#A River Without Banks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brunchable · 2 months ago

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THIS, is your boyfriend, Mom? [4]

Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Our savage wittle boi Lucas x f!Reader.

Summary: The family went on a camping trip with Lucas' cousins. Warning: Lucas fell into a river but is unharmed.

A/N: I will just keep posting Step-Dad Bucky content, this doesn't really have set plot, just cute and funny moments while Bucky navigates how to be a Dad. ALSO, note I am still trying to fix the tag list for this.

The stars had just begun to shine as you, Bucky, Lucas, and a few of his cousins sat around the campfire, laughter filling the air as the kids toasted marshmallows and dared each other to make the strangest marshmallow combinations.

After a while, Lucas and his cousin wandered over to you, their faces lit with excitement. “Mom, can we go skip rocks by the river?” Lucas asked.

You nodded, giving them a warm but serious smile. “Alright, but don’t go too close to the water. Stay safe.”

They nodded, promising to be careful, and you watched as they bounded off toward the riverbank, their giggles mixing with the sound of the flowing water. Bucky was sitting next to you, his gaze steady on the kids as they skipped stones, trying to beat each other’s number of skips.

Everything seemed peaceful.

But after a few minutes, you overheard Lucas’s cousin daring him. “Bet you can’t skip one from way up close,” his cousin said, pointing to a spot near the edge of the water, where the bank was muddy and slippery.

Lucas hesitated, glancing back at you and Bucky, then shrugged, puffing his chest out a little. “It’s not even that deep. I’ll be fine.”

In that split second, he took a bold step closer, right to the edge, and threw his rock. But as he shifted his weight forward, the muddy bank gave way, and he slipped, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance—only to tumble forward into the icy water.

“Mom! Help!” Lucas screamed, panic overtaking his voice as the river’s current tried to pull him in.

His cousin tried to reach him, stretching out his arm, but the water was too strong, and Lucas was quickly losing his footing.

In that moment, Lucas looked up, his breath catching as he saw a figure racing toward him with unwavering speed and determination. Recognizing Bucky’s shape, he reached out instinctively, the word spilling out in sheer desperation.

“Dad!”

Before you could take a step, Bucky had already shot up, sprinting to the river with a look of pure terror etched across his face. Reaching the boys in seconds, he gently but firmly shoved Lucas’s cousin back toward you, his voice low and firm. “Get to your mom. Now.”

“Lucas!” you screamed, your heart pounding.

Without a second thought, Bucky stepped into the river, his boots sinking into the cold, swirling water as it tugged insistently at his legs, urging him to stay back. But he moved forward, steady and sure, his eyes fixed on Lucas as if the world held nothing else. The river pressed against him, but he barely noticed, reaching Lucas in a few strides, wrapping a solid arm under the boy’s shoulders, and lifting him up with a fierce certainty. Holding Lucas close, Bucky turned and waded back to shore, his grip firm, his gaze steady, as if he were carrying something infinitely precious.

As soon as they were safely on dry ground, Bucky knelt down, gripping Lucas’s shoulders tightly, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with anger and fear.

“What were you thinking, Lucas?” he snapped, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to go near the edge? Do you understand what could have happened if you’d fallen in deeper?”

Lucas glanced up at Bucky, then looked over at you. The sight of you standing there, tears streaming down your face, struck him like a punch to the chest. His mother, the person he always wanted to keep happy and safe, was crying because of him.

Lucas looked down, his face pale, but tried to stammer out a response. “I-I… I didn’t think it’d be that slippery…”

Bucky’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and his voice grew louder, thick with emotion. “Exactly. You didn’t think! What if the current had pulled you in? What if you’d been swept away before I got there? What if… what if you had gotten hurt or worse?” Bucky’s voice wavered, but his tone stayed stern. “This isn’t a game, boy. You could’ve been lost to that river in an instant.”

Lucas’s cousin, standing nearby, shifted nervously, his face turning pale as he realized the seriousness of the situation. Bucky’s sharp gaze flicked toward him, his tone still unrelenting.

“And you,” he said, his voice just as firm as before. “Why would you dare him to go closer? Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Lucas’s cousin looked down, guilt spreading across his face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Bucky… I didn’t think anything bad would happen. I just… thought it’d be fun.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t soften as he spoke, his tone filled with disappointment.

“Fun? What if he’d fallen in and the current was too strong? What if I hadn’t been here in time? You don’t push someone to take a risk like that, especially near the water. You’re supposed to look out for each other, not encourage recklessness.”

The weight of Bucky’s words began to settle over both boys like a heavy blanket. The “what ifs” replayed in their minds, each one sinking deeper, and they both suddenly felt small and helpless under Bucky’s fierce gaze.

Lucas’s voice shook as he whispered, “I… I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to make you and Mom worry. I just wanted to see if I could do it…”

“Wanting to prove yourself doesn’t matter if you’re putting yourself in danger. Bravery doesn’t mean being reckless, Lucas. Do you understand that?” Bucky’s stern expression didn’t waver as he looked down at Lucas, still gripped by the terror of almost losing him.

Lucas’s shoulders slumped as the weight of his mistake settled over him like an unwelcome shadow. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and his voice broke in a whisper, “I’m really, really sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean for it to be this bad… I just didn’t think.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his face softening as he caught the guilt in Lucas’s tear-filled eyes. He let out a quiet, unsteady breath, the last of his anger dissolving like smoke. He pulled the boy into a fierce hug, an instinct older than words, holding him close as if, in that one embrace, he could keep the world and all its dangers at bay.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Lucas’s voice was muffled against Bucky’s chest, his small hands gripping Bucky’s shirt like it was his only tether to safety.

Bucky’s arms tightened around him, one hand moving up to cradle the back of Lucas’s head. “I know, kid. I know you didn’t mean it.” His voice was soft but steady, filled with something deeper than mere forgiveness.

He stroked Lucas’s back in slow, reassuring circles, feeling each shaky breath. “You scared me, you know? Really scared me.” The words were simple but carried a weight only Lucas could feel, pressing gently on his small shoulders.

Then, Bucky pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing a tear from Lucas’s cheek with his thumb. “Listen. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re already enough, just as you are. And I need you here with me. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

Lucas nodded, a fierce, wide-eyed sincerity in his gaze. “I promise.”

Bucky’s lips curled into a small, warm smile, and he ruffled Lucas’s hair gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Good. That’s my boy.”

There was a pause, a quiet weight to the moment. Then, Bucky gave Lucas’s shoulder a soft squeeze, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable note of resolve.

“Now,” he murmured, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes, “go apologize to your mom and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve given her enough to worry about for one day.”

× × × ×

The campfire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the clearing as the night deepened. The kids were finally asleep in their own tent, their quiet breaths rising and falling in a rhythm of exhaustion and dreams. You stayed by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself, lost in thought as you watched the flames dance.

Bucky came up behind you, draping a blanket over your shoulders and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, warmth spreading through you beyond the blanket.

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching for his hand. “For what you did for Lucas today.”

Bucky shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, settling down beside you. But as he looked into the fire, a quiet chuckle escaped him, his eyes crinkling with a mix of disbelief and something almost… tender.

You turned to him, curiosity in your gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still reflecting the firelight. “He called me ‘Dad,’” he said, voice soft with wonder.

You nodded, your own smile widening. “He did.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he leaned back. “Think that’s going to cost me the dad fee?”

You laughed, a warm sound that felt like it belonged to the night. Bucky grinned, clearly pleased to lighten the mood, and his hand found yours as the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling as the stars watched over.

After a moment, Bucky’s gaze softened, and he leaned in, closing the space between you with a look of pure adoration. His hand cradled your face as his lips brushed against yours, warm and lingering.

Just as you melted into the kiss, a small voice pierced the quiet.

“Oh, wow. Seriously? Now?”

You and Bucky broke apart to find Lucas standing outside his tent, hands on his hips and an exaggerated look of exasperation on his face. “Guys, it’s, like, bedtime. Some of us are trying to sleep here without… that in our minds.”

You stifled a laugh, and Bucky sighed, glancing at the sky as if asking for patience. “What do you need, kid?”

Lucas rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, I was going to the bathroom, but now I’m scarred for life. So thanks for that,” he added with a smirk, gesturing toward the trees. “I’ll be back—try to keep it PG, alright?”

With that, he turned and shuffled off, muttering loud enough for you to hear, “Can’t believe I had to see that.”

When he was out of earshot, Bucky shook his head, chuckling softly. “That kid…”

You bit back a grin, leaning into him with a sigh. “So, where were we?”

Bucky pulled you close, a smirk on his lips. “Somewhere between dad fees and permanent interruptions, I think.”

× × × ×

Back home a few days later.

It was a quiet evening, and Bucky had been waiting for the right moment, nerves humming beneath his calm exterior. Lucas was sprawled out on the living room floor, building a small LEGO fortress, completely focused. Bucky took a deep breath, gathering himself, and then sat down next to Lucas, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Hey, bud,” Bucky said softly, ruffling Lucas’s hair.

Lucas looked up, his face lighting up. “Hey, Bucky! Want to help me with the fortress? It’s almost done.”

Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe in a sec, kiddo. I actually wanted to talk to you about something… something important.”

“Okay… what’s up?” Lucas tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

Bucky took a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

“So… I’ve been thinking about your mom,” he began, his voice gentle. “She means everything to me, Lucas. You know that, right?”

Lucas nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, I know. She loves you, too.”

Bucky swallowed, his heart pounding a little harder as he reached out, resting a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Well, I was wondering… how would you feel if I asked her to marry me?”

Lucas’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open in surprise. He looked down, taking it in, before glancing back up at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.

“You mean… you’d be my dad?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of sass. “Like, officially? You’re not just trying to get a tax break or something, right?”

Bucky laughed, the tension easing out of him a bit. “No, not for a tax break, kid. I genuinely want to be there for you and your mom. I want us to be a family.”

Lucas stared at him for a long moment, his face scrunched up in thought. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, he said, “So… you’re asking me for permission? Wow, you must really like us.”

Bucky chuckled, ruffling Lucas’s hair again.

“Yeah, I am. It’s important to me that you’re okay with this. You’re the most important person in her life, and if we’re gonna be a family… I want you to know that you’re part of this decision.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, like he’d just been struck by the weight of Lucas’s words. For a moment, he could only stare, his heart swelling with an unexpected, overwhelming sense of joy. He felt a lump form in his throat, and before he could say anything, he pulled Lucas into a tight hug, holding him close.

Lucas’s face softened, and after a brief pause, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck in a tight hug.

"You don't have to ask," Lucas whispered, his sass melting to something sincere, "I already know you're my dad."

As he closed his eyes, a tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t care. “Thank you, Lucky,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “That means more than you know.”

When they finally pulled back, Lucas wiped his eyes, his grin returning with a mischievous edge. “But… you still have to do it right. Like, you know, get down on one knee and everything. And maybe a big sign that says, ‘Will you marry me?’ in case you mess up your words.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going all out. Your mom deserves the best.”

Lucas nodded, looking proud. “Good. She does. And you better not make her cry… unless they’re the good kind of tears. Otherwise, I’ll have to come after you.”

Bucky chuckled. “Only happy tears, kiddo. I promise.”

Lucas gave him a firm nod, his eyes sparkling. “Good then it’s settled. Now, are you going to help me finish this fortress, or are you too busy planning your big proposal?”

Bucky grinned, feeling the last of his nerves slip away as he settled beside Lucas, picking up a LEGO piece.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s finish this fortress. Gotta make sure it’s strong enough to withstand all the big plans I’m about to set in motion.”

Lucas gave a mock-serious nod. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want you bailing on me halfway through.”

Bucky chuckled, nudging him gently. “Hey, I’m in this for the long haul. Fortress-building included.”

They both settled back down to work, side by side, focused on finishing the fortress together, each piece clicking into place as easily as their bond had over time.

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peachesofteal · 23 days ago

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MELOS

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist / Melos masterlist

Azriel/female reader Part one of three (part two here) - 8.5k words - AO3

Tags: 18+ mdni. Torture scene, asphyxiation (not the sexy kind), angst. Azriel hates himself. Feelings of despair, fear, panic, longing. Amren uses "boy/girl" so I can too. Mention of spanking. Trauma. Post ACOSF, HOFAS, canon-compliant. Cassian is a meddler. Azriel doesn't like surprises.

In the woods just inside the confines of the Middle, Azriel finds a puzzle.

More aptly, Azriel finds you, bathed in the glow of the sunset, iridescent snowflakes from the first snow delicately falling to your shoulders, your hair, the tip of your nose.

There’s magic on the wind carrying your scent, something different he cannot place, tang of petrichor sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Strange, beautiful creature, the shadows whisper. He’s inclined to agree.

Strange indeed.

For a moment, he thinks of Bryce. He remembers her entrance into this world, her stories of her home, things both he and Nesta have no concept of. The star on her chest.

She is of no threat to us.

That’s not for you to decide.

He slips into the caliginous wisp curling around his shoulders, a shroud of darkness allowing him a closer look, just as a persistent huff at the edge of his mind pulls his attention.

Where are you?

Working.

Working where?

South. There’s a snort.

One-word answers, how sufficient. You’re not a pariah. Come home.

Once I’m finished.

The conversation eclipses his focus until you slip on the frozen riverbank and he tenses, gaze swinging to where you’ve caught yourself with a squeak, one hand behind your back, palm slicked with mud.

His wall falls entirely, distracted, and Rhys' curiosity piques.

