are none to be found, but it doesn't stop your heart from hammering in your chest.
"Motherfucker!" You hiss, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck like an unruly kitten and shoving him face-first into the barn.
Classic small town, nothing gets locked up. Little risk of theft when everybody's your neighbor.
He stumbles, tripping over his own legs before falling on his ass in the hay.
"You can't just do that!" You growl, "For christ's sake. What if somebody saw?"
Shane is shaking, his shoulders hitching up and down. It builds and builds, 'til you realize it's laughter. Shane is laughing so hard it's nearly silent, choked wheezes breaking free from his lips
"Who's the coward now?" He grins, spread-eagle in the dirt. "You act all high and mighty but you're not. You're not."
His eyes are hazy, cheeks flushed with mirth. You've never seen him smile so wide, so uninhibited. Proud of himself. You could throttle him. Instead, you press the toe of your boot down on his groin.
"Agh!" He yelps, thighs clenching together on either side of your foot.
"You that desperate for attention? Willing to put my marriage at risk just to get your cunt stuffed?" You snarl. You're looming over him, casting him in your shadow as you press down harder.
The color drains from his face and his fingers twitch towards your boot, but he hasn't squirmed away. Not yet. He looks up at you with wide eyes, pupils blowing in the dim lighting of the barn. A cow puffs somewhere in the background.
"Alright then," you hear yourself speak despite not feeling your lips move. "I'll give it to you."
Shane looks lost, confused by the sudden turn of events, but you're fuming now - on a warpath. You haul him up by the front of his shirt, easy, like a sack of potatoes. There's a faint ripping noise that might be the stitching of his polo. You don't care enough to investigate.
When you toss him across a rectangular bail of hay, he lets out an involuntary "oof" as the air is forced from his lungs. He scrambles to get back up, but you press your palm down on his back.
"Stay," you command.
"What're you doing?" Shane blubbers, winded and slurring.
"Giving you what you want."
It's easy to yank his pants down to his knees, prone as he is over the bail. The cool air hits his bottom and he flinches away in weak protest.
"Stop it!" He sputters, despite the fact that he's already chubbing up between downy thighs.
Shane doesn't have the best ass you've ever seen, but it's pretty nonetheless. Pale and soft, rounded in a square sort of way. A dusting of dark hair and two coffee-coloured freckles high on one cheek. You rear back and clap your hand down it. The smack echoes throughout the wooden building, followed immediately by a high pitched yelp.
"Holy fuck!" Shane barks, muscles spasming in his back under your hand. "What the - "
You cut him off with another solid thwap of skin against skin. Your fingers are stinging, but you can hardly feel it over the thrumming in your veins. The room is painted in shades of crimson, narrowed down to Shane's cries and the aching burn in your palm.
"Start counting," you tell him.
Another slap has Shane heaving, bucking up against your weight. "Stop! Get off of me!" He begs, and you breathe half a laugh.
"I said count," you order, "Or we'll be here all night."
Another.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh my God! Okay!"
Still no counting.
Another.
"ONE!" Shane sobs loud enough that you flinch at the volume. It's almost two in the morning. You worry he's going to get you caught.
"Shh, relax," you murmur, soothing a hand over his reddened ass. "Do you wanna wake up the whole neighborhood?"
He shakes his head, hiccupping soft little breaths. Wriggles his ass under your ministrations like a puppy, dying for attention and desperate to please.
He's rock hard now. You can see his length bobbing gently between his legs, and it makes you fuzzy with predatory satisfaction. Wrapping calloused fingers around his cock, you give it a couple lavish tugs, smearing precum around the tip 'til it glistens.
"Mmff," Shane buries his face in crossed arms, pushing his ass out to give you better access.
"Feeling good, princess?" You tease. "How about this: You take 10 more lashes for me and I'll fuck you. Or if you really want me to, I'll end this right here and leave."
He twitches, and you know he's heard you, but he doesn't say anything. Stays quiet and slumped into himself, hiding away.
"Go on," you goad. "Say "stop" again. Tell me you're done, that you don't want more."
He peeks at you between his forearm and shoulder, one eye glistening in the shadows. The tip of his ear is flushed red.
"I want it," he rasps, admittance catching between his teeth. "I fuckin' want it, okay?"
Your cock throbs and you grin. It must look sickenly sadistic.
