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nsharks · 2 months ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.2k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

"Hold him close to your chest, or he'll jump out of your arms. Here—like this."

Blue gently cradles the rabbit, then carefully tucks him into Ari's arms, guiding his hands to scoop under Grim's fluffy rear. She can't help but find it amusing that the boy who had taken her riding on such a large animal yesterday looks so wary holding a harmless bunny. A giggle bubbles up, and she bites her lip to keep it in.

"He's so... squirmy."

Blue keeps her hand on Grim, reassuring both the rabbit and him. "He's just ready for his breakfast. Want to help me feed him?"

"Sure."

Blue leads Ari to the hutch where the other rabbits are. She explains her morning routine, showing him how to supply the rabbits with enough grass, leaves, and berries to keep them healthy and plump. Not long ago, she was explaining this to Twix—the very person she forgot to say good morning to in a rush to find Ari outside. This time around, she wonders if Ari is genuinely interested or just being polite. She finds herself stealing glances at his face, studying his expressions perhaps longer than she should. His almond-shaped eyes and dark pink lips catch her attention.

He's cute.

It's not the first time the thought has crossed her mind since these strangers appeared. Cute like the men in her magazines, though he's not quite a man. Not in the way Ghost is. But he's taller than her by a head and two years older, evident in the notch on his throat and the deeper timbre of his voice.

But it doesn't matter. They are only here for a few days.

Blue closes the hutch and rocks on the soles of her boots. "Well, that was probably boring, huh? We could, um, go hunting if you want. Or to the pond. It's fun to swim there. Or maybe—" She pauses, mentally sifting through the limited activities available, frustration creeping in as none of them seem particularly impressive.

"This wasn't boring. Now I know rabbits are just as friendly as horses." He smiles.

"They are... except when Grim gets mad. Then he can be a bit of a jerk. Like if you accidentally step on his tail."

"I'd be pretty pissed if someone stepped on my tail, too."

"You don't have a tail."

"It's just a joke."

"Oh..." she fidgets with a strand of hair. "Right."

"The pond sounds good. It is fucking hot." Ari blows out a breath and swipes at the back of his neck.

"I know. So hot. Hot as balls."

Ari raises an amused brow. "Yeah, uh, hot as balls. Are you allowed to go by yourself, or do we need to ask your dad?"

"I get to do what I want," she lies easily with a shrug. "Buuuuut, we can ask Twix to go with us."

As long as Twix is with her, she suspects she can get away with not asking Ghost, who luckily is hunting with his old captain. It's not that he seems distrusting with these people as he did those first few months with Twix. Rather—she isn't thrilled about him knowing every little thing she does. She's never had anything just to herself.

Twix is sitting on the porch, looking rather deep in thought as she skins a squirrel. Her hair is long, curtaining her face. When Blue asks if she wants to go to the pond, she agrees easily, claiming she has been meaning to cut her hair anyway with the encroaching warmth of summer. Nereida joins, too.

Even early, the air is sticky, and the pond is cool and inviting. Ari rips his shirt off and jumps in without even a second to waste. Blue usually swims in her underwear and shirt, but she hesitates with her thumb in the belt loops of her jeans. She didn't consider that he would see her in her underwear.

A soft touch to her shoulder. It's Twix. "Want me to grab you shorts real quick?"

"Um... yes. Yes please."

She changes into the shorts behind a tree. There is an odd pit in her stomach when she gets in the water. She doesn't quite know what it is, but it's similar to how she feels when she's scared sometimes. Ghost always tells her fear is a useless thing. It doesn't keep you alive. So she ignores it, shoves it down deep, and swims over to Ari with a purposeful splash that even wets Twix, who sits at the edge sharpening her knife.

"Damn. That's gonna cost you."

A splash is given in return, and then they are playing. High noon bounces shimmering light off the water as she tries to keep up with him, but at one point he sneaks up on her and she ends up with a mouthful. Nereida spends her time picking at some bunches of rosemary and Twix cuts her hair. But Blue doesn't notice any of that too much. When the water stills and they pause to catch their breath, Ari climbs onto a rock and shakes out his wet hair. She is quick to find a perch beside him. Absentmindedly, she pinches the bottom of her wet shirt to keep it from sticking to her chest.