Who is that?

No one. I’ll report to you later. With that, the conversation ceases, Azriel’s walls of tenebrific smoke rising to block out the irritated hiss of his brother.

The edge of the Middle is considered somewhat safe, though not without risk, a perplexing fact that spurs him closer for a better look as you rise from the river, frozen blades of glass crunching under the sole of your boot. Your ears are pointed, limbs elongated, both markers of High Fae, but something unknown still lingers, a natural, earth rich sillage left in your wake. Your hips swing from the effort of pushing up the bank, backpack in hand, and the sway distracts him. It’s hard to ignore the shape of you, the weight of your breasts, the pert bow of your top lip. Gods, at full height, you barely reach his shoulders, and his body reacts in a way that’s out of his control.

Rhys’ warning is ice between his ears, a wound still fresh even though it's old. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.

He’s long let her go, but the command from his brother still sits bitterly in his stomach, along with untended desire. That's all this is, misplaced salacity.

Still, even your calves draw his eye.

Lovely little female, the shadows croon. He grits his teeth and falls into step behind you, cautiously allowing inky tendrils to sprawl across bramble laced ground. One licks too close, just barely caressing the edge of your heel, and you freeze.

So does he. An unnatural stillness falls over the wood, culminating into a quiet so loud it shatters as you fix wary eyes on the space where he stands. He holds his breath, ice crystal laden cirrus clouds parting overhead, drawing back the curtain on a star filled night sky, silver light shimmering across fallen leaves.

The night's splendor shines on you like a blessing from the Mother herself.

You blink, lips parted, quizzical, anxious expression bringing your brows together. “Hello?”

You can’t… you can’t see him, can you?

Your reaction puzzles him. How is it you are out here, in the Middle, so brazenly, so recklessly, calling out to a place filled with such sinister, monstrous magic and monsters?

You tilt your face to the break in the clouds, downy white snowflakes sticking to your eyelashes and dotting your cheeks in such a way it’s seraphic. The shadows, his shadows, vibrate with frenetic, enchanted energy.

Beautiful, they coo as they reach for you, nearly finding the bend of your neck before he snaps them away.

You shift the backpack hung from your shoulders and take one last look around, confused, until you shake your head, spinning on your heel to head into the forest. The urge to follow you is too great, your presence here is now a riddle requiring answers, if not for his own curiosity, then for the safety of the Night Court, his family. Who knows who you are, what you are, what your business is in this place-

Shadowsinger. Nuala’s whisper halts his pursuit. The fox is here with news of Koschei.

With one more long look at your retreating back, he reluctantly steps into a pocket of a shadow, leaving the Middle and its new mystery for another time. Soon.

Azriel does not like surprises.

In fact, he prides himself on rarely ever being surprised, at least in Velaris.

So to stumble upon you at the Palace of Bone and Salt, to see you in the midday sun, boots and muddied cloak replaced by a plum stained linen dress, hair pinned up in various places off your neck and holding a large canvas bag at your side, stops him in his tracks. He falls behind Cassian and Nesta without a single word, slowing his steps to mimic how you drift through the stalls and storefronts, nodding and smiling to others as if you belong here. As if this is your home. The wary look in your eyes from the other day has been replaced by a radiant, celestial glimmer, one drawing those around you closer, and something squeezes around his heart at the sight.

Our sweet girl.

Stop it.

“Az?” Nesta turns, noticing his absence, Cassian following suit almost immediately.

“Sorry,” he replies smoothly, running a hand down the buttons of his shirt. Even from paces away, the scent of your skin fills his nostrils, dampened wood from rain and freshly fallen fruit. Foolishly, his gaze lingers too long, long enough his brother notices, and breaks out a broad grin.

“See something you like?”

Cassian plants himself directly in your path, pretending to look on absentmindedly, perusing a stall piled with fresh cuts of meats. You try to move around him, but the flow of bodies stalls your momentum, and you nearly trip over your feet, giving Cassian an opportunity to reach out and steady you.

“I’m sorry!” You grip the straps of your bag, righting yourself after recovering from the stumble, and Azriel closes his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his brow.

“That’s alright. I’m Cassian,” he grins, extending his hand. There isn't a male, female, or child in this place that does not know them, but the introduction is polite, at the bare minimum. At its depth, it's a way for his some time insufferable brother to stick his nose in a place it doesn't belong, and when you don’t reciprocate, he breezes right past, ignoring the awkwardness of your refusal. “This is Nesta, and Azriel.” Azriel inclines his head, and you look from Cassian to him, before settling on Nesta.

Most in Velaris look away from Nesta, like they’re staring at a star so bright it hurts their eyes, but not you. You meet her head on, studying curiously, and her lips quirk to the side in a barely-there smile.

“Ignore him. He’s an oaf sometimes.” She playfully nudges Cassian with an elbow, and you relax slightly. His brother doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone however, and clears his throat.

“This is the part where you tell us your name. It’s customary.” You’re taken aback for a second, a micro-expression of unease no one else tracks save for himself before recovering with a tepid smile.

Your name rings like a bell, a chime of music, strings and key perfectly played in harmony. The shadows sigh.

“Do you live around here?” Cassian pushes, and teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“Yes, I- I work at Moonflower.”

“The apothecary?”

“That’s the one.”

“Maybe we’ll see you there sometime. Nesta’s always in need of a new elixir.” She raises a brow at her mate, who flashes Azriel a mischievous smirk.

“Oh, I work in the back.”

“You’re the apothecary.” They're the first words he's said to you, and they're wrong. They slip off his tongue too cold, too calculated, and he doesn't miss the way you frown in confusion.

“I’m an alchemist, but… yes.” Your voice is a shade above a whisper, quiet beneath the bustle of the market, and his eyes meet yours, circling in your inescapable gaze like a spider in a web. Cassian coughs, breaking his reverie. “I uh… I should get going, I’ve got a lot of work to do. It was nice to meet you all.” He wants to disappear into the crowd of the market after you, but he dreads the weight it would carry with his brother, the unrelenting questioning and pestering it would produce.

“You too!” Cassian hollers, and then faces him with a wide grin. “Well, she’s-“ Nesta smacks the middle of his chest, and Azriel glowers.

“Don’t.”

He finds you again in the Middle, same backpack and boots, diligently picking through a patch of chartreuse moss. He swallows his scowl. Why are you out here alone, again? It frustrates him. Why put yourself in such danger?

He's struck by a fantasy, one of you with your pants pulled down your ankles and bent over his knees, sweet cries filling the room as you take your punishment for such recklessness, his open palm raining smack after smack down onto your ass.

Madness. He shakes the vision away, coming to stand at your side.

“Hello.” You whirl, startled like a rabbit.

Nice, the shadows groan, and his wings flex.

“H-hi.” Music again, a melody on the breeze, and shadows flutter around his shoulders, scrawling across the ground to where you kneel. He orders them back, wielding a sharp-edged command that cuts, but they stray farther, stretching for you, carefully floating across your forearms.

He’s stunned, briefly, and then gathers his wits, yanking them away. They’ve never, never behaved this way. Born for him from desolation, tamed from darkness incarnate, he’s shaped them into obedient spies, tools spread across Prythian, ethereal wisps capable of things others cannot comprehend. Always in service, always compliant.

You look up with a little bit of wonder in your eyes, pretty little smile tugging at your mouth. He should say something reassuring, something kind or friendly to ease you, but such sentiment fails him, and he scowls, snapping at you instead. “Why are you out here by yourself?” Your face falls, effectively chastised like a child who’s been caught in a cookie jar.

“I’m… I need things. Ingredients.”

“And you need to come out here to get them?”

“The plant life is more vibrant here, more uh, c-concentrated? The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…”

“The Middle is a dangerous place.” He replies flatly.

“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.” You glance at your bag at the edge of the clearing, eager for an escape he imagines, though he’s not willing to let you go.

“You’re quite far from Velaris.” You nod, but offer no explanation, and he raises an eyebrow.

“I winnowed.” You rock back on your heels and stand, shuffling closer to your backpack. He doesn’t move to stop you, just stands in the center of the moss patch, studying your every move. “I've got to get back,” you explain, offering him a nervous smile, one he doesn’t deserve, or return. You wilt.

It strikes a chord in the pit of his stomach, and in a last-minute moment of weakness, he sends a shadow to ride the coattails of your winnow, issuing a stark warning to reaffirm the mission.

Observe and report to me. Do not make yourself known.

Always.

Our sweet looks beautiful tonight, the shadows report in a whirlwind of excitement, and he pauses mid cut as the male in front of him whimpers, twisting, trying break free from the chains.

That is not worthy of a report. He blatantly ignores the possessiveness, the pet name. For now.

She’s going to Rita’s with a friend. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Her dress is blue. Cobalt.

Why are you reporting this?

We’re acting as instructed.

This is a futile information, he chastises, and the answer is resounding silence as he shakes his shoulders and turns back to his prey, the crying, bloody Fae strung up by his wrists.

“Where were we?”

Outside of Rita’s, Azriel lurks in darkness.

His family is inside, unaware he’s in the alley, tucked away from prying eyes. He’s freshly showered, blood scrubbed out from beneath his fingernails, blackened door in his mind firmly shut and locked away, just like its twin in the dungeon.

It’s been too long since he’s gone out, always choosing to slink away just before the conversations turn to plans, separating himself from Mor, and Elain, distancing himself from scrutiny or worse, pity.

Tonight, he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t shake the idea of you here, so close, so tangible.

He slides from the shadowed pocket, and Fae step around him, eyes going wide and inclining their heads as a sign of respect.

Respect. A joke. The city cannot fathom what he has done in his lifetime, and if they did, respect would be the furthest thing from their mind.

He dons his mask, cold indifference, severe gaze, and slips inside.

Cassian knows he’s here before he’s in view. A brother’s intuition, an instinct that has served them well in battle and elsewhere, since they were young.

Tonight, he greets Azriel with a wide, knowing grin, dragging his gaze to the other side of the room and Azriel has no choice but to follow, spotting the obvious immediately.

You.

You’re perched at a table, legs crossed, smiling, laughing, holding a too full glass of wine. The dress is cobalt blue silk, delicate lace stitched on the hem, thin straps exposing your neck, your clavicle, your back. For a moment, he imagines his mouth on those places, he dreams about what you might taste like, how smooth you’d be against him, the contrast of his ruined hands and your satin skin.

His cock throbs, sense and composure momentarily slipping away before he regains control.

The shadows sigh. Our beautiful girl.

Stop calling her that.

Why? She is beautiful. And she is ours.

“Az!” Feyre is delighted, trying to wave him over. He’s always had a soft spot for his High Lady, endlessly impressed by her resilience, her love and commitment to both his brother and the Night Court, her kindness. “It’s been so long,” she teases as he slides into the seat at her left, pointedly ignoring Cassian’s smug expression.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work.”

“We miss you. You haven’t been at dinner in weeks.”

“It’s true,” Mor says softly at the other side of the table, brows creased in concern. He gives her a small, reassuring smile, one he hopes conveys the truth. It’s not your fault. She visibly relaxes.

“So, Az,” Cassian stretches, too big for the booth, arm coming around Nesta and tugging her close. “What brings you out this evening?” Fucking. Hel.

“I’ve missed you all.” It’s not a lie, not exactly, even if he’s been keeping his distance, it doesn’t change how he feels about his family, how he loves them in his own way. How it’s easier sometimes, to love others from afar, how envy has infected his lungs and every time he takes a breath, he wonders why the Cauldron chose not to give him what his brothers have. A bond. Love.

At night, when he’s alone in his bed, he accepts the truth, the reality of being unworthy, of being a bastard, of being malevolent and repulsive. It was so easy with Mor, to long for someone so beautiful, so close to his heart but still unattainable, to dream of himself as a male one could love, could be proud of, a love who would choose him, again and again, even if it wasn’t true. Even if he knew for a long time, it would never be true. A fantasy like Mor is an easy escape from the nightmare in his head.

And Elain. Elain. A vision with big doe eyes and caramel hair, a beautiful girl whose life was lost, and a new, confusing one was born in its place.

A perfect obsession.

She too, was a dream. Something to cling in the longest hours of the night when sleep wouldn’t come.

But he was a monster, and he was undeserving.

Not true.

Feyre catches his eye and gives him a warm, knowing look. “I’m happy to see you.”

“As I am you.”

You’re drunk.

He doesn’t need the shadows to confirm it, it’s clear from across the room. You teeter on the edge of the stool, giggling, radiant in the wash of dim lighting.

He’s not the only one who notices. Around you, other males watch from the corner of their eye, letting their gazes sweep from head to toe, lingering too long on your breasts, the curve of your waist. A male brushes his hand across your shoulder, another offers to buy you a drink. Rage curls in his stomach, jealously flooding his veins with vigor.

They’re touching her. The shadows are frustrated, hissing and snapping angrily, rattling around him like a black cloud.

I know.

His teeth might shatter from the amount of pressure coming from his clenched jaw.

The male following you out the side door at the end of your evening is the straw that snaps him in half. He abandons the table, his family, slipping away into the crowd as Feyre calls his name.

“Let him go.” Cassian rumbles on the last wind of a chuckle, and he loses the parting words as he pushes the door wide, cool Velaris air stinging his cheeks.

“No need to run off.” The male’s arm is slung around your waist, your face twisted into a sour swirl of intoxication and discomfort. Incendiary anger licks up his spine, flames violent and desperate to lash out. "Let's go back inside, have another drink."