"Of course you do." Satisfaction curls molten hot in your gut. "So keep a better fucking count this time, yeah?"
The first hit rains down on his left cheek hard enough to leave a bright white outline in its wake.
"Ah!" He yelps, seemingly unable to help himself, before mumbling a dejected, "One."
"I can't hear you," you chastise in a singsong voice. You're already striking another blow.
"Two!" He cries, clenching his fists in the hay as though it will ground him there. As though it will mitigate the pain radiating up his spine.
Another clap, followed by two more.
"Three... four... five..." he repeats dutifully, pounding his fist once on 'four'. You're certain that Shane has never sounded sweeter than he does in this moment, broken down to a needy, obedient thing.
"You're doing great." You praise, rubbing tenderly at his blushing rear. Blood is already flooding to the surface and the flesh is bruising hot, swollen.
"Shut up," he chokes. The younger man's voice sounds garbled, like his throat is closing. You wonder if he's beginning to cry. The thought only stokes the fire in your gut.
"Halfway there." You promise.
The next blow lands higher, closer to the dimples on his lower back. His shirt has ridden up to his armpits and yellow-gold hay is scratching at his exposed stomach. You can picture his nipples rosy and irritated from the friction.
Flexing your fingers, you shake out your wrist. Another.
"Six," he hiccups, "seven."
Another.
"Eight."
The entirety of his bottom is scarlet now, from the meat of his cheeks to the tender root of his thighs. Purple bleeds through wherever your wedding ring made contact, the unforgiving metal bursting capillaries in its wake. There's probably something poetic in that.
"Nine!" A sob tears from his lungs at the glancing blow to his sac, "Ten!"
The final crack echoes like a victory march, and Shane sags, hands going slack where they'd buried themselves in the dried grass. He's sweating and shivering all at once. Ruined.
"All done." You declare pleasantly.
Shane whimpers, relieved. He's still limp over the bail as you get on your knees behind him, blowing cold air across his flaming cheeks. The drunken man twitches, making a confused, throaty sound you can't help but chuckle at.
You bring one hand up to his hole and massage the pucker with your thumb. Shane arches back into the sensation, greedy as always. With your other hand you grip one of his asscheeks, spreading it wide to display his pucker and digging your fingers into abused flesh. He grunts at the pain. You lean forward and press your tongue to his entrance.
It flutters against your mouth as he squeaks a shocked, "Ahn!"
Your nose is tickled by thick body hair, jaw straining open to press the muscle further into his hole. It gives way under the assault, your tongue worming inside mercilessly. He tastes musky, like sweat and damnation. Hot around your tongue.
"What the fuck," Shane gasps, pressing back on your face 'til you can hardly breathe. "That's so gross, fucking hell, what is wrong with you?!"
You would laugh if you weren't so turned on. Pulling back just enough to sneak a hand between his pink hole and your face, you sink a finger inside him in addition to your tongue. He mewls, dropping his face into the scratchy hay to muffle his cries. Privately, Shane thinks he might be dying.
"God," he slurs, "that's so good."
You don't answer, focused on the task at hand, but the praise curls hot and heavy in your gut. You know you're talented, but to hear Shane admit it - in awe of the pleasure you lavish upon him - brings about a full-body buzz of satisfaction. It has you pressing another eager finger inside.
Scissoring your digits, you slurp at his slackened entrance, tracing the rim with your tongue. Spit and drool string down Shane's crack, leaking down his taint and caressing his pretty sac. The noises in the barn are filthy. Each thrust of your fingers squelches as the digits are sucked into Shane's welcoming heat with ease.
You pull back, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to his balls.
"You ready for me? Gonna take it all like good whore? Wanna feel my hips slap against your tender little ass?" You take a hearty handful of his rear in hand as you speak, digging into the bruised meat. Possessive, cruel.
Shane's breath catches and his back arches in agony. He looks at you from over his shoulder with dark, dazed eyes, red-rimmed with unshed tears.
"Yeah," he rasps, pupils fat. His nose running just a bit. "Please? I..."
Trailing off, he pushes back into your harsh grasp, trying to convey his unspoken desire. He looks almost wounded, so small and fragile.
It makes you want to reach out and make it better. To hold him, delicate as a baby bird, and carefully realign all his jagged edges. To fix what's been broken.
On the other hand, it makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck and thrash, until he goes still. Until the blood stops flowing and you've destroyed him beyond repair.