"Woah. What happened here?"

Ari leans over to tap her thigh.

"Oh—" she looks down at the thick scar, "I got shot there."

"Shit. You've been shot before?"

She nods and he moves his hand. "That's your battle scar."

"Battle scar?"

He smiles, eyes gleaming. "It's nice to have some place to swim so close by. Back at our old camp, there was lake but it was a few miles away, so my mom rarely let me go."

"I'm sorry, you know. About your mom. Mine is dead, too."

He half-smiles. "Thanks. I don't think about it too much anymore. My uncle and I have always been close so it helped to have him there." He nudges her shoulder. "You're damn lucky to have such a cool dad, huh?"

"Ghost?"

"Yeah, that guy is a beast. My uncle says they called him Ghost because no one could ever see him coming before suddenly, they were dead."

"Oh, yeah, he is super cool," she quickly agrees. "He has taught me a lot."

"Shit, really?"

Nibbling the inside of her cheek, she shrugs to feign indifference. "I know how to throw knives pretty well."

"I gotta see that." His smirk etches a light dimple into his cheek. Then, his eyes flash behind her. "So what's up with his girlfriend?"

"Huh?" A divot forms between her brows before she follows his gaze, landing on Twix, whose hair is now just past her shoulders. She is wetting it, running her fingers through the newly cut strands. "Oh—Twix. That is not his girlfriend. She is my friend."

"You mean they don't sleep together?"

"Like in the same bed?"

"That's usually where people fuck, yeah."

He seems ready to laugh. She frowns, head tilting as confusion hums in her chest. "You mean like sex?"

He nods. "You know what that is, right?"

"Yeah, of course. I know all about it."

"You know they're probably doing it, right?"

"Ghost and Twix? No—no," she forces a laugh. "I mean, sometimes I catch him staring at her all weird. But I don't think—I mean, they hardly like each other and she is my friend, really, not his. He used to make me stay away from her, even. But I mean, they do spend a lot of time together now. It's usually to practice fighting and defense. Not to have...sex."

"Don't they share a room?"

"Just right now, because you guys are here."

Ari chuckles. "You really think they aren't fucking in there? She's really pretty. There's no way they aren't."

Blue looks back at Twix. Blue's fingers curl into the soaked fabric of her top. Her eyes flick back to him. "She would've told me if they were."

"If you say so."

Your thumb throbs in rhythm with the steady pump of Kyle's arms. Despite pressing it into your palm to dull the pain, the ache persists. You had nicked it while sawing off your hair, and now the taste of blood lingers in your mouth. You were still lapping at the painful pulse when the three men arrived to the pond, carrying a neon orange inflatable raft. They want to test it out on the water before embarking on the 35-kilometer journey across the channel.

It is the third day of their presence and you can honestly say you've grown more comfortable, given that Kyle has gone hunting with you a few times now. He is easy to talk to, along with Nereida. Price—however—doesn't seem intrigued by you, or maybe you are insignificant in comparison to the rest that is on his mind. That's fair. You don't all need to be friends.

They've been spending most of their time gathering food. Ghost has been helping Price hunt deer to skin and dry into jerky they can take with them. Nereida showed you a patch of wild strawberries she found yesterday, boiling them down into jams before canning them. By having food with them, they will save time from having to hunt along the way. In perfect conditions, it would be a straight path, and they could make it to the Swiss mountains within a month or two. But it won't be a straight path, and obstacles are bound to hinder them.

Kyle audibly growls and straightens, wiping at his percolated brow. "This chamber just isn't inflating."

"It must have a hole somewhere. Check the seams," Price says.

Ghost flips the half-filled raft over with ease, running his fingers along the PVC. "Here." He taps what must be a minuscule puncture because you can't see it from where you sit.

They patch it up with the little adhesive they have. The unease is noticeable as Kyle keeps pumping in air; they only have enough to cover a few holes, if they come across more. Finally, the six-person raft is full and they toss it onto the pond. Just the sight gets you thinking of all the variables they have to think of on the open water: the weather, currents, temperature. You had a friend in high school who swam across it once. She didn't get even halfway but having to pulled out, vomiting, and near-hypothermia. Open seawater is different than a pool. Unpredictable and quick to change.