“No,” you straighten, but both Azriel and offending male catch the liquored wobble in your voice as you hold your jacket to your chest. “No, thank you.” He tugs you closer.

“Come on, I can-“ It’s all Azriel can stand. He’s gone in one moment and by your side the next, fingers digging into the male’s arm.

“She said no.” You look up into his face, eyes wide and unfocused, but he doesn’t miss the way you relax with relief, like you’re happy he’s here. Happy, an emotion rarely felt by those who encounter the Spymaster, happy like you’re soothed by his presence. It’s unfamiliar to him, just another suprise dealt by your hand. The male’s eyes go comically wide, blood draining from his face, sputtering something Azriel is deaf to. He's too focused on the pulse rapidly fluttering beneath your jaw. “Are you alright?”

“I’m… yes.” You lurch, half stepping back, half stumbling, and he steadies you. When you don't pull away, the shadows chirp.

“You’re drunk.”

“Yup.” You punctuate the single syllable with a hiccup, inky tendrils curling around your wrist, petting, soothing. He braces for your fear, the uptick in your heartbeat, shallow respirations, but they don’t come.

You giggle instead.

The shadows preen and purr with glee. Our girl.

His shreds of control are slowly slipping away, deteriorating in your presence, and he lets the mask fall away to reveal a small smile. You suck in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?” You nod rapidly, but your balance is still askew. “You’re too drunk to winnow.”

“I wasn’t going to. I live a few blocks that way.” You nod to the east and then pivot to the west, unsure. “Or that way. I’ll know once I get to the street.” He frowns.

“You’ll walk?”

“Well, yes. That’s what those of us do if we don’t have those.” You point at his wings, gaze lingering before you look away sheepishly.

“I’ll walk you.” You blink, surprised, confused, just as he is. The words were not planned, they appeared, conjured from the cold air, pushed from his mouth by some unknown force.

There’s a twist beneath his ribs, a small piece of him rapidly stretching and spreading, pulling him apart to make more room.

“What? I- I can walk fine, I’m fine.”

“It’s cold.” His voice is soft, softer than he’s ever heard, and it must be enough to quiet your protests, because you purse your lips and relent with a sigh.

“Alright then.”

It’s odd, to want to know another, to want to understand another outside his family. This throbbing ache, freshly blooming in your presence, is different compared to the festering desiderium he’s held for Mor, for Elain, the pining turned fetid, foul in its taste across his tongue, infatuation, obsession, anything to avoid focusing on the darkness constantly closing in around him, the black tar filling his lungs, drowning him. He was born, molded, embraced by the bleakest parts of this realm, and there’s not enough water in it to douse the rage and disgust burning in his soul. His people are monsters, and so shall he be.

The shame of it all, punctuated by his infatuation with Elain, the necklace debacle, is fire in his veins, but the iridescent halo shining onto your shoulders from your porch light quells it somehow, gentles the heat. “How often do you visit the Middle?”

You give him a sheepish look. “Often, lately. I’ve lost my main supplier.”

“Why is that?” The Sidra saturates the breeze, briny and sweet, teasing your dress into a flutter at your knees, his shadows hovering over your skin, craving to cloak you in their darkness, shield you from wandering eyes.

“Most of my plants and powders come from the Spring Court, and I can’t really afford the… inflation.” Inflation is a polite way to put it. Tensions between Spring and Night have resulted in rising costs of goods, and total derailment of trade in some cases.

She’s worried her words offend you.

“That’s understandable.” He tames his voice, and your shoulders relax by a fraction. “Still, it is a long way from home, if anything were to happen.” An understatement. The Middle holds horrors most cannot comprehend, wicked creatures that would love nothing more than to prey on and devour something as lovely as you. He still cannot wrap his head around the fact that you frequent it in the first place. Even the bravest, strongest of Prythian do not.

“I can handle myself.” He wants to protest, wants to ask if you truly know what lurks in there. “Mostly.” You add as an afterthought, little hiccup, little giggle, fingers fumbling for the door handle. The hair on the back of his neck stands stiff.

“Mostly?”

“It’s not like I haven’t run into trouble,” you’re vague, shrugging it off, and his gut clenches.

“What kind of trouble?” The breeze turns to wind that whips, cold with the sting of frost.

And then you roll your eyes.

It’s so… bratty. His wings twitch, lightning rolling through membrane like a storm on the sea.

Wild one, the shadows chirp.

Too wild, maybe. “How old are you?” You lift your chin with a sniff.

“One hundred and two.” So young.

The High Lady just turned twenty-three, the shadows remind him drily.

Fair.

“So… did you walk me all the way home to hold me hostage on my front step in the cold?” His laugh is a surprise. It comes deep from his chest, a genuine rumble in his ribs, more authentic than the half smiles and nods he’s been giving others for years.

“If I was holding you hostage, you’d know.” He murmurs, stepping into your space, tracking the dilation of your pupils, the quiver in your bottom lip. Normally, these reactions would insinuate fear, but you don’t smell of it. You smell like desire, like you’d succumb to him, bend for him, arch for him. “Are you cold?” Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders and down your arms, and he dips close, closer than he has any right to. He has no right to you. No right to such a strange, beautiful creature, a mystery by all standards. He who deals in death, who poisons all he touches, would stain you. He'd drag his scarred, marbled fingers under your silk dress and taint you.

“Y-yes.” He catches the scent then, the damp foliage from fresh rain crushed under heel, soaked moss at the roots of an ancient tree. It jolts him back to reality, mask settling into its rightful place across his face.

“What are you?”

“What?”

“You’re High Fae… but there’s something else.” Hesitance flickers in your eyes, and you pull away, creating distance. Good. He needs it. You confuse him, cloud his judgement, sowing uncertainty he’s not used to.

And every time he looks at you, his chest aches.

“Nothing important.” He cocks his head.

“Is that so?” You shrug.

“I’m a half-breed.” He hides his disgust at the term, but it doesn’t change the rage it ignites, the disdain.

“Half what?”

She barely knows you; she has no reason to trust you, the shadows sulk, unhappy with the turn of events as you take the last stair and open your door, turning to for one last look at him.

“I’m not a threat, Azriel.”

Truth.

“Any news?”

“No.” The silence is long suffering, and after he offers nothing further, Rhys sighs.

“Azriel-“

“I have work in Dawn this coming week, leaving tomorrow. I expect to be gone for a full seven, even eight days. I’ll report back once I’m home.”

“Okay.” Azriel’s shield is wall of shadow impenetrable by most, and even though the relationship between them is strained, his brother would never force his way into his mind.

If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. Or maybe be would.

He was given an order; orders are meant to be followed, something Rhys’ own father instilled in him early on, and though it's been months, it's still too bitter in the back of his throat. Rhys’ father ordered him. Often. Treated him as one would treat an object to be used, a weapon to wield. Azriel was defined by the shadows, for his usefulness, not for who he truly was.

He had never been on the receiving end of this manner of treatment from Rhys, and he could not deny that he had trouble stomaching it.

“Where have you been staying? Your townhouse?” He schools his features, smothering the annoyance at what he knows must be common conversation between his brothers.

They’re worried about you. Cassian misses you at the House of Wind.

We’ve cohabited for over five hundred years; some distance is not going kill him.

“Yes, wanted to give Cass and Nesta some space.” The lie is as flimsy as they come, because he doesn’t care. He needs space. “They’re quite loud.” That isn’t a lie, at least. Rhys studies him.

“Where are you, Az?” It's not a literal question. He and his brother share many things, but the strongest strings are knotted tight around each other’s darkness, bonds forged in agony, in rage, in revenge. There are parts, pieces of each other that match, heinous, wrathful pieces hidden away but never healed. When Rhys asks where he is, it’s to know how deep he is in the gloom that never leaves.

“I’m here.” It’s short, be he cannot give anything more. Cannot give more to the High Lord, Rhys, his brother, the one he has given everything to. The one he has been most loyal to above all. The one who would treat him now, as his father did.

He pities Rhys, in a way, something he’s never held for him in the past, but now… now is different. Rhys is different, his stakes have never been higher. A mate, a son, a realm on his shoulders, he's struggling, in his own way, and the collected High Lord is few and far between these days, in his place a reactive, high-strung male he doesn’t always recognize. He’s not sure Rhys recognizes himself either.

“You won’t get too far?” At the root of it, no matter how turbulent this time between them may be, the bond of brotherhood is the strongest of them all, holds them fast to one another, keeps them close, even if one strays.

And so, Azriel assures him, the words gritted through his teeth. His rage is a tangible thing, a living breathing thing but no matter how angry he may be, Rhys is still his brother, even in these iterations. The realm changes, scales tipping back and forth, but the brothers remain steadfast through times of peace and battle. “I won’t.”

He’s to leave for Dawn this afternoon, but for some reason, he finds himself at Moonflower’s front door.

It’s early, half of Velaris still waking up, and the shop is clearly closed, though it doesn’t matter to him. He knows you’re here, sodden gorse and peeled bark drifting on the morning breeze from a large back window. For some unknown reason, it soothes him to know it, to be able to account for your whereabouts.

He pulled his shadows back from surveillance, convinced he would leave you alone, let this rest-

but he still flew here this morning.

It bothers him, this magnetism, the draw towards your presence.

You’re a mystery needing to be solved, that’s all.

“Shadowsinger,” your head cocks. “What brings you here so early?”

“I wanted to ensure you won’t be visiting the Middle this week.” Your brows knit together.

“I uh… no. I won’t need to go for another two weeks, I think.”

“I’ll accompany you next time.” His patience with this situation is wearing thin, but his agitation with himself spills out onto you.

“That’s not-“

“It’s not a request. You’re endangering the Night Court.” You smother a flinch.

“I’m not, I swear, I’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”

“That remains to be seen.” He’s the Spymaster now, cold and unfeeling, but you’re still not scared. “Your refusal to disclose what makes up the other part of the half-breed in you is reason enough.” He uses the term as a weapon, and it hits his target, as always. Azriel never misses. You wince, glancing down at the floor, shoulders slumping a tad before you right yourself. The barb stings because like Rhys, like Mor’s mother and countless others, you’ve faced the abuse, the vitriol, the torment from those who would crush you beneath their feet if they could.

It hurts, a whip lashing across his cheek, bleeding him for the pain he’s causing you. A consequence, another mark on his soul. You lift your face again, the emotion gone, and you nod.

“Okay then.” An overwhelming urge to reach for you comes over him, to tug you into his chest and shield you with his wings, hide you away from all the ugly, terrifying things in this world-

Including himself.

He shoves it to the side, buries it where it belongs, where the light doesn't touch, and nods. “I’ll be away this week but when I return, I’ll come by.”

He doesn’t say goodbye, and smothers the urge to get one last glimpse of you, even though he wants to.

There’s dirt beneath your fingernails.

You’ve been digging around in the same riverbed for almost an hour now, rifling through rocks and silt, bottom half of your body soaked and muddy, again. “There we are,” you murmur plucking an iridescent onyx stone from the marl and placing it in your bag.

He has… so many questions.

And he’s afraid to admit to himself he finds you… enchanting. Clever, beautiful, kind. He wants more, wants to soak you up, dance to the harmony of your voice.

Ask, the shadows encourage. Talk to her.

He’s been standing on the bank a few paces away for some time now, leaving you to your foraging, but never letting you get too far away. You haven’t said more than ten words to him, and he hasn’t pushed you. The disgrace of the last time the two of you spoke still weighs heavily on his shoulders, another tally in a long list of transgressions.

Try.

“How does it work?” Your head snaps up.

“What do you mean?”

“Your work. Moonflower sells elixirs and potions, but they’re an apothecary, and you’re an alchemist.”

“Well, I am an apothecary too. Contraceptive tea doesn’t make itself,” you give him a mischievous smile before turning serious. “Magic binds better to precious metals. I transmute and mix them together, then pair them with salts or chemical compounds found in herbs and plants. One complements or enhances the other.”

“You’re putting metal in them?” You shake your head.

“No, I extract the minerals from the metal after transmutation and infuse the elixirs. I can make everything from contraceptive tea to…” You trail off, lips pressing into a thin line.

“To?”

“Poison. Faebane.” He hears your heart flutter, pulse ratcheting upward as you give him a cautious look, and every muscle in his body tenses.

“Who do you make it for?”

“I’m not sure, I received an ongoing order request signed and sealed by the High Lord years ago, and I’ve been producing it ever since.” You stand, brushing your hands off on your thighs, mud caked in the lines of your palms, head tipped back to peer at him. “It’s picked up by one of the Wraith sisters each month.”

Does she know? The shadows don’t answer.

“I like them,” you continue, making your way up the bank, “Cerridwen even gifted me a hooded shawl last Solstice. It’s beautiful. I wear it often.”

“I see.”

“I think the Faebane is for the Spymaster,” you peek at him coyly, mouth quirked to the side in a small smile. “Who is also the Shadowsinger, right?” He fights to his expression neutral.

“You know.”

Of course she does. Our sweet is very clever.

“I thought… maybe. I wasn’t sure.” He’s beginning to worry about your instincts. First, he discovers you’re spending time out here in the Middle, alone, and now, he learns you’ve suspected he’s the Spymaster, Rhys’ torturer, this whole time.

“It doesn’t concern you?” He blurts, incredulous. You should fear him. You should be terrified and disgusted. You should be smart enough to recognize his rotten, tainted soul.