Ignoring both impulses, you choose to fumble with your trousers, your hands shaking with need. Shane takes this opportunity to shed his rucked up shirt and pooled shorts. With your vision tunneling and jaw locked, you release your length into the open air.
In order to align yourselves properly, you have to make Shane stand, and he quivers on loose limbs as he rises. You almost feel apologetic, with the way he shakes like a newborn foal.
"C'mere." You wrap scarred, tree-trunk arms around his middle - one under his ribs and the other clenching at his hip. He leans back into you as you rut against his ass, pre-cum slipping warm and wet between your cock and his crack.
The hand at Shane's sternum glides its way up. It slips over a pert nipple, stopping to rest at his throat where his pulse flutters hummingbird-frantic under your thumb. He doesn't flinch away, instead lolling his head back onto your shoulder. Fearless. You lave your tongue across his neck, mouthing and biting at his jaw, his earlobe. Tasting sweat and the sting of stubble against your lips.
At the same time you align your member against his twitching entrance. It's wet and loose, though not lax enough. He tenses as you press inside, making the whole process indubitably more unpleasant, and you hiss.
"Let me in," you growl, grinding forward, slow and insistent. The head of your cock slips in and Shane mewls.
"Shane," you snarl, burying your nose in his neck as he clenches around you. He smells like aftershave and barn animals, tinged by the bitter odor of somebody metabolizing booze.
"'M sorry, 'm sorry," he whines, wrapping his own hand around your wrist at his throat. Not pulling, just holding you there. Grounding himself.
You push again, flexing your fingers around his neck as you sink deeper, inch by laborious inch.
"Come on," you whisper into his ear, "I know you can take it. Know you want me inside your slutty little cunt. Let me in, baby."
Shane melts in your arms, shuddering as you sheathe to the hilt. Makes a choked, aborted noise in the back of his throat.
"Fuuuck," you breathe, bottoming out against his rear with your balls snugly pressed to his taint. It's tight. Too tight. The dry pull of it burns when you attempt a shallow thrust.
Morbidly, it occurs to you that if you'd forced your way in, Shane's blood might’ve acted as a good lube right about now. You bury that thought by sinking your teeth into an alabaster shoulder.
Shane tenses and his ass clenches down on your cock like a vice. He opens his mouth to curse or moan, but you halt it by cramming your fingers inside, pressing three digits flat to his tongue. He whines around them, steamy breath and drool caressing your knuckles. Sinful. You pump them in and out in time with the rocking of your hips. The glide grows smoother with each gyration, the younger man's heat moulding around your length to pull you in deeper.
The sound of your coupling echoes into the dark. Shane's muffled gagging around your hand, the slap of your hips against abused flesh, and the filthy suckling of his cunt around you. Messy. Animalistic. It makes your balls tighten, pulse thrumming.
"That feel good, sweetheart?" You croon, slamming in on a particularly rough stroke.
Shane gasps, wanton against your palm, writhing in bittersweet ecstasy.
"You're gonna ache for days," you promise. "I'm gonna reshape you from the inside out."
You slip your fingers from his slack lips. Trail a wet, slimy path down his chin to grip his stubbled jaw. The other palm releases Shane's hip from where you'd been searing finger-shaped bruises into meat and bone, maneuvering instead to stroke his thick treasure trail.
You hook your chin over his shoulder, resting there leisurely. The pace of your rutting slows to a teasing roll.
"Wanna cum?" You purr, breath hot against his ear.
Shane shudders against you, leaning so heavily into your embrace that you nearly lose your footing.
"Yes, yes, please," he chants, voice ragged and pleasure-drunk. He claws at the parts of you he can reach - mostly your forearms - wriggling his ass in protest of your halted activity.
"I don't know if you deserve it." You hum darkly. "I still haven't heard a proper apology for that stunt you pulled."
"I'm sorry!" Shane nearly weeps. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have."
"Shouldn't have what?" You growl.
Shane whimpers, a hurt little thing.
"I shouldn't have kissed you! I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry! It won't happen again. I'll be good, I promise. I can be so good," he babbles, nearly incomprehensible.
You reward him with a sharp thrust, grinding slow circles into his prostate.
"You sure about that?" You ask.
"Yes," he whines petulantly. "I swear, okay? It'll never happen again."