"It seems sturdy." Nereida winds an arm around her husband's waist, pressing a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Don't worry about it."

"As long as it stays sturdy."

"It will," she assures him.

The cut has crusted over by the time evening settles and you have to will yourself not to pick at it. You find yourself alone with the horse, watching the sun set behind the trees, as everyone else eats.

"You probably don't like being tied up here, huh? You'd rather be running around." The coarse mane engrosses your fingers. Cherry bobs her head and a wet muzzle brushes your elbow. It tickles and you smile softly. "I wonder what will happen to you once they leave," you whisper. "Horses can't fit in a raft, huh?"

"No, they can't."

A hand presses into her neck beside yours, the person's arm extending over your shoulder. You crane your neck at Kyle but his eyes are on the animal, thoughtful, brows lowered. You wet your lips and step to the side to bring more space between your bodies.

"Not hungry either?" you ask.

Finally he looks at you, lips quirked at the side. "Nah. I had a big lunch." He stops petting her and crosses his arms, chin tilting. "Ever ridden a horse before?"

"Once or twice. As a kid."

His eyes almost lean dark green in the cast of orange light, but it must be a mere illusion. "Care to go for a ride?"

His eyebrow rises expectantly. You glance back at the cabin and then at Cherry. "Why not?"

He instructs you how to get on. You grip the knob of the saddle and flex your core, hoisting yourself with more strength than you've had to use in a few days. Kyle sits behind you and grips the reins after untying her. The last time you were on a horse was for a friend's birthday party; you trekked through a ranch on a white pony. Cherry is much taller than that one was, or maybe you're not fond of being so high up. You thread your fingers through her mane.

It is a silent ride at first as you try to ignore the sting on your butt, unused to firm leather seat. He must notice your discomfort because he tells you to relax and lean back. You do, until your spine brushes against his chest. It helps a little.

Cherry trots calmly through the trees, towards the circle of stumps that marks the east.

"Do you think she will be able to take care of herself?" you break the quiet.

"I'm sure she will be fine. Smart girl, huh, Cherry?"

The sun has disappeared but it isn't quite dark yet. "Are you scared?"

A breathy chuckle emits from behind you. He must realize what you are referring to—scared for the journey. "Yeah, always. I mean—I'm scared about Ari. He's the last family I got, and as old as he thinks he is, he's still young and naive. I still have to make choices for him."

"I was terrified of losing Joseph," you admit, and swallow. "He was so young and fragile. It felt like...like trying to keep an egg from cracking when your hands are made of stone. But at least I never had to take him to another country."

"That was your nephew? Joseph?"

You nod.

"Tell me about him."

You rack your brain. "Well, he was seven. And he..." You smile to yourself. "He was the pickiest eater in the world, even when we were all starving. I could not get him to eat meat unless I practically burned it. And he liked to look at bugs. I did, too, when I was young. I used to dig up worms when it rained to show him." He hums a gentle laugh behind you. You find yourself lost in the thought of it for a second. "Sometimes I...I think about how once I die, there will be no one left to remember those little things about him. Then, he will be completely gone, you know?"

You don't know why you're telling him this. You shake your head. "Sorry."

"Don't be. We gotta talk about shit like that or else we'll go crazy."

"I'm pretty sure I'm already crazy."

"Probably." A deer passes to the left and Cherry startles, but he is quick to soothe her with a flick of the reins and a stern—easy. She settles. "Are you scared?" he asks after a moment.

"Of what?"

"Of traveling so far."

"Well, I don't know if Ghost..." you trail off, absorbing the tone of his voice. You stiffen. "Wait, what do you mean?"

"I mean how we're all leaving in a month."

"Wait—stop." You grip his hand over the rein with more force than necessary, urging him to bring Cherry to a halt. You twist your spine and gape at him. "What are you talking about?"

He eyes you with a frown, and rubs his neck. "Shit. I thought he already told you."

"No, he didn't. Tell me," you demand.

He clears his throat. "He, uh, agreed to come this morning, but only if we take another month to prepare and shit. Get his daughter ready, sort things out."