“No. I make poison, after all.” You shrug. “I don’t make judgements of others.” Guilt twists like a knife.

“What I said the other day, about being a half-breed…” You wave your hand, trying to brush him off.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not, the shadows hiss. You hurt her.

He pulls up short, turning to face you. “It was cruel, and I am sorry for it.” He’s locked in your gaze, the rest of the woods, this place, Prythian disappearing as he loses himself in you. He hears it again, the mellifluous harmony of a grand orchestra, notes and chords playing together in an intoxicating paragon, richer, more potent than any wine, each one building upon the other, creating a song that draws him in, urges him to reach for you, cup your face and hold you there so he can memorize every refraction of light in the kaleidoscope of your eyes. “I-“

“It’s okay,” your hand brushes his, and he tenses, preparing for the recoil, the disgust, but it never comes. Your touch is gentle, fingers slipping between his, silk on scars sliding together seamlessly. He wants to push you away, wants to tell you not to touch him because you’ll dirty yourself. He’s a monster and you’re something else, something winsome and full of wonder, something not for him. “I forgive you.” You forgive him. He almost laughs at the absurdity. Forgiveness, as if that’s something he could ever earn, as if there was a way to seek and find it. As if he even wants it.

From many it would mean nothing but from you… it’s different. It's a balm, cool water over a burn, sunlight shining down on him in a dungeon.

You don’t look away, and you don’t let go. You hold him there, in front of you, gentle and patient, but unyielding. The throbbing ache that’s become ever present beneath his ribs grows, and it drags him close, a magnetic pull he can’t fly away from leading him straight to you. It’s a power strong enough it could bring him to his knees at your feet, his entire existence whittling down to the sound of your breathing as he carefully cradles your face.

“Azriel,” your whisper is music, heartbreakingly beautiful, a hauntingly familiar melody he may have been hearing all his life and had been none the wiser to. A siren's song on the sea. Captivating. Intoxicating. He strokes his thumb across your cheek and falls away into it, pressing his mouth to yours, drinking you in. The kiss is careful at first, a delicate question posed between two with one waiting for an answer, and when it comes, it comes with a symphony, ambrosian and endless, unleashing a warmth unlike he’s ever felt through his chest. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be marring you like this, staining you, but he cannot stop, and when you tug him close, lips parting to allow his tongue past your teeth and find yours, you cling to him, the purr of a whimper building in your throat.

What is he doing? He's snapped out of the spell. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you turn your attention to your bag, mindlessly fidgeting with the collection of flora and rock in the bottom, avoiding his eyes. Embarrassed. Shamed by him, rejected by him.

No! the shadows lament. “We should keep going, if you have more things to find?” You nod, looking past him towards the woods.

“Right, yeah.”

“Your dagger is loud, by the way.” It's the first thing you've said in thirty minutes, and it's strange, like you.

“What?”

“The dagger,” you motion to where Truth-Teller is strapped to his thigh, “it’s magic is loud. I can’t imagine what I’d find if I-“ Something cracks in the woods to the north, far enough away to echo, close enough to raise his hackles, spread his wings, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you into his side. The forest groans, turning malicious, wicked power crawling through the brush towards the river.

Leave. He curls a wing around you as a shield.

“What-“

“We’re leaving.” There have been lesson learned here, too many times, and he’s not about to risk you. He conjures a pocket, a corner of star flecked shadow, and tugs you into it, leaving the Middle behind.

He decides to sleep at the House of Wind.

It’s a shield, a technique to combat his desire to be close you. If he’s close to Cassian, to Nesta, if he’s here, he’s not there, with you, where he dropped you off at your doorstep, where the two of you lingered before you disappeared into the house. He’s not battling his instincts, his need to sit on the roof and keep watch.

He’s here instead. Where he should be.

Cassian grins from his spot on the couch at the sight of him, Nesta casually looking up from her book. “Out with your witch again?” He pulls up short, blood turning frigid, freezing through the veins in his wings all the way to his heart. “You didn’t know?” Cassian’s head swings towards her.

“I thought we discussed waiting for proof, Nes.” Azriel shoots him a murderous glare.

“Having discussions about my life, then?” It’s a small rock in an ocean at this moment, but it adds fuel to the roaring fire of rage curdling his stomach. Nesta raises an eyebrow.

“No,” his brother protests, “I thought- Nesta suspected something, but I didn’t want to tell you until we knew without a doubt.” He emphasizes the last few words, and she shrugs.

“She’s a witch, or at least, partially. The power is unmistakable. She has that smell, too. Old trees.” She's lost for a second, in a memory, silver fire crackling and then gone, and he knows she knows, where you've been, where he's followed. You don't just smell of old trees, you smell like the Middle.

The shadows coil around his shoulders, peeking out at Nesta like she’s personally offended them.

It’s not what you think.

You knew? And kept this from me?

He’s rarely, if ever, is so irascible, but this information ignites an anger so fierce his siphons hiss and glow cobalt blue, power straining against his control, desperate to be unleashed.

“What are you going to do?” Cassian shouts at his retreating back, and he caresses Truth-Teller’s hilt.

“Find out for myself.”

Your words pound in his head like a drum.

“The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…”

“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.”

His mind spins as he flies through the night, shooting across the sky fast enough for the wind to prickle at his cheeks. A witch.

Witches are dangerous creatures. They’re power hungry, desperate to collect as much magic as this realm will allow, and then use it as they see fit, whether it be for good deeds, or evil ones. This unpredictability combined with their thirst for young blood, a compulsion fueled by the corrupted core of their stolen magic, makes them a threat.

Makes you a threat.

Your house is small, but comfortable. A narrow townhome nestled in a row of others with wide plank wooden floors and variations of dark colored paint on the walls, cozy and calm. Bookshelves overflowing, large worn velvet couch, bundles of herbs on your living room table, in your kitchen. You have an assortment of mugs, mismatched wine glasses and china, clothes haphazardly draped over chairs. To someone who doesn’t know you, it would seem messy, but to him, it’s fitting. It makes sense.

It's the only thing that makes sense in this moment. The rest of it, his ignorance, the disobedience of the shadows, his blindness, all bear down upon him. He failed to recognize a threat to this Court, his family, he allowed himself to be distracted, again, by a female, he succumbed to an enchantment, a bewitching. The strange pull he felt towards you, the music in his head, the throbbing behind his ribs, all a spell set upon him, by you.

You’re stunning in your sleep. Wrapped in sweet dreams, lashes feathered against your skin, rolled onto your side. You’re only wearing a nightshirt and underwear, the curve of your hip visible from where your sheets are half kicked off. Lovely.

He lets you linger in a last moment of peace. If you wake before he’s ready, he doesn’t know what magic he’ll face, what creature he’ll truly encounter, and he wants to hold onto to this, to you, before it all changes.

He brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers and that thing inside him weeps, something agonizing trying to claw its way forward, but he buries it deep.

By the time you’re awake, it’s too late.

“Azriel?” Your voice is weak, confused, and you blink blearily at your surroundings, stone wall, stone floor, small light at the roof of the chamber that’s too far away. He keeps the space lit by fae lights instead, flickering and low, illuminating the space just enough to see him, and a table in the corner.

You're trapped in Faebane cuffs and chained to the floor. Fragile, weakened by your own creation.

When you become fully aware of your surroundings, you thrash, fear thundering in your heart. “What is this?”

“Thought you might like to see how the product of your hard work is used.” You tug at the cuffs to no avail, and then look up at him with eyes so sad, so frightened, it stops him in his tracks.

Why does this feel so wrong?

Think, Shadowsinger. The shadows beg but he banishes them, still enraged by their betrayal.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” He shrugs. Casual indifference, cold regard. The Spymaster, the torturer.

“No?”

“I haven’t done anything, I haven’t, I swear.” He bends shadow over your eyes, marring your sight, plunging you into darkness and you gasp, twisting and turning, looking for the light you won’t find. “S-stop.”

“You’ve been keeping something from me, haven’t you, little half-breed?” He mocks you with it, drenches it in disdain, and you shake your head weakly.

“I haven’t… I swear, I ju-just wasn’t ready-“

“To tell me you’re a witch?”

“I’m not!” You cry, and he covers your mouth with insidious tendrils, cutting off your airway. You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and your panic is ripe, flooding the room, its acrid scent making him nauseous.

The gag holds for a minute or two, and when he releases, you slump over, gasping. Truth-Teller burns in his hold.

“Tell the truth, and it’s over.” Please.

“There’s n-nothing to tell.” Frustrations mounts and he cuts you off, this time for longer, long enough he registers the slowing of your heart, the lack of tone in your muscles. Shadows wrap around your throat, pressing on your windpipe so hard you’re whistling, slow leak of air turned tea kettle as you try to breathe.

He allows you a moment, and then resumes, pushing you to the edge, walking a slow, measured circle around you like a wolf stalking prey. There’s a pull deep inside him, something tugging at him, a desperate plea he does not understand.

Please. Stop this.

He releases, you relent. Finally. “It’s my mother,” you rasp, tongue darting out to lick your lips, “she- it was her. She was a witch, and my father is Hi-gh Fae. He had an affair, and then banished her to the Middle. It’s wh-where I was born. Everyone would b-be so afraid of me if they knew, but I’m not- I’m not a witch. I’m ju-ust a half-breed." You’re sobbing now, each heave increasing the agony inside him, broken, raw sound echoing throughout the chamber. His mother’s face flashes in his mind and his stomach flips as he breaks out in a cold sweat. “I use that side of my to make things. Th-the alchemy, that’s all it’s good for. It’s not even that strong, I swear.”

Truth.

It’s all truth. Every word. Every broken, desperate, frightened word.

He is a fool.

He pulls the shadows from your face and you stare at the floor, small against the stone until you finally look up at him, cheeks soaked, eyes-

Something snaps.

Threads of brilliant cobalt blue spin from him, each string plucked in celestial succession to create perfect harmony, and the shadows sing. They sing for you, they sing to you, they sing the song he should have known all along. They sing of the path laid before him, the bridge that would carry him to you, the chords and notes coming together in a crescendo of souls, a blazing bond sealed by fate.

Mates.

The threads stretch and strain, the music rising, but your side, your part, is missing. It’s dark, thickened by bramble and bracken, sharps and flats, lost to him in this moment.

This moment, where he has broken you. Tortured you.

He feels it all. Your terror, the agony. The sense of hopelessness overflowing and soaking the threads.

“I-“ He falls to his knees, shadows twisting around the cuffs to unlock them, “I’m sorry.” You’re trembling, curling in on yourself and he wants so badly to pull you into his arms, to hold you close, wrap himself around you and beg for forgiveness. He wants to promise he’ll protect you; he’ll care for you; he’ll keep you safe. He’ll be worthy of you. He’ll fix this.

But how can he after what has been done. After what he has done.

“I w-want to go ho-ome.” The words are covered by sobs, and his hands shake as he gently takes hold of your shoulders, pulling you out of the dungeon and back into your bedroom.

He stands there, helpless and lost as you crawl away from him into your bathroom, the handle locking with a resounding click. The bond is alive and open on his side, your distress and fear and despair radiating down into Azriel, the strength of your emotions ripping him apart.

You don’t want him here, that much is clear.

Cassian is still awake when he returns, and his brother ripples with shock at the sight of him.

He knows how he looks.

Crazed. Devastated. Possessed.

“What happened?” He lurches forward, still dressed from evening training, siphons gleaming, scanning for a threat, a fight, a reason for Azriel’s agony.

He’ll find none. Only Azriel is responsible for this horror.

As always.

“She…” He can’t say it, can’t force the words. Can’t accept the truth, the terrible, painful truth. “She’s mine.” The blood drains from Cassian’s face. “She’s mine.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I- I didn’t… I didn’t get very far but I still… I still-“ He chokes on it. “She was so scared, Cass. She never… she was never afraid of me; from the day we met. She always, she looked at me differently. She trusted me. She… held my hand.” Cassian’s eyes slipped close. When they reopen, they’re determined. Strong.

“You’ll fix it. I know you will.” Azriel doesn’t hear him.

“I don’t deserve her, or this bond. When she realizes, she will sever it, and she’ll be right to. I have never been worthy, and the Mother knows. That’s why this happened.”

“That is not true. You made a mistake, and you were trying to protect your family, your court. She will understand… in time.”

“How?! How could anyone understand this? Excuse it?” He yells, and a door down the hall opens, Nesta appearing in the room, sharp and assessing.

“What’s going on?”

“Go back to bed,” Cassian growls, and though she glares, she listens. “Az, listen to me. It will be alright. You can fix this, you can.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You will figure it out, and we will support you, we’ll help in any way we can. It will be okay.”

“She will never forgive me.”

“And you’ll never know that until you try.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and then fisting it at his side. “This is Nesta’s fault.”

“Cassian,” Azriel snaps, patience shredded. “Not everything is your mate’s fault, for fucks sake. Stop projecting your guilt over your own transgressions onto Nesta. I’m sick of it.” Silence falls between the brothers, and after a long moment, Cassian nods.

“I deserved that,” he eyes him cautiously, “what do you want to do?” He needs silence. Solitude. Cassian knows, but he’ll still say it out loud, if only to make it clear. Don’t follow me. Don’t send others to check on me.

“I need to be alone."

#she doesn't even go here!#<- me #peaches writes #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel

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docdudo · 2 months ago

Text

Familiar 141 - Young Witch!Reader

You never thought you would be in this situation, running for your life as you try to get to your grandfather's cabin near the entrance of the woods as fast as possible.