"It better not," you grumble, wrapping one hand around his throat, the other dropping to fist his cock. "Because the next time it happens, I'll make you disappear. You hear me?"
Shane inhales sharply. You can feel it against the hand around his neck, just like you can feel his length twitch in the other. He starts to shake as you stroke him, pumping in tandem with the slap of your hips.
You're strangling him now, like a python wrapping around its prey. The sensation mainlines into your veins - heady power and overwhelming lust. Every constricted wheeze is a symphony to your ears, Shane's pulse hammering desperately under your merciless assault. His cock burns in your fist, sloppy and dripping with precum. You can picture it, red and engorged, impossibly hard as the head peeks between your thumb and forefinger, again and again. His hole is lax around you, fucked out and sore, no doubt, but he still struggles on a gargled moan every time you drive back inside.
You want to fill him up, stuff him full of your seed. You want to milk his pretty cock dry until he begs for mercy.
You tighten the hand around his neck, the column of muscle and tendon straining under the pressure, until Shane can no longer breathe at all. His cheekbone, from the side of his face you can see, is a dark and almost purpling crimson. His throat clicks, mouth gaping wide.
"Cum for me. Now." You command. He does beautifully. If his trachea wasn't being crushed, you imagine Shane would be wailing from the way his whole body goes taught and his ass clamps down on you.
"Fucking shit," you curse, following him swiftly over the edge. You bury your teeth in his shoulder to muffle your own groan as his insides work you through your orgasm. In your palm, Shane's length is still twitching, overstimulated and struggling to soften. He mewls when you release his tender neck, coughing from the pain.
You withdraw reluctantly. Your brain feels cotton-fuzzy through the haze of release.
"Y'alright?" You mumble, smearing a thumb across the bite mark on his shoulder. Each one of your teeth is perfectly outlined in pallid skin. It's still spit-slick.
"Hng," Shane grunts. He stumbles, flopping gracelessly into a pile of hay. Leans on his side, tipping his head back, eyes closed. Just breathing.
You take the opportunity to admire the damage you've sewn. There are five-fingered bruises rising to the surface of his hips and along the column of his pale, ghostly neck. His shoulders have been ravaged with hickeys and the shadows of teeth, thoroughly mauled. Semen leaks between Shane's thighs. It dribbles from his fucked-out hole in a pearly sheen.
You lick your lips. You want to suck it out of him and fuck it back inside in equal measure. Pushing those thoughts away, you tuck your softening prick into your pants, buckling your belt before you can make any more poor choices.
"Clean yourself up," you order. "'N' get to bed."
When Shane doesn't respond, you lean over him, cupping his cheek in hand to force eye contact. He blinks at you blearily.
"Huh?" He whispers.
You brush your thumb beneath his lower lash line, tracing the dark, puffy circles underneath. A sigh breaches your lips.
Trudging across to the bail where you'd spanked him, you gather his shirt and pants. They're damp with sweat. In desperate need of a wash. You wonder if Shane does his own laundry, or if that's yet another burden he allows Marnie to shoulder.
The man makes a confused sound as you guide his arms into the air, dressing him like a toddler. You have him wrap his arms around your neck for support while guiding him to step into his shorts.
"Wha're you doin'?" He slurs, brow furrowed.
"Dressing you. Now go to bed," you enunciate slowly, as though speaking to a particularly dense child. "And call in sick for work for a few days, 'til the mess on your neck heals. Don't need anybody asking questions."
He frowns. Stares at you for a beat, before nodding his understanding.
"Good boy," you mock, patting him condesceningly on the cheek just a touch too hard. Maybe it will knock the stupid expression off his face.
Matilda is waiting for you outside, and with a stab of guilt you realize that she's been standing alone and laden with saddlebags for over an hour.
"Oh, sweetpea," you fawn over her, stroking her velvety nose. "I'm sorry. I lost track of time. We'll go home now, okay? You've been so patient with me, sweet girl."
The horse snorts, obviously mildly disgruntled. Luckily, she'll forgive you with time and treats. Animals are easy that way.
"Let's go." Mounting her in one smooth motion, you pat her side. She takes off in a trot, carrying you to the farm in serene silence.
You unload your saddlebags, settle Matilda into her stable, and creep in through your front door on aching feet. There's little time to reflect on your choices with only hours before dawn. A farmer rises with the sun, after all, and as such you're asleep before your head hits the pillow.