You try not tremble in anger as his words sink in, clenching your hands as your breath picks up. "Take me back," you breathe out, brain racing. "I want to go back now."

The ride back is silent. You feel shaken. Your nail digs deep into the nick on your thumb unthinkingly until there is a smear of blood over your fingers. The others are getting ready for bed when the two of you return, moon bright. You bite your tongue until Ghost leaves to his room, then you follow him, closing the door as gently as you can behind you.

He is halfway through peeling off his socks and stuffing them in his boots when you approach. "What happened to being a man of your word?"

He looks up, resting his palms on his parted knees, looking far too relaxed for your liking.

When he doesn't respond, you add, "You were supposed to tell me. You said you fucking would."

Your voice is low but harsh.

He stands, a calm understanding washing through his eyes. "I was about to tell you."

You throw up your arms but try to stay quiet. "Bullshit. You're just saying that now. You've had all day to tell me."

"I was waiting for the right time."

"You think I can't handle it," you accuse, an ugly snarl on your face. "That I don't deserve to be apart of these conversations even after everything I have done for you, and for her. I saved her life! You get pissed at me for not telling you about stupid things, meanwhile you don't communicate something so important like we are leaving with them in a month to fucking Switzerland. Does Blue know? Or do you keep your own blood in the dark, too?"

He growls quietly and takes hold of your chin, tilting your gaze to his. His touch is firm but far from bruising. "I am not lying to you. I wanted to have a conversation right now, where it could just be us. And no—I haven't told her. How I explain this to my child is not your concern." There is a command in his voice that forces you to calm down some, but your breath is still warm through your nose. He moves his hand to gently thumb a strand of shortened hair off your forehead, staring at it for a second, before gripping your chin again. "There is nothing I think you cannot handle. Now, who told you about this?"

Blotches of red crawl over your cheeks. "It doesn't...it doesn't matter."

He is visibly unsatisfied. He taps his thumb against your chin. "Tell me."

"It was...Kyle," you concede in an exhale. "He assumed I already knew."

His eyes darken. "It wasn't his place to assume."

"He didn't mean to." You reach up to pry his hand off, and he relents, leaving your jaw feeling sore. You rub it. "Why a month?" You try to change the topic.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and looks away, jaw flexing. "She needs time. I want to prepare her for all possible outcomes. I still don't think she is ready, but that doesn't matter. There won't be another opportunity like this in the future. I have to make her ready." He sits down on the edge of the bed and sits his elbows on his thighs, collecting his thoughts before adding, "And the weather is a big factor. Just because we have means to get across the water doesn't mean it will happen safely. The current is most predictable in July and August. We will wait until then."

You mentally sort through everything he is saying, willing yourself not to linger on the fact that you are beyond scared. Scared to leave the place you have finally felt safe in. Scared to clearly be the odd one out again. A tag-along. Everyone else in this group has a loved one looking out for them. You have yourself. You don't know if you have Ghost, really—not when Blue is the one he loves. His allegiance can only go so far.

"Okay," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "A month, then. What about shelter? The nights will be our most vulnerable."

"We'll look for the safest places for the night. There'd be seven of us, so plenty of eyes to keep watch."

"And what if we run into a horde?"

"Well, we have plenty of ammo now for that." He flicks his eyes up to yours. "Thanks to you."

You nibble your cheek, palming your chest as if to calm your heart.

"A month," he reminds you. "We will account for everything."

"Okay," you say again. There is a tinge of embarrassment over your outburst, but he doesn't seem fazed, as if you hadn't just barged in the room yelling at him. "Okay."

A click of his tongue. "Any more questions?"

"Not...not for now, I guess."

A few silent beats pass. The tension has left the room, leaving you with a wave of fatigue. Ghost must notice because he rises, gesturing to the bed. "Go on, then."

The bed is yours again. Too exhausted to question it, you slip under the quilt, curling into a fetal position by the slanted ceiling. It's best to enjoy the warmth before you're back on the move. A week journeying through the woods was the worst you'd ever endured, barely surviving. Now, it'll be months, or however long it takes to reach the goddamn Swiss mountains.

The light flicks off. There is a groan in the mattress and heady warmth spills over you. Your eyes fly open. "What are you doing?"