Well, that's kind of a lie. You did expect something like this to happen at some point, but why now...??

Your biggest problem has always been the fact that you were a witch, born from the humid earth near a river source and blessed by the nature spirits of the forest.

Which, okay, it wouldn't be a problem...

If you weren't a witch without a Coven.

And you were so young too. Fate really dealt you the worst cards, making you, a small witch, barely in your teen years, fend for yourself without a Coven to protect or guide you.

It was dangerous, madness even. Young witches were easy targets. They didn't really have strong magic yet, couldn't interact with nature spirits that well or defend themselves. That's why they needed the protection of the older witches, who would keep their little ones safely tucked in the heart of the coven, only letting them out when they come of age (for witches), and in small doses until they get used to the world.

You... didn't have that luxery tho.

You have no idea what really happened to you when you were born. Usually, witches from the coven would all be present to a newborn's birth, help them settle and taking them with them as one more little sprout for the Coven.

But, all you had was your grandfather's story, about how he found a baby covered in dirt by the river bank, not crying or making any kind of sound, just peacefully laying there as the forest kept it safe for who know how long.

He knew you were a witch, that much was obvious. He knew you were just born too, but he didn't manage to find any other witch living around that place, much less a whole Coven of them.

So, he took you in, which you were pretty grateful for. You though that it would be fine, i mean... sure, you didn't have a Coven, but who needed them anyway?? You were doing fine by yourself...! Especially after you managed to control a bit more of your magic! Your grandfather told you were very powerful for a baby witch, which is nice! See, you didn't need a Coven...!

Except, being "powerful" for a baby witch wasn't really... that powerful in the first place, and now, you were being freaking hunted down after a mistake you made.

Ah, being hunted down by who? That's simple.

A freaking pack of familiars, four of them to be exact.

There's one little detail about all of this... witches have familiars, powerful creatures that were the most loyal beasts you could ever have for yourself. Usually, a powerful and old witch would never link themselves to a weak familiar, even if they could grow strong with time and a good master guiding them.

And you could imagine the same would happen to the opposite situation... except, familiars were freaking bastards.

One of the reasons older Witches kept their young very well hidden and safe in their Covens is because rogue familiars hunt down little witches to force a bound with them.

While mature witches look for familiars around their same power level, powerful familiars like to take in small and young witches to mold the to their liking. Teach the little witch how to properly use their magic, be their primary guides and protectors.

And you? You were a very young witch, with no Coven on sight, and that showed a very big potential since your magic was stronger than other baby witches your age.

You were a prime target.

And you were being hunted down by four bastards that were toying with you the whole chase.

You could tell they were powerful, just not... how powerful. Since you were still too young, it was quite difficult to identify these things. It's like you could feel the heat of the flame but not see how big the flame was.

But you had a hunch they were... very powerful... at least, that's what you thought, since there were four of them, bounded together. It means their last witch was probably old and strong enough to have four of these big beasts.

Not that your theory matters now, not when you are trying to run in this stupid thick forest from four big familiars that you could hear laughing and taunting you.

Tauting you gently, at most. They already knew they had you.

You already knew they had you.

Still, you were running, even if just because you were high in adrenaline and refused to just stop.

That is, until you fell harshly on the ground after tripping over a rock or some shit hidden on this stupid dense forest.

Goddammit.

"Aww, lassie, c'mere, did it hurt?" You widden your eyes in surprise as you hear the heavy scottish accent right behind you, big hands carefully grabbing under your arms to lift you up on your feet like a kitten.

You squirm momentarily in discomfort, settling down a little as he puts you down and gently pats your clothes. You wish you had more fight in you, but you were still young and just took a nasty fall. It stunned you enough to barely react to the big familiar gently fixing your clothes.

"Oww, baby, it's okay." Another one of them, the dark skinned one with a heart shaped mouth, approached easily, both warm hands immediatly cupping your face to check on you. "We're sorry for making you play until you got hurt, we're not doing it again...." He coos gently, a warm smile on his face.

He looked... so happy......... freak, the scottish-mohawk guy by his side looked ecstatic, such a big smile on his face.

Well.... familiars always prefered to be linked to a witch.

You jumped a bit as you heard the rustling of leaves in the distance, eyes falling immediatly on the big black wolf behind some trees. That's certainly one big bastard of a familiar, even in his animal form...

Wait... where is the last one then...?

"Darlin', we need to talk, don't we?"

You freeze for complete as you feel a heavy, warm hand hold the back of your neck, not hurting, not ever, just... locking you in place. His voice is low and gruff, authoritarian, but it's... soft enough. Enough for you to know that he's forcing softness to speak to you.

His hand feels so damn big around your small neck...

It's okay, it's okay... familiars rarely ever hurt a witch for no reason.

Besides, they don't seen that inclined on hurting you anyway... no, you know they are ready to claim you for them.

The mess you found yourself in...

"T-Talk...?" You murmur quietly, unsure, still a bit stunned as you try to look over your shoulder.

"Wee lass just took a fall, Price, little witch like this might've gotten hurt." The scottish one says easily, smile still on his face as he approaches you a bit more to gently hold on your head, inspecting you himself now.

"She's just a tad stunned, no harm done." This voice was new, and very low. Gravelly. Patient.

The wolf familiar went back to his human form, leaned against a tree as he observed you with crossed arms and a relaxed posture. Indeed, a big bastard.

"That's why we shouldn't play with the young ones like this. I told you that they get hurt easily." The dark skinned one sighs slightly, like he was scolding the big brute by the trees.

"Boys, focus. We are not yet marked to her, and she's out here, exposed and defenseless. We're taking her home." The 'Price' guy says slowly, his authority over the others obvious by how they all straightened at his command.

"W-Wait-" You manage to find your voice once again, only to be interrupted by the scottish guy.

"The Coven?"

"If she had one, wouldn't be wandering around 'ere by 'erself." The wolf one rumbles, still relaxed against the trees.

"A baby witch without a Coven?" The dark skinned one considers, eyes narrowing.

"Sometimes it happens. Rare, but it can happen. All the more reason to get her to safety." Price rumbles back, voice getting... grow-ly, the hand on your neck heavier. "Soap."

"Aye, Cap." He smiles easily, bending down closer to your height, meeting your big, scared eyes. "Let's go, wee lassie, ye're safe." He coos, and before you can protest, one of his fingers are touching your forehead, a wave of pure magic going through you. "Nap nap time, huh?"

And just like that, you are loosing your consciousness, falling directly on his arms as you feel him picking you up easily before falling asleep.

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rafeandonlyrafe · 10 months ago

Text

taken care of

words: 2.2k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, established relationship, exhibitionism, VERY BARRY HEAVY FIC!, fishing and like description of cooking fish??? does that need a warning lol, mention of drugs, rafe and barry are drug dealers in this but its very brief, drinking, female receiving oral, sharing is caring lol?, p in v sex, male masturbation, voyeurism

“you don't wanna get out?” rafe asks, his hands petting over your thighs.

“im happy watching from here.” you hum, leaning forward to give him a kiss.

“okay.” rafe sighs, digging in his pocket for his keys, placing them in your awaiting palm. “you can keep the ac and radio on if you want.”

“you know me so well.” you coo, giving rafe another peck on the lips as he goes to the back of his truck, pulling out his tackle box and fishing pole. you keep the door open until you reach over from your passenger seat and turn the truck on, allowing you to roll down the window.

you wave at barry when he notices you in the backseat. “brought sweetheart fishing?” he questions, making rafe let out a grunt, while you just giggle.

barry loves to flirt with you in front of rafe, because he gets pissed and you get so shy, always ducking your head or hiding behind rafe.

“just watching.” you shrug, adjusting yourself so you're comfortable, glad the side of the road is so close to the river bank, letting you stay in the truck but still be close enough to listen to rafe and barry as they chat.

“fish on.” rafe calls out, huffing as he begins to reel. you sit up a little bit, trying to spot the fish in the water before it breaks the surface. your boyfriend hauls it out, a large fish but not a kind he usually keeps.

“wanna hold it?” rafe asks, looking to you.

“no.” you shake your head, hand coming to the lock button on the truck just in case he tries to get closer. “but ill take your picture with it.”

you raise your phone, snapping a picture of rafe with his fish before he undoes the hook from its mouth. he tosses it back into the river, the fish quickly retreating into deeper water.

you send the picture to rafe, knowing the grin on his face is only because of you. he doesn't even bother to check when his phone buzzes in his pocket. all notifications are silenced except for yours, even barrys texts being delivered without notification, only his emergency calls making the phone ring.

you don't even realize that you've fallen asleep leaned against the seatbelt, the warm sun on your face and calming sounds of the river flowing. you only blink your eyes open when the drivers door closes. you rub your eyes and look over to rafe, a gentle smile on his face. “sorry i woke you up.”

“it's okay.” you hum, leaning over the center console, arms circling around rafes shoulders, just wanting to cuddle up to him now that you're awake. “did you catch some more?”

“yeah, some nice bass. put a couple in the cooler if you're feeling up for fish tonight.”

“you wanna know what i want?” you tilt your head to the side, pulling back to look at rafe.

“what?” he hums out, eyes glancing between your lips and meeting your gaze.

“you.” you say before leaning in and capturing his mouth in a kiss, frowning when rafe doesn't reciprocate the way you want him to.

you pull away with an intense pout. “rafeyyy.” you whine out.

“uh, babe-” rafe chuckles, a look of mischief in his eye. you hear someone clear their throat in the back seat. your eyes widen, turning to see barry sitting there with a smirk on his face.

“oh my god!” you squeal, turning forward so the seat blocks your view of barrys goofy grin, covering your red face with your hands. “rafe cameron, why didn’t you say something earlier?” you shout, reaching over to slap him on the arm as he laughs.

“you kissed me before i could say anything!” rafe argues back, still laughing as you turn back to barry and apologize. “hes coming over for dinner.” “okay.” you whisper. you know barry is a drug dealer, and you know rafe is part of it too, but he keeps you as far away as he can from the life of crime, insisting that hes being as safe as possible, only dealing to kooks at parties.

rafe and barry chat, with occasional interjections from you, as rafe drives the truck towards your shared house. you don’t even bother going inside as you all head towards the backyard where rafe has a fish preparing station as well as a full outdoor kitchen with an expensive grill that was your birthday gift to him last year. sure, you paid for it with his credit card, but its the thought that counts.

“gonna take a leak, back in a minute.” barry heads towards the renovated pool house instead of the main home as rafe swings the heavy cooler up onto the counter. “is he staying the night?” you ask. barry always stays in the pool house when he ends up sleeping over, usually because hes too drunk to get himself home.

“why? afraid you’re not gonna be able to be loud?” the only negative is the pool house is not too far from the glass sliding doors that lead into your bedroom with a view of the backyard and then ocean just beyond the fence you insisted get put up to keep anything from getting in your pool.

“stop it.” you whine, propping yourself up onto a clean spot on the counter. “i want you so bad.”

“well, im making you dinner right now.” rafe shrugs. “you’ll have to be patient.”

“but you promise to fuck me tonight? come on, i don’t know how long i can wait and i don’t want you getting too drunk with barry to fuck.” you complain, feet swinging.

“promise you’ll get off.” rafe says, noting that his words don’t seem to truly please you as you continue to have a scowl on your face. he knows how quickly your attitude turns when you get too needy for him.

“what you want to drink, pretty mama?” barry asks as he emerges from the pool house.

“hard lemonade.” you bat your eyelashes at barry, moving from your spot on the counter as rafe gets out the fish to prepare it. you hate seeing him cutting into it, so you move to sit on the outdoor sofa instead.

“will never understand how you guys can drink those.” you turn your nose up at the beer barry brings for himself, handing one to rafe.

“jeez, whats gotten into you?” barry lets out a stark laugh, cracking open his beer with his keys before doing the same with your hard lemonade, handing it to you. even with the alcohol diluted, you still don't like the taste as your nose scrunches.

“shes horny.” rafe simply says, not turning away from his preparation.

“rafe, oh my god!” you shout.

“oh.” barry just smiles at you, inching closer. “she gets bratty when shes horny?” he questions, not even talking to you despite his eyes glazing down your body.

“yeah. feel free to eat her out, man. itll get rid of her attitude while i finish grilling.” rafe says it so nonchalantly it takes both of you a second to realize he’s serious.

“really rafe?” you question. hes usually the most protective guy there is, always reacting badly when barry flirts with you.

rafe turns to look at the two of you on the couch. “why not? you’re just getting your cunt licked so you can stop being all pissy.”

“maybe because she’s your girl?” barry is just as surprised, though clearly eager from the way he keeps glancing between your thighs, now pressed tighter together.

“you’re not gonna fuck her. she’s not gonna touch your dick. you’re just eating her out.” rafe shrugs. “it’ll be doing me a favor, keeping her busy while i finish our dinner.” “well, i aint gonna argue. what you think sweetheart?” barry turns to you. you glance between him and rafe, only nodding when rafe gives you an encouraging nod.

“perfect, now take those shorts off, let me see that pussy.” barry grins, gold tooth on display.

you look to rafe as you stand up, surprised to see him already turned back to gutting his fish. you push your shorts and underwear down with a quick motion. he glances over his shoulder, simply smirking.

“i can’t believe he’s actually okay with this.” you mutter as you sit down, keeping your thighs pushed together as barry moves to his knees.

“just taking care of his girl for him. like how i take care of his drugs or people who fuck with him.” barrys hands come to your thighs, rubbing gently.

