Chapter Text
You'd heard of John Duncan, of course. Everyone had.
The man was a shark, they said. Ruthless. You never expected to meet him. You never expected to kill him. You never expected to end up in his bed.
Twenty-one years old and three sheets to the wind on a Saturday night in some cheap student club with some stranger's hand on your buttock you would not, for example, have expected to hear his smooth tenor telling your new friend to get lost. You would not have expected to turn and see blue eyes examining you like a piece of meat. Your potential paramore, you forget his name, who had gotten you so well lubricated had not taken kindly to being so abruptly usurped. John had simply whispered in his ear and he had left looking like he was going to be sick. You didn't expect that either.
John had turned back to you, then.
“Where were we?” He asked, like nothing had happened.
You laughed. He was charming.
You cocked your head to the side and said “You had better be planning on putting out because I was so getting lucky with that guy.”
John had put his hand on your hip and leaned in bringing his face close to yours and said “You can count on it.”
Then you said “Holy shit.”
You said it again; “Holy shit. You're that guy.”
A pleased grin spread across his face.
“What guy?” As if he didn't know.
“That shit hot lawyer!” You said, not beneath stroking his ego. “We studied one of your cases in class. Fuck!”
He brushed some hair from your eyes and hummed in agreement. “'Shit hot lawyer'. That certainly sounds like me.”
He bought you shots and dragged you onto the dancefloor. One of your friends, who had made themselves absent in the presence of the last guy, shot you a questioning look. You gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, which John caught. He gave your friend a little wave and she waved back, blushing, clearly a little smitten herself.
His hands roved all over your body as you danced with him. You might have been shocked by the liberties he took if you hadn't been so into it and the more you let him get away with the further he went. You remember thinking to yourself 'if he fucks like he dances.'
You didn't have to wait long to find out.
He took you back to his hotel room. It was bigger than your whole student apartment. He pushed you down on the bed and devoured you like he was starving for it. You're pretty sure he ripped your shirt taking it off you. You were so into it, so helplessly turned on by him, by his whole deal. You would have let him do just about anything he wanted.
Which is why when he asked mid-coitus if he could cut you – you didn't say no.
Drunk as you were you grabbed his hips, ceased his thrusting, and said “What?”
He propped himself up on his arms and said “I'd like to cut you, just here.”
He pressed his finger against a point just above you hip.
You looked at him. His pupils were totally blown. You could tell how much the idea excited him. Then you dragged your eyes down his body. His muscular torso was littered with scars.
You asked “Did someone cut you?” And when his face fell you wished that you hadn't.
He kissed you desperately, and resumed rutting you with a renewed intensity, as though he could fuck the question from his mind.
You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around him tighter.
When he at last relinquished your mouth to suck a bruise into your neck you said “Yes.”
And you don't know what possessed you to do it.
“You can,” you had said. “You can do it. That. If you want.”
He froze.
His arms shook with exertion and adrenaline. His breath shuddered in and out of him as he processed what you'd said, his face still pressed into the crook of your neck.
“Yeah?” He said at last, clearly aiming for casual and missing entirely.
“Yeah,” you whispered, feeling high on your own bravado.
You trusted him not to cut you too deeply, which looking back on it you most certainly should not have. He didn't though. He took a penknife from the bedside, leading you to wonder how long it had been there, and sliced a shallow cut into your skin. You winced and he followed the blade with his thumb, which he promptly pressed into his own mouth with a groan. You could practically feel his dick throbbing inside of you.
“God, yes,” he said, then proceeded to fuck every sensible thought from your head.
You had expected him to kick you out without fanfare in the morning. Instead when he woke to the soft shuffling of you rooting around for your clothes he called you over to the bedside.
He ran his finger lovingly over the angry red line above your pelvis. He even pressed a gentle kiss to it, then looked up at you and said “Don't forget me, okay?”
You laughed and assured him there was no danger of that.
He watched you dress stretched out along the bed with a satisfied look on his face. You blew him a kiss as you walked out the door which made him smile.
You even took steps to make sure the cut scarred. You were young enough to think that kind of thing would make you seem edgy and interesting.
You never saw him again.
Until now.
Standing in a church in the middle of nowhere and Joseph Seed glaring at you with all of God's righteous fury. You see his brother John just over his shoulder. Older now. Somehow even more arrogant. If he recognises you he doesn't show it.
You draw your eyes back to Joseph. His expression projects curiosity about what has you so distracted, but he doesn't turn around to look.
You swallow your nervousness and lock the cuffs into place.