"Getting some sleep."

You turn around to see him lying beside you, flat on his back, with his arms crossed behind his head. "Together?"

"Clearly neither of us fancies the floor."

You flush, feeling his firm thigh brush against yours. "Just... keep to your side."

"I'll be a gentleman, if you're worried."

"I'm not," you mumble. "How do you even sleep in that thing, by the way?"

"Like a baby."

"Don't you think it's weird that Kyle has seen you without it and I haven't?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Twix."

"And mental sanity doesn't suit you, Simon."

"Don't recall giving you permission to use that name."

"What, only your old captain gets to use it? How close were the two of you, exactly?"

Teasing him feels better than you're willing to admit.

He grunts. A pillow is thrashed against the side of your face. "Go to sleep."

"Yes, sir," you bite into the pillow.

Your instinct is to flinch closer to the edge, though it is difficult given the small size of the bed and the unnatural size of him. Your knees float off the mattress. Still, his sprawled-out position leaves points of connection. Your back, his elbow. Your feet, his calf. Small touches that do a surprisingly good job at soothing the mess in your brain.

You awake. Warm and rested.

Safe.

Morning light streams in, turning the backs of your eyelids red. Your face nudges forward until your nose brushes against fabric—a shirt. Awareness settles in slowly. Your toes stretch and brush against another set of toes. You realize you’re curled close against someone.

He’s still on his back, his right arm draped across your waist, fingertips resting on your exposed hip. Your breath hitches, and you do your best not to flinch. Your face is nuzzled into his chest, close enough to discern ribs from muscle. His steady breathing and gentle rumbles indicate he’s still asleep. You’re ready to peel yourself away when you notice your leg is on top of his, practically trapping him.

Fuck.

You stay still, devising a plan to extricate yourself without him noticing the position you're in. Then, in one swift motion, you leap up, removing all contact, and breathe hard as if ripped from a nightmare.

His eyes open and he swears. "Jesus. What was that?"

"Just a dream," you lie. "Sorry for waking you."

You jump out of the bed and practically run out before he can say anything; before he can realize how odd it'd be for you to have a dream when you haven't had one since... since staying in his room.

You lock yourself in the bathroom and grip the counter, knuckles whitening in the attempt to erode the feel of his warmth that seems to linger. A lump is forced down your throat as you lean back against the wall and close your eyes for a moment. When they reopen, you look down and lift your shirt, only to find the indent of strong fingertips brandishing your plush hip. Jesus. Your stomach knots and unknots.

"You didn't like that," you whisper to yourself. You brush your thumb over the marks, gently at first, then palming them hard as if to erase them. You drop your shirt and look at the mirror. "You did not like that."

Before someone can stumble upon you talking to yourself, you comb your fingers through tousled strands and slip out. It seems most others are awake. How could you and Ghost have slept so long? Usually, the two of you are up with the sun.

"Hey. Morning," you greet when you spot Blue on the porch, belly down, as she plays checkers with Kyle's nephew. She glances over her shoulder. Something in her bright eyes seems...off, but you can't put your finger on it.

"Hi. Is Ghost up yet?"

"Hm? Oh, uh—not sure. I didn't check, really."

"Okay." She looks back at the game and says nothing else. You feel as though she saw right through you. Or maybe that boy has told her everything. Surely he knows about Ghost's plans? Kyle had to have told him. Maybe that is why Blue seems upset, but like he said, it isn't your place to say anything.

You are itching for a hunt.

It feels urgent, for some reason. Like you want to get out of here before Ghost can be up, too. You find Kyle and he suggests that the two of you take Cherry so you can get go further south where he claims there is a meadow to look for deer. It is difficult to ride with him behind you and a bow on your back, so he wears it for you. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head.

"Awfully quiet this morning. Penny for your thoughts?"

"I talked to him," is what you give. "Last night."

"Ah. How'd that go?"

"It was fine. I mean, I am getting used to the idea."

"That's good. It'll be worth it, you know. Once we get there. Finally get to have a semblance of a normal life."

A normal life. You almost snort at the thought.