“you don’t have to do this though if you don’t want to-” barry can’t even finish his sentence as your legs spread open, revealing a sticky wet mess.

“i-um…” you blush. “i really am horny.” “i see that.” barry clears his throat, his eyes on your pussy. “now, lemme taste that.”

he leans in slowly, giving you a last chance to change your mind before his tongue swipes through your folds, making you shout out. you lean your head against the back of the couch as barry continues dragging his tongue around your cunt, purposely missing the areas you want him most.

“fuck, that’s good.” you moan, watching as rafe moves the prepared fish to the grill, looking over the way barry is hunched on the ground, knees digging into the pavement, his face surprisingly blank of jealousy.

“not as good as your boy though, right?” barry chuckles, hands coming to your cunt, pulling your folds apart to give him a view of your spread hole.

“no.” you shake your head. it’s true, while barry feels good, he’s nothing compared to rafe. “sorry, bears.” you use the nickname for him reserved for moments when he lets his sweet side show. not often, but you occasionally get it.

“its alright, mamas.” barry shakes his head, eyes glossing over with lust as he sees the way your hole clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. “i know im just getting to eat you out this one time, i’m not gonna waste it.”

he leans in, done teasing as his tongue pushes into your entrance. you let out a moan, reaching down to grip onto barrys hair, undoing his ponytail so it falls into your fists. you hold his face closer as his tongue pushes in and out.

“god, you’re even tight around my tongue.” he groans, switching between kissing your entrance and fucking it with his tongue.

“and you’ll never get to experience it beyond this.” rafe smirks, knowing he’s the only one who gets to fuck you, your first and only. he flips the fish over on the grill, knowing by the look on your face that you’ll cum by the time its done cooking.

“like having dessert before dinner.” barry slurps at your juices, tongue traveling up to your clit.

“isnt she the sweetest?” rafe smiles at you, closing the lid of the grill as he gets the table ready, plates and silverware as well as a prepared salad.

“like candy.” barry murmurs, sucking your clit into his mouth, making your back arch as you let out a squeal.

“keep doing that!” you shout out, not caring that your neighbors may hear the way you’re screaming for him. at least the tall wooden fence blocks any view of your exposed sopping wet cunt.

“cum for him.” rafe commands. “dinner is almost ready.”

barry works his hardest, sucking your clit while his tongue simultaneously flicks over it. you try to hold on for a moment longer before your orgasm rips through your body, hips pushing up as you cum with a squeal.

barry switches to gentle licks as your clit pulses, working you through your high until you let go of his hair, pushing his head away as you pant, chest moving rapidly up and down.

“god, that was good.” barry pulls away, wiping his mouth against his sleeve as he stands, looking down at you as he squeezes his clearly hard length through his cargo shorts.

barry grabs his beer off the table, moving over to take his seat at the outdoor table. you’re surprised how quickly he’s able to return to normal, as if he wasn’t just eating his friends girlfriend out.

“come on, princess.” rafe grabs your shorts, helping you slide them back up your legs. “fish is ready.” he presses a kiss to your forehead, then cheek, then finally against your lips.

“yeah.” you nod, standing and wobbling slightly, rafe wrapping his arm around your waist to guide you to the table until you’re in your seat.

“feeling better?” rafe questions, preparing your plate for you, seeing you still need a moment to recover.

“way better, actually.” you hum, no longer desperate for an orgasm. “thanks barry.”

“just helping my friends out.” he shrugs, lips still slightly glossy.

“leave it open.” rafe says as your hand moves to close the large curtain that covers the sliding glass doors. your eyebrows raise as you turn to rafe.

“barry did you a favor earlier, might as well give him a view.” he smirks, pulling his shirt off.

you glance towards the pool house, rafe of course keeping him supplied with plenty of beers, enough that he was too tipsy to go home. he’s sitting on the bed, eyes meeting yours as the blinds have been left open.

it doesn’t take much longer for rafe to have you kneeling on the bed, tits bouncing as he plunges into you from behind, hands tight on your waist, holding you up on display for barry, stroking himself, his cock just in view through the window.

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moonchild9350 · 3 months ago

Text

Heart of Ice

Summary: you set off on an errand on behalf of your father to the land of the giants, where you meet Chan, the king of the giants.

Pairing: Giant Chan x fab demi goddess reader

Genre: mythology au, smut, straight filth lol

Word count: 8.1k

Warnings: violence (battle scenes), use of swords/knives/bow and arrows, and magic, decapitation, blood, use of aphrodisiacs, p in v penetration, creampie (don’t), squirting, fingering, oral sex (f & mreceiving), mirror sex, exhibitionism, breeding kink, dirty talk, dom Chan dynamics- I think that’s it omg lol

Notes: I’m a nerd for mythology and add Chan to the mix, yes please! Just another fic to take a break from spooktober.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©️moonchild9350 (2024)

You were exhausted. That was the best way to describe how you felt.

You looked back at the direction you just came from, the rocky waters slapping against the bank, taunting and mocking you at the trial it just made you face. The river Iving separated Asgard from Jotunheim, the journey long and treacherous.

You came from Asgard, the land of the gods, to obtain an item from Chan, the king of the giants here in Jotunheim. Being from the lineage of Odin, it was expected that the journey would be relatively easy, however, it has been anything but. It may have been for someone of deity lineage from both sides, but you were born of god lineage but also human, making you a lesser being than most of the inhabitants of the realm.

You are unsure as to why your father sent you on this errand, especially by yourself, but he insisted that you could do it, so you could prove your worth to him. And the latter is something you have been trying to achieve your whole life.

Sighing, you lifted your head up and took in the wasteland in front of you. It was dreary and dark, the wind howling nonstop, its cold embrace wrapping around you. There were mountains in the distance, big and rocky, their stance intimidating to anyone who lays eyes on it.

There were no animals or creatures in sight, although you knew that could change at any given moment, this realm being home to the nastiest, aggressive beings.

You could see your breath in front of you, as it was ice cold, probably below zero. Thankfully, you were bundled up in your furs, made especially for you by your mother for the journey.

Ensuring your knife, sword, and bow were properly stored and your pouch was still on your hip, you began your journey once more. This time to the large castle at the other end of the land.

You could see it in the distance, beyond the Jormun Sea, the rocky structure encased in ice amongst the mountain side. There resided Chan, a cunning giant who was supposedly awaiting you.

You started to walk, the sound of crunching heard as you stepped on the ice below. Snow and ice blanketed the land which would have been dangerous for the average person, but thanks to your specialized snow shoes, navigating the icy tundra was relatively easy.

The beginning of your journey was uneventful, which was suspicious, your hand ready to draw your sword at a moments notice. Up ahead a body of water came into view, the waves lapping at the beach softly, so unlike the harsh wind that was steadily blowing.

You stopped at the edge and peered in. The water was black as obsidian, what lies beneath obscured by the darkness. Every now and then the water would ripple, most likely from some sea creature beneath the surface.

Looking up, you peered into the distance, seeing the expanse of the sea. It would take you a while to clear it, your destination located on the other side. Time was of the essence, as you didn’t want to keep the king waiting, therefore, you continued to walk, shielding your face from the wind.

The land was peaceful, no sound being heard except for the waves hitting rocks and the wind. However, peace didn’t last long. As you rounded a corner of the sea, the ground began to ripple. You stopped in your tracks, grabbed your sword, and assumed position.

The earth trembled and split, a creature emerging from the dirt, dust and rocks spewing from the ground. It rose from its home, arching its back, grasping a sword in hand, a growl rippling from its mouth. As the creature stood upright, you gasped taking in its bony form, with metal plates along its shoulders and chest. Its eyes seemed to glow a ruby red, peering at you in disdain.

You knew what they were, a sub type of dwarf called a draugr. They were cruel and vicious unlike the dwarfs present back in Asgard. Gripping your sword tighter, you charged at the creature, raising your sword above your head as you came upon it. A loud clang rose through the air as your sword had collided with the creature.

You grunted as you were pushed back from the force of the impact, causing you to stumble and almost drop your sword. However, you had no time to rest as the draugr charged at you again, showing no mercy towards you. Sword against sword met again and again, sparks flying from the contact as you battled the creature.

Little by little you whittled away at it until an opening appeared, one in which you could finally eliminate it. You kept your eye on your target and charged, swinging back your sword with a loud cry. As your voice echoed across the frozen tundra, you swung your sword fast and true, the edge of your blade landing and cutting through the tough skin of its neck. You continued to push through until the draugr’s head was completely severed from its body. It hit the icy ground with a thud, dark liquid oozing from the opening.

The body dropped and then started to materialize, until all that was left was the stained ground. You rested upon your sword, attempting to catch your breath. You were in for it surely if all of the creatures you would meet are as tough as this one.

Once rested enough, you sheathed your sword and began to walk. Every few feet you encountered more draugr, the battle against them long and drawn out. Your sword was stained, the dark liquid coating the blade.

You were beginning to feel wary, your body getting tired after many fights, so you decided to stop and rest for a while. The only problem was finding a space safe enough to rest.

Looking around, you spotted an area that seemed as good as any. You thankfully did not run into any more enemies. Your rest area wasn’t much, your bed consisting of your cloak, as there were no trees in sight to rest against. There was nothing to make a fire with, so you pulled your legs to your chest and buried your head, trying to keep warm.

You were in and out of sleep, trying to stay alert but rest as well. There was no way to tell if it was night or day, the sun always present in the sky.

You were drifting off to sleep again when you felt the earth tremble beneath you, causing you to jerk awake. You hurriedly stood up and grabbed your sword, eyes trained to the ground for what you assumed was more draugr.

However, you noticed that each rumble was rhythmic, almost as if someone was walking your way. Your eyes scanned the vast tundra, eyeing the sea until you saw a large figure slowly emerge from the fog.

A large man was coming your way, a giant by the looks of it. He was about ten feet tall, standing so tall it looked as if the top of his head touched the sky. His skin was pale, with a bluish glow, his body muscular. His hair was disheveled, the black mop adorning the top of his head. He had a simple cloth tied low on his hips.

You were terrified, not sure how you could defeat such a being. You were coming up with a battle plan when the giant approached, his black eyes staring down at you. You were frozen on the spot, your sword raised in front of you.

The giant made a sound, a laugh by the sound of it as he plucked your sword from your hands and tossed it to the side. Your eyes followed the trajectory of the sword, watching as it clattered against the icy ground a ways from you. You slowly turned your head to look at the giant before you once more.

Your eyes traveled from his muscular legs, up, up, up, until you noticed something large behind the cloth on his hips. You were shocked, but a little part of you were turned on, knowing exactly what was beneath as the shape gave it away.

You weren’t innocent, not by far, living in Asgard made you that way, and your body was more than ready to accommodate what he had to offer. At the thought, you clenched your thighs together as you felt them dampen, your slick trickling out, as you weren’t wearing any panties.

The giant smirked at you, as if he could read your mind. With a swipe of his hand, he dropped the cloth, baring all that was underneath. His cock was long and girthy, various ridges along the shaft with a prominent vein on the underside, leading up to a mushroom head that was red and angry, copious amounts of pre-cum leaking from tip. It sat proudly against his abdomen, the beautiful shade of red a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

You gulped as he took two steps toward you, the ground shaking as a result. He kneeled on the cold ground, so he could be on your level and closer to you. You watched as he spun you around and bent you over, pushing your face down to rest on the cloak below.

You whimpered as you felt the giant lift up skirt, the heavy furs adding more weight to your back. You could feel your arousal leak out even more as your face was pushed further into the ground, therefore causing you to present yourself to the giant behind you.

You waited in anticipation, your breath coming out in puffs, as you felt the tip of his cock brush against you, parting your lips to slide between the puffy flesh. You thought you would feel scared, never having been penetrated by such a large cock, however you were ready, needing to feel stretched and filled to the brim.

Without warning, you felt his cock breach your entrance, a loud moan escaping you as your walls were stretched. You felt slight pain but more pleasure than anything as he continued to push inch by inch in, until he was flush against your ass.

With a loud grunt, the giant gripped your hips and began to piston his cock into you, the sound of flesh slapping flesh reverberating throughout the vast land. You felt like you were being speared open as you took his cock, whines and moans steadily falling from your lips. The ridges and veins lining his cock rubbed against your walls perfectly, sending waves of pleasure radiating into your core.

You were dripping, your arousal coating your folds, your thighs, his cock and your sure your cloak as well. He gripped your hips harder, his large fingers digging into your skin to where you’re sure bruises will form. He angled his body a little to where he could reach deeper, his cock hitting that spongy spot within you as the tip bullied your cervix with each thrust.

You mewled out as you felt a tightening within you, like a band that was about to snap, growing larger and more intense by the second. The giant behind you began to grunt with each thrust, the sound reaching a crescendo until he roared, holding his hips flush to yours as copious amounts of his warm cum filled your walls.

With his release you let go, squirting your release, the force of your high attempting to force his cock out. The giant continued to hold you flush against him as you could still feel his release, pumping more into your little hole.

Finally, you felt him release you as he withdrew his cock, the sudden emptiness causing you to let out a whine. Both his and your release was gushing from your entrance, creating a puddle on your ruined cloak.

Slowly you pushed yourself up off the ground, turning to see the giant once more. However, by the time you were able to face him, he was already clothed and walking away, each step causing the earth to tremble below you.

You watched in shock, as the giant who just came upon you disappeared into the fog, the only thing alerting you he was still relatively close by being the sound of his footsteps.

You were still dripping, the last of the giant’s cum seeping out of your pussy. You carefully got up, trying to avoid the puddle on your cloak. You were sad it was ruined, the article of clothing being a gift from your grandmother.

Sighing you got up and bundled the cloth. Unsure what to do with it, you decided to leave it in a small divot that was created in the ice.

You picked up your weapons and donned them once more before taking off in the direction of the castle. You encountered a few more draugr, the battle being easier now that you knew how to fight them. You slowly left the Jorman sea behind, the vast body of water getting smaller with each step.

It wasn’t long before you came across your next obstacle, the frozen forest. The trees were all frozen solid, the icy blue shining with the rays of sun that would peak out every now and then.

You nodded and began your journey into the forest, making your way in between trees. The air felt colder, the cold finding its way past your furs and to your bones. The wind whipped around you, making it difficult to walk, and to add insult to injury snow began to fall.

The further you walked, the harder it fell, the stronger the wind became until you couldn’t see anything in front of you. You shielded your eyes as best as possible, and marched on, putting one foot in front of the other.

Your journey was slow, as you made your way through the forest. There was no one in your path, the way clear, that is until you ran into something hard, causing you to jump back, drawing your sword in the process.

You squinted into the snow storm to see what you ran into. What you saw caused you to gasp. You looked all around you, your eyes wide. There were people, hundreds of them, frozen in time, encased in an ice prison. The person in front of you stared straight ahead, almost as though it was trying to look through you. This one seemed to be a woman, clothed in a fur top and skirt. Their eyes were piercing yet gentle, the hair framing their face wiry and wild.

Timidly, you reached out a hand, your fingertips coming in contact with the icy prison. Slowly, you traced the outline of the woman, your eyes trailing her body in awe. How did these people get trapped here? How long have they been trapped?

Your heart sank at the their fate, especially as you noticed there were children frozen as well. You really needed to keep moving, the cold setting in during your inactivity. Carefully, you stepped around the frozen statue and continued on your journey, this time more aware as to what was in front of you.

The forest was large, the expanse of bodies never-ending, causing you to slow down as you weaved your way through them. The only other creatures you encountered were snow rabbits, the little furry creatures hopping away in a hurry at the sound of your disturbance.

You were able to shoot one down with your bow and arrow, effectively skinning the creature and roasting it over a makeshift fire to fill your empty stomach. After eating your fill, you doused the fire and continued on your way. You had hopes that you were almost through the forest when you heard a loud crack, the sound echoing throughout the forest.

You stopped in your tracks, scanning the landscape in front of you, searching for anyone or anything. It was quiet as the wind had stopped howling, the snow all but gone. You had a bad feeling deep down at the sudden change in atmosphere.

Quietly and swiftly, you reached for your bow, notching an arrow and aiming it at the ready. Your eyes slowly raked over your surroundings, your breath slow and steady. Another crack rang out, this time right in front of you.

There was a frozen statue in front of you, however, this time there was a long crack present from the head all the way down to the right foot. You stared in horror as the person moved within, a twitch here, a twitch there, the sound of ice cracking ever louder.

With your next breath, the ice shattered into a million pieces, scattering everywhere, the person beneath focusing their eyes on you. They seemed to have changed after breaking out of their icy prison, with electric blue eyes that stared wide open, never blinking, their skin outfitted with a blue glow. You gripped your bow tighter as the ice figure let out a piercing scream, the sound ricochetting off the other statues, causing them to crack.

Within moments, you were surrounded by a horde of townspeople, their eyes full of vengeance and set solely on you. You began to fire away, arrow after arrow skillfully flying through the air, the sharp edges piercing the bodies running towards you.

You were constantly on the move, switching directions at a moments notice as they came from all sides, their arms reaching out in the effort to try and grab you. You were trying to regulate your breathing as you made your way through the horde, so as not to run out of breath. Things were going according to plan until you tripped over a branch on the ground, your knees hitting the solid ground with a loud crunch.

You yelped in pain, rolling onto your bottom, trying to ignore the pain that shot down your legs. There was a tingling sensation that slowly built up, making you feel like you were being stabbed with a million tiny, sharp needles. Through the pain, you tried to focus on killing more creatures, as they took advantage of your moment of weakness.

You fired an arrow at a man running towards you, a sneer on his face, the arrow hitting home right in his chest. He collapsed on the spot, causing a few other creatures to trip over him, their bodies falling to the ground like dominos.

That didn’t stop them however from pursuing you as they began to crawl towards you, quicker than you would have expected. You reached into your quiver for another arrow, but stopped as your hand reached into an empty space. You let out a tsk as you realized you were out of arrows.

Quickly, you tossed your bow aside and grabbed your knife, stabbing the creature that had taken ahold of your foot, cold seeping onto your skin from their grip. They let out a piercing shriek as you twisted the blade for good measure, as they collapsed on their side.

You were able to take care of a few more before you scrambled to your feet, your legs from the knee down radiating in pain. You took a deep breath and willed yourself to ignore the pain and withdrew your sword, ready to take on the next group running full speed towards you.

You concentrated on the battle in front of you, the only sounds heard in the dense forest were your grunts and the clash of steel on a frozen body. Sparks flew haphazardly as your sword made contact with creature after creature, the orange glow lighting up the dim area.

You were grazed a few times, the creatures nails digging into your arms and legs as they tried to get to you, their crazed eyes never wavering from your dancing form. The end was near, as you saw only a handful of creatures left.

You decided to try and decapitate a group at once, squatting and spinning at the right moment, to swing your blade outwards, the steel meeting flesh, severing the legs from the bodies. They collapsed to the ground, as blood stained the white earth. You recovered from your attack, your arm out and posed to hold you up while you took in the last of the creatures.

Standing up, you walked towards your first victim and raised your blade above your head, bringing the sword down with force, piercing the creature straight through the heart. You repeated the motion again and again, effectively getting rid of the last of the threat.

After piercing the last creature, you pulled your blade up and out and collapsed on your hands and knees. You were breathing heavy, your warm breath meeting the cold air causing smoke to drift from your mouth. Your ears were ringing, vision blurry, and your body was aching from the gruesome battle you had just engaged in.

If you weren’t of half god lineage, you would have perished at the beginning of the fight, this you were sure of. You took a moment more to recover before pushing yourself up and off the ground. You looked around to survey the damage, your eyes noticing the mass amount of bodies littering the ground.

What once was a forest full of people, encapsulated in ice, was now bare, not a statue in sight. You let out a huff before you started to hunt for your bow. Walking over towards a pile of corpses, you found it lying on the ground still intact. Picking it up, you gave it a once over before storing it once more.

You were about to turn away when you noticed something glimmer beneath the bodies, causing you to stop in your tracks. You pushed a few corpses away to uncover the source of the light. Lying in the pouch on a corpse were three round orbs, swirls of color dancing around within.

These were magic orbs, highly sought after items, at least in Asgard, and here were three right at your fingertips. From the looks of it, these seemed to be of fire magic, which seemed perfect for the realm you were in. Gently, you extracted them from the pouch and began to pocket them, hoping they may come in handy at some point in your journey.

Satisfied that they were safely stored, you began to walk, wanting to get out of this forest as soon as possible. You walked past body after body, trying not walk on the remains of your battle.

You were almost out of the woods when you heard another crack, the sound loud and echoing off the little trees that were present. Your eyes quickly scanned your surroundings, trying to find the source of the noise. As you were searching, you noticed what seemed like a large boulder off to the side.

Cautiously, you walked toward it, drawing your sword on the way. You were about one hundred feet away when you saw that it was not a boulder at all, but an ice elemental, curled up to look as if it was sleeping.

You cursed under your breath and began to place one foot behind you, again and again as you tried to back away from the monster. If you could avoid it, you’d love to not have to fight one of these monstrosities.

You were making good progress until your foot came down on a twig, the little stick snapping under the pressure of your foot. The sound radiated loud and clear, causing you to pause in your tracks, your eyes trained on the elemental.

You thought you were in the clear, the monster not hearing your mishap, however, you felt the ground shake again, this time, much stronger. Looking up, you watched the elemental unfurled from his sleeping position and stand. You craned your neck as it stood tall, towering way over you, its eyes red and piercing, a scowl on its face.

You watched in terror as it let out a roar, clutching its icy hands into a ball before it charged at you, shards of ice chipping off of its feet as it hurtled towards you.

You quickly dodged out of its way, completing a 180 before facing it again. With a roar you ran towards it, striking it with your sword, sparks flying as metal met ice. The elemental roared, throwing its head back with rage. You swung your sword multiple times, trying to incur as much damage as you could on the fiend.

As you recovered, you screeched as its hand reached out for you, scratching you in the process, digging a deep gash into your arm. You winched in pain, watching as blood seeped from the wound, painting the ground below you red.

You had no time to stop the bleeding and kept fighting, dodging and diving, swinging and thrusting your sword. Little by little you chipped at the elemental, wondering if you were doing any good. You were starting to get tired, your muscles aching with each swing, your breath coming out in rapid pants.

You were about to run for it when you remembered the magic orbs, tucked away in your pouch. You quickly grabbed one and hurled it at the monster, straight for its heart. The orb clashed with the ice, exploding into fiery flames, causing a chunk of the ice elemental’s chest to melt.

You did a silent cheer, watching the smoke rise to the sky as the monster stood paralyzed for a moment. You took that opportunity to chip away at its legs, swinging your sword with all your might. The elemental definitely took some damage as it staggered around, its large feet creating large craters in the ground as it stomped around.

You didn’t let it recover, reaching for another magic orb, tossing it this time at its head, the orb hitting it square in the face. It wasn’t able to cry out, as its mouth was blown off, ice shards melting with each second. You looked over the monster, searching for its core. You saw something shimmer within the hole the first magic orb created. You kept an eye on the light as you charged, and at the last second pushed off your legs allowing you to leap into the air.

You posed your sword to strike, driving the metal straight into the green, shimmering crystal that represented its core, its life line. Once your sword pierced through, the crystal shattered into a tiny pieces, the quickly light fading out.

You landed gracefully on your feet, your fingertips touching the ground to stabilize yourself. You lifted your head up to watch the ice elemental stagger drunkenly before collapsing on its side, falling and cracking the ground below.

You remained in your stance, your chest heaving, as you struggled to breathe . Your arm was steadily bleeding, the crimson red dripping down your arm, mixing with the dark maroon of blood since dried. You took a few moments more before standing up, using your sword as a crutch.

As you looked ahead, a castle popped into view, that was most definitely not there before your battle with the elemental. You smiled and started to head towards it, your gait a limp after fighting all day. You kept your head up, dragging your sword along the ice as you got closer and closer to the castle.

You looked up at the gray, stone building, the exteriors cold and uninviting. You hoped the king would welcome you, as you were tired and in need of care. Stepping up to the door, you looked up, noticing how tall it was. Definitely big enough for a giant.

Raising your hand, you knocked on the door, and waited with bated breath. You heard footsteps on the other side, their echo getting louder and louder with each step until they stopped right in front of you.

The large door opened, the inside of the castle being revealed bit by bit. Standing in front of you was a man, one that seemed to be your size, definitely not a giant like the one that was supposed to be living here. The man stared at you, disgust on his face as he took in your appearance.

You’re sure you looked a mess, as your hair was disheveled, your clothes ripped, bruises littered all over your skin, the wound on your arm bleeding through the makeshift bandage you placed on it. But all of that didn’t matter, you had made it this far and he was going to let you in if you had any say.

“Hi, my name is y/n. I was sent here by my father Odin to talk to Chan.”

At the mention of your purpose there, the man’s face changed from one of disgust to recognition. “Of course, of course, y/n. We’ve been expecting you, please come in.”

The man shuffled out of the way, gesturing for you to come in. You nodded and stepped over the threshold, your eyes wandering the room. It was dark and gloomy, the walls made out of gray stone, torches were lit to show the way. The furniture that was present was huge, befit for a giant.

“Right this way,” the man said, ushering you further into the building.

You followed him, down the hall and up some stairs, until you reached a large door.

“Wait here please,” he said as he cracked the door open and slipped inside.

You stood there waiting, your ears trained to hear whatever was being said within the four walls. You could hear mumbled voices, but couldn’t quite make out the words that was being said. You were about to lean your ear against the door, that is until the door creaked open, the man stepping out and into the hall again.

“Chan wants you to rest and refresh yourself after your difficult journey, he’ll meet with you afterwards.”

You were thankful for this, as you didn’t want to meet with a king feeling and looking as dirty as you were. The man led you further down the hall, stopping in front of another large door.

“This will be your quarters,” he said pushing the door open for you. “A bath has been prepared. The maids will help you in the meantime.”

You thanked the man as he gave you a little bow and stepped into the room. There was a faint aroma permeating the room, the scent of lavender tickling your nose. You gravitated towards the scent, your body finally catching up to the fatigue you felt.

You came to the bathroom, a large tub filled to the brim with bubbles, and multiple women who you assumed were the maids waiting for you.

They curtsied for you and then rushed to your side, ushering you to the center of the room. They started to mutter in a language you didn’t understand, as they reached for your ruined clothes. You blushed as they stripped you completely down. Once undressed, they motion for you to get into the tub.

You carefully stepped one leg in, the warm water caressing your thigh before stepping in with the other. You slowly sat down, savoring the feel of the water against your skin. Once settled, the women began to scrub you down, taking care to be mindful of your scrapes and bruises. They left no part of your body untouched, their hands reaching everywhere in order to clean you.