The morning grows longer, and not even the haircut can save you from the sweat that gathers. You make it to the meadow after an hour of horseback that leaves your thighs bristling. He helps you down and ties Cherry to a tree. You wade through tall, bright grasses that sway in the humid breeze. It looks vaguely familiar, stirring something in your gut that has your boots frozen for a moment.

Kyle looks back at you, noticing that you've stopped following. "Good?"

"I just—I think I've been here once before. When I was on my own. I came this way." Your eyes scan the surrounding trees, where the meadow feeds into the forest, and an a gnarly oak with distinctive branches catches your eye. "I definitely have been here. I slept in that tree."

You push into the meadow, shaking off the memory. Staying close to Kyle, you listen as he lightly shares memories from the military, careful not to startle any potential deer. He talks about his time in Afghanistan, mentioning that his brother was also there, but at a different base. Kyle didn't even know his brother had died until weeks later because he was out in the field.

"After Afghanistan is when I met Ghost the first time."

"Oh?"

He nods. "He was my lieutenant when I went to Russia. I was scared shitless of him at first. I mean, he had a bit of a reputation and I was only 22."

"He was good at what he did," you say.

"More than that. People said he was up to some shit outside of what he did, but that was just rumors."

You think you spot a streak of gold through the grass, but it is just a stalk of wild wheat. You look back at him. "What do you mean?"

"May have heard a thing or two about him killing a guy off-duty. Of course, unconfirmed, otherwise he wouldn't have been enlisted again."

He killed someone? Like actual murder? You're about to ask more, your mind flashing back to your face pressed against him an hour earlier. Then you spot a deer. Kyle sees it too and motions for you to stay quiet. Your boots are nearly silent as you draw an arrow, squinting to see clearer. There are three deer: an adult female and two fawns. You draw the string and aim for the adult, the easier target.

"I'll get the doe," you whisper.

"Gotcha."

The beady black eyes turn your way, and you hesitate for a moment. There's movement, a flash of grey, and the doe snaps her eyes in another direction. What is she looking at? Your brows furrow, arrow following her gaze, when the answer appears: a Grey launching toward the deer. The three deer run off, and you release the arrow, aiming for the Grey's head instead.

"Motherfucker. Ruined the kill," Kyle mutters.

You weave toward the corpse, surprised to see such a fast one alone, indicating a new infection. The stench is pungent, enveloping you in a thick cloud. You shudder. The Grey writhes, your arrow lodged in its neck instead of its brain. You draw another arrow and aim when a hand suddenly grips your shoulder.

"Twix," Kyle breathes in your ear.

"What?"

You look away from the Grey and follow Kyle's gaze, your eyes widening in horror as you realize the terrible smell isn't from this single creature. It's hundreds. A dark, grey mist that unfurls through the trees. A growing chorus of agony as their tattered bodies collide—some limping, others hurtling forward in a grotesque dance, but all converging on the meadow.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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bitterrfruit · 1 year ago

Note

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared �� already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

#bet his handprint is the size of a dinner plate #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

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serendippertyy · 9 months ago

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CELEBRATING EP 2 IN MY OWN TWISTED CRINGEFAIL WAY.....

❤️💛💙❤️💛💙

I love doing ponifications that push me out of my comfort zone where I have to find creative ways of doing it, pomni and ragatha being the only ones whose mlp designs didn't require too much brain power LOL

wasn't sure how to go about making caine w/o it looking too strange but bc he is based off those chattering teeth toys I wanted to retain that haha, and I thought bubble being a parasprite was too good to pass up 😅

jax is described as a "rabbitoid" so obvi he is a half rabbit half horse freak man uwu

zooble is a draconequus <3

gangle was so hard to get right but yeah she is a pegasus solely so I could add more ribbons lol

and this kinger is technically a knight chess piece now but hey that is literally a horse I HAD TO! 🤷

ALSO I feel like there would be a lack of cutie marks in this au- I think that works well with the idea of them all feeling like they have no meaning or purpose (even in a pony world they shall suffer,,,)

sooo YEAH some of these looked better in my head but I still had so so much fun! it is my only goal in life to ponify everything I can get my hands on, it is my love language!!

AND I LOOVE TADC the new episode is the only thing getting me through the week ❤️💛💙

#do yall like the logos frankensteined together i think it goes hard #my little pony #mlp #mlp fim #my little pony friendship is magic #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc pomni #tadc caine #tadc ragatha #tadc jax #tadc zooble #tadc gangle #tadc kinger #tadc fandom #tadc fanart #ponification #ponified #my art

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heavenbarnes · 7 months ago

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Million Dollar Baby

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: this is essentially a series of vignettes, at this point you’re the duncan-donaldson sugar baby, swearing, effective cheating (tashi approved), mild exhibitionism, face slapping (not with hands), unprotected sex, reader is pretty submissive, thee slightest tashi x reader, patrick mention.

Part one

it’s that part two to “i wanna make it (so badly)” that i kept harping on about! just wanted to prove to you all i could make good on something! enjoy! i still crave this man!

Born under a lucky star.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Art Donaldson plays tennis very well.

When you're around?

He's better.

O2 Arena, London, England. ATP men's singles finals.

Naturally the only way you'd ever get close to something like this was on her invitation.

Tashi had invited you.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We'll cover your flights and accommodation- it's important that you're there."

Yes, because you were sure you could sweet talk your way into a lesson with Lily at Buckingham Palace.

Obviously, obviously it wasn't about your silly little tennis lessons these days. But that was the front.

Rich neighbourhood, nosey neighbourhood.

"Tashi, I couldn't help but notice Art's Jeep drive past me as I left Pilates. Just who was that pretty young thing in his passenger seat?"

"She's Lily's tennis coach, he drops her off when she's had to stay late."

Yeah,

yeah.

Drops you off because your legs aren't their best when they've been over his shoulders for an hour.

It was a pretty good front.

So you found yourself courtside in a Lacoste skirt you'd never imagine owning. That's why you didn't own it, Tashi had left it on your bed among other items of clothing she expected to see you in.

Dress-up doll.

Her plaything.

Pulled out of your thoughts by the chorus of cheer, it was all directed to the movement you could just and only see out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson took the court with a kind of swagger that made your thighs tense under expensive material. His eyes took to the stands- sweeping over adoring eyes looking back at him.

And then he came to rest.

You could tell he looked at Tashi first, the way his shoulders straightened and the grip on his racquet became even tighter.

Miracle it didn't snap.

Then you felt him look at you, his eyes softened and the corner of his mouth turned up.

A smug smirk as he ran his tongue along his teeth.

And you began to think back on everything that lead you here.

You had found yourself in many precarious situations with Art.

And you were acutely aware of the fact you hadn't seen it.

You'd felt it- felt it against your thigh, the heat of your cunt,

fuck, you'd even felt it against the sole of your foot.

Ruined numerous pairs of Calvin Klein's in the process.

But you'd never seen it.

And it wasn't a topic of contention, it wasn't a 'you' thing per se.

It was actually the fact that Art about blacks out every time you make him cum, and that's through a good few layers of clothing.

The thought of getting it out and laying it against your bare skin? Putting it in your mouth? Putting it inside-

Even the the idea of it makes his eyes water. Blessing and a curse, really.

On one hand, he's guaranteed a mind-blowing orgasm.

On the other, it might only last a few seconds.

You were just happy to be there.

Art could give you everything or give you nothing and you'd lap it up every time.

Good girl.

Art looked good like this, he always looked good but there was something about this.

Sat on the couch, thighs spread, large hands balled up on his knees. When you were in this position- on your own knees before him, with reverence- he looked good.

He looked all consuming.

If you asked him, it wasn't a sight Art was used to, something something role reversal.

Your hands ran along the coarse hairs of his legs, ever-so-slightly getting closer to the bottom of his shorts.

(Post-tennis, still a little sweaty- heavy musk if you really got your face in there)

"We'll go as slow as you need, Art."

However he wants it, whenever he wants it.

Quarter to midnight on Tuesday, you were meant to be doing an ungodly load of laundry tonight. But then he'd looked at you, then he'd told you he 'needed' you.

Turns out whatever he wants looks a lot like what you want.

Obedience in spades.

He stopped you before your hands could go any further, opting to reach under the waistband himself. You were all the better for it, too focused on not giving up the extent of your excitement.

Was it weird to say you'd spent a lot of time imaging what his cock looked like?

Probably.

You reasoned it with the fact you knew Art spent a lot of time thinking about what happens under your pretty little tennis skirts. That and he'd seen it more times than you could count, these days.

Things always seem to go his way.

Your breath caught in your throat when Art hooked his thumb around the waistband, stretching the elastic so he could get it out.

Of course, of course it was as pretty as the rest of him.

Flushed pink at the tip, pale and creamy down the length of it. Kind of thing you need to get your lips around.

Banked for another day.

One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around the base- Art slapped his cock once, twice on your outstretched tongue.

"A-ahh, f-uck- okay-"

Nice and slow- can't have him blowing the top off just yet.

He couldn't really say you were helping the point. Sitting there, sitting pretty, primed and ready for whatever he wants next.

The sight along was enough material to tug his cock to for the rest of his life.

Let alone being faced with it.

Which is why he did just that- tugged his cock to it.

Long fingers wrapped around a long cock, twisting along the length of it, rolling the palm over the head. Sticky wetness catching in the centre of his palm as he drags it back along the shaft.

Your tongue stayed permanently outstretched, allowing him to slap the weeping tip right on it. If it wasn't your tongue, it was your cheek- wherever he could gain purchase with your skin without tipping himself over the edge.

Yet.

Eventually, Art came in filthy hot ropes across your face and the most minimal amount actually made it in your mouth.

Majority of it was painted across your cheeks, drawn up and sweet under your shining eyes. Bright smile stretched across your face beneath pearly little drops.

Pretty girl-

perfect girl.

"I'm sorry- I just need- oh, oh god- just need-"

Incoherent.

A bleary-eyed, incoherent Art.

Chest pressed tight to your back, shorts around his thighs- your little skirt bunched up tight in his fist.

"I need this- I need this- y'so good to me- I need this-"

Yeah, seems like it.

You'd only managed 15 minutes on the court before it'd come to this. Art had thrown his racquet to the wind and ushered you around the side of their changing shed- the same one where he first,

You know?

Yeah.

You'd actually headed for the door but he couldn't wait that long, pulled you between the wall and the tall fence that circled the court. You were both nestled in beneath an Arabian Gingerbread Palm of sorts- naturally.

Art had slipped your underwear to the side and mounted you like a fucking dog.

Desperate.

The sound of his taut thighs slapping against yours was fucking ludicrous, the sight would’ve managed something worse.

He had a look across his face that said he knew this was pathetic- that there was no way he should’ve been rutting into you in broad fucking daylight.

But it’s not like you could see that look, not when his face was pressed into your neck.

“Ohh, you just- you just feel so good.”

Was he crying?

You looped an arm around the back of his head, slowly stroking your nails against his scalp as you struggled to keep yourself from buckling under the pressure.

Your other arm stretched out in front of you, palm braced on the wall as Art continued the relentless piston of his hips.

Through tears even.

“Feels so good, Art- making me feel so fucking good- just rub my clit, touch me a little.”

In an instant, his fingers were under the front of your skirt as he rubbed haphazard circles around the apex of your cunt.

“Like this? You like this? Tell me I’m doing a good job, please.”

Jesus Christ.

“Yes- doing a good job, you always do so good- gonna’ make me cum.”

And like you’d said the magic word, Art was going rigid. Hips slamming into you with a couple brutal and unyielding thrusts, less precision than you were used to with him.

Til’ he was dripping out of you.

His fingers kept going.

Until your face was pressed was pressed against the changing shed wall, sure to leave a lovely pattern of stucco on your skin.

Until you were babbling and canting your hips back onto his hand as drool ran down the side of your cheek.

Until you even realised that he’d dropped to his knees and was running his tongue through your cunt from the back, massive hands splitting your cheeks.

You reached a hand back to grip his hair, pulling his face even further into the sodden lips of your pussy as you fucked yourself back onto his tongue.

“That’s it- lick my cunt, Art. See how good you taste?”

Your ears stopped ringing long enough for you to hear it.

He makes that noise when he cums.

Again.

Tashi watched you both drag your feet back into the house- a sheen of sweat over