You had no choice but to sit back at the mercy of their hands as you listened to them chatter. They occasionally smiled at you, cooing at your beauty before getting back to work. They seemed very happy, smiles constantly on their faces.

Once they were done washing you, they helped you out of the tub and dried you down with a towel, their hands gently massaging the fabric over your skin. They applied a sweet oil to your body, the floral scent pleasant to the senses as it was not too much but perfect against the heat of your skin. They brought out a white dress and slipped it over your head, tying the string in the back.

It was a beautiful dress, making you seem like you were glowing. It was cinched underneath your breasts, causing them to overflow perfectly at the top. They brushed your hair, leaving the wavy strands to flow down your back. After they were done, they ushered you to the large mirror in your bedroom and had you take a look.

You almost didn’t recognize yourself, used to the furs that were customary for a girl like you back in your realm. You smiled at your appearance as you felt very beautiful. Turning around, you thanked the maids who smiled back in return.

One of the maids walked over to you, a cup in her hand. She handed it to you and said, “for you m’lady. Our new queen. A tonic for tonight.”

Wait, new queen? Your smile faltered as you looked at the lady, confusion on your face.

“Yes, yes, new queen, you are Chan’s wife.”

You were in disbelief. Your father sold you out, sold you to the king of the giants without consulting you. The thought hurt your heart, that he couldn’t tell you at least, but your father is Odin after all. He doesn’t discuss his decisions with anyone. Accepting your fate, you took the cup from the lady, and brought it to your lips, drinking the warm liquid.

It went down easy, the flavor odd but not unpleasant. Once the cup was drained, you handed it back to the maid who curtsied and hurried off, the others right behind her.

You stared after them until the door shut behind the last of them. What were you to do now?

You decided to walk to the window and look out at the vast expanse of icy wasteland. This was your home now you supposed. You wondered what Chan looked like, the other giant you…encountered crossing your mind. Your pussy clenched in remembrance, how he dominated you, held you down and had his way with you. How primitive it felt.

You felt yourself getting hot, your heart rate increasing at the thought. You shifted your thighs against each other, seeking friction as your pussy fluttered, your slick trickling out and onto your thighs.

You felt weird, but in a good way, the only thing on your mind to be filled, bred until you couldn’t walk anymore. You continued to shift your thighs together, your breaths coming out as pants. You were about to reach your fingers under your dress when the door slammed open, and a giant walked in.

You turned to look at the intruder, your cheeks flushed in your heat, your breasts raising and falling as you took each breath. Your eyes widened in recognition, the giant before you being the one who you encountered by the sea. So this was Chan, the king of the giants, and now your husband.

He stared down at you, a smile on his face. He stalked toward you, and stopped in front of the mirror, beckoning you forward. You all but ran to him, craning your head up to look at him. He was beautiful, even for a giant. You were able to get a good look at his face now, noticing that he had a chiseled face, and large, pouty lips. His eyes were big and round, as they took you in.

He turned you around, having you face the mirror. His hands graced your thighs, slowly dragging up your sides, your belly until he reached your breast, his large hands cupping the flesh. Your breath hitched as you watched, feeling him massage your breasts, his large fingers pinching your nipples causing you to loudly moan.

“So beautiful,” Chan said, his voice low but clear.

He slowly pushed the straps of your dress down, the material sliding down your body before pooling at your feet. You gasped as you took in your reflection. The inside of your thighs were glistening, coated in a sheen of your arousal that was steadily dripping from your pussy.

Chan smirked, as he brought a hand to your folds and shoved a finger between them. He dragged his finger through your slick before pressing the digit against your clit, your knees all but giving out at his touch.

You gripped his thick arms in support as he teased the bud, his finger flicking left, right, circling up and down. You were a mess, your moans echoing in the dimly lit room. You felt more sensitive than usual, your mind hazy as you came without warning on Chan’s fingers, soaking the digits with your release.

You couldn’t believe you came so fast, heat rising to your cheeks in arousal and embarrassment. You looked up at Chan through the mirror, watching as he dropped the cloth around his hips.

Your eyes widened at the sight of his cock, remembering how big he was. Your mouth drooled at the sight of the copious amount of precum leaking from his tip, the liquid dripping down his long shaft and into the pubic hair lining the base of his cock.

You needed to be filled by him and you needed it now.

Chan could read your thoughts, seeing the effect the aphrodisiac had on you. You were insatiable, needy, your body language giving it away, as you pleaded with your eyes to take you.

He would take care of you not to worry and breed you full with his cum. Chan reached down and picked you up by your thighs, spreading your legs effectively so your dripping pussy was on display.

You yelped at the action, the floor getting further away as he lifted you higher and shifted his grip on you.

“My sweet, my precious,” Chan said before bringing you down on his cock, the tip spreading you open as he lowered you inch by inch down his length.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as Chan speared you open on his cock, your eyes wide, watching in the mirror as your pussy sucked him in. Your entrance stretched so perfectly around him, holding him snug in place, almost as if it were welcoming him home.

You both groaned as he began to slide you up and down his cock, treating you like his own personal fleshlight. Your pussy squelched with each thrust, as your slick poured out of your entrance, the sinful noise echoing within the chamber.

Your threw your head back, resting on his chest as he continued to fuck you, your hands trying to find purchase on anything as he massaged your walls. His eyes were glued on you through the mirror, watching as your tits bounced, as his cock slid deeper and deeper each time he thrusted into you.

You were going to cum, the feeling creeping up on you quickly once again. You clenched down on his cock, letting out a moan as you let go, your walls spasming around him. Chan didn’t stop however, but continued to thrust up into you, his loud grunts vibrating against your head. You whimpered, feeling a overstimulated as Chan continued to spear you open, his grip tight on your thighs.

You were about to cry out when Chan let out a roar, loud enough that the whole castle would hear, and held you flush against his cock, his cum flooding your insides. You brought your eyes to the mirror, willing yourself to look at where you two were connected, watching as the thick substance ran down his cock and dripped down onto the floor.

“We’re not done yet,” Chan growled, walking you over to the large bed and throwing you down. With the withdrawal of his cock, both your fluids pooled onto the sheets, creating a large stain between your legs.

Chan shuffled closer to you and stopped at the edge of the bed, his hand pumping his cock while he stared down at you. You held eye contact with him, seeing him in all his glory, as his eyes pierced down at your small body. Your clit was throbbing and you still felt hot with need. You trailed your fingers down your belly, reaching down to play with your pussy, seeking to relieve the ache.

Chan watched as you pleasured yourself, his cock filling out again.

“Come here little one,” Chan cooed, beckoning you closer.

He grasped his cock and brought it to your mouth, the tip larger than your lips combined. He looked at you expectantly, his eyebrow raised as you looked at him with doe eyes.

“Suck,” he said, tapping his cock on your lips a few times.

You timidly opened your mouth as he placed the tip on your tongue, his precum coating the muscle. You were barely able to wrap your lips over the appendage, your mouth stretching to accommodate his length.

Chan smiled as he grabbed either side of your head, holding you against him before he began to thrust his hips, fucking his cock within your warm, wet mouth. You looked up at him, tears forming in your eyes as his tip kissed the back of your throat, causing you to gag around him.

Spit was dripping down the side of your mouth as you tried to keep up in time with his thrusts. Your breathing was shallow as his cock filled your mouth, the head of his cock blocking your airway, causing you to breathe through your nose. The lack of oxygen just made you throb even more, causing you walls to clamp around nothing. You moaned around his length, the vibrations causing Chan to growl, as he gripped your hair harder.

Obscene noises echoed off the walls as he fucked your mouth, tears steadily flowing from your eyes now at the onslaught. Your arousal was steadily dripping from your pussy, a string of the fluid leaking from your entrance, threatening to fall to the sheets below.

Your pussy pulsed, your clit ached, needing to be touched. You snaked your hand down to your pussy, intending to give some relief to your aching bud, but stopped immediately when Chan growled, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Naughty girl, no touching. Just take my cock,” he grunted. His thrust became more erratic, signaling he was close.

You silently rejoiced as your mouth started to ache from his cock repeatedly ramming into the back of your throat. Despite this, you were more turned on than ever at the feeling of being used by Chan.

Chan thrusted into your mouth hard once more before stilling, holding you against him, as his cum flooded your mouth, drops falling from the corners, dripping down your face, neck, and settling on your breasts. Once Chan came down from his high, he withdrew his cock and looked down at you, his hand reaching out to hold your chin.

“Look at you, completely ruined. So beautiful my love.” He gently stroked your chin, wiping some cum that was at the corner of your mouth. “Let me return the favor yeah?”

You looked up at Chan with lust filled eyes, dried tears on your cheeks, your face stained with his cum. Your body trembled at the promise, your pussy clenching in anticipation to be filled. You quickly shook your head, begging for him to take you and mark you however he wanted.

He smirked as he pushed you onto your back, your body bouncing slightly on the soft sheets. Chan lifted your legs, spreading and tucking them to your chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, he buried his face in your pussy, his tongue licking between your folds.

You squealed at the sudden attack, your hands gripping the sheets as he moaned and licked up your slick. He sucked your labia between his lips before pushing his tongue into your hole, savoring your taste as it poured onto the muscle.

Chan held you still as he tongue fucked your pussy, your walls clamping down around him as he brought you closer to your high, his nose brushing up against your clit, causing pleasure with each nudge.

Your breaths were shallow, as you panted at the pleasure, a tingling feeling spreading throughout your pelvis and belly. You bit your lip, drawing blood as you thrusted your hips against his face, riding his tongue.

“So good,” you whined, gripping the sheets tighter as you continued to rock your hips.

With a grunt, Chan licked a long stripe to your clit before sucking the nub within his warm mouth, the feeling causing you to gasp and let out a shaky moan. He sucked hard and fast, the coil in your belly tightening, begging to be released.

He smacked his lips as he pressed a kiss to your clit before sucking it within his mouth again. His tongue darted out to flick your bundle of nerves, the pleasure quickly becoming too much. You let out a loud whimper, as you squirted your release on Chan’s face, his tongue darting out to lick up every last drop.

He licked you clean, his grip not loosening until he was satisfied. He lifted his head and smiled, your release dripping from his chin.

“I love your sweet nectar love, you taste so damn good.”

You moaned at his words, your fingers going to your nipples, your back arching as you squeezed the buds. Chan smiled as he shuffled higher up on the bed.

He stroked your thighs before spreading them wide so he could settle between them. You stared up at him, his cock standing proud against his abdomen, the tip angry and red. The demeanor in Chan’s eyes changed as he stared down at you, watching as you played with your breasts.

It seemed as if he was ready to devour you, as if he was ready to breed you. He gripped your thighs again, this time bringing them to rest on his shoulders. With a breath, he sheathed himself inside you, both of you moaning at the feel of each other.

You could never get used to the stretch, the sensation mixed with pain and pleasure. You stared at Chan, your mouth open as he continued to push into you, before withdrawing his cock and snapping his hips into yours again.

He began to pound into you, his cock bullying you deep within. You moaned as you creamed around his cock, the white ring forming around his length as he fucked you. Your body felt like it was in overdrive, as your toes curls and your thighs spasmed around Chan. Your pussy throbbed as Chan spared you no mercy. Your clit dragged against the coarse hair lining his pubic area, sending the all too familiar warm feeling throughout your body.

Chan leaned further over you, allowing him to reach deeper within you, the ridges on his cock brushing against your upper walls just right. He whispered sweet nothings to you, watching as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your release hit you hard, your pussy spasming, trying to push him out with each rhythmic contraction.

“Na uh, love. Keep me in there. Gotta breed you love. Fill you up so good, you’ll have no choice but to carry my children.”

You mewled at the dirty talk, your mind empty as he continued to abuse your little hole. You felt that feeling build up within your core again, shock coursing through you at the fact you were about to cum again so soon.

“Fuck love, like you were made for me. You. Are. Mine.” He growled, accentuating each word with a thrust, before stilling, his cum painting your walls one last time.

Chan stayed buried within you, emptying every last drop of his cum, his eyes trained on your pussy, watching as the liquid seeped around his cock, down your ass, and pooled on the sheets.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, as he withdrew his cock from your hole, a flood of your release mixed with his gushing out.

“Shit love, we can’t have that can we? Gotta keep it in for me,” he cooed, taking a finger and gathering up he thick, white fluid, and stuffing it back in within your pussy.

You softly moaned at the intrusion, your energy spent. You finally started to feel normal again, the heat leaving your body, your heart rate slowing down. You felt like you could breathe once more as you took a deep breath, filling your lungs with air.

Chan smiled and got off the bed, the door to the room opening as the maids timidly shuffled into the room. They carefully helped you up and into the bath, while others stripped the bed of the soiled sheets, placing fresh ones on.

You were in a daze, as you slowly came down from the clouds, the fuzzy feeling slowly dissipating as you were bathed once more within the lavender bath. The maids helped you into another gown and helped you back into bed, Chan already waiting for you.

You snuggled into his large frame, your eyes drooping in exhaustion. Chan cradled you to him, his arms rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You decided in that moment, in your post coital brain, that you were happy to have taken this journey to another realm, to where you met Chan. Now you were queen, nobody being able to come after you, not even your father, Odin himself.

You quickly succumbed to sleep, your dreams filled with the future you and Chan would build together, feeling at peace at last.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

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javier-pena · 1 year ago

Text

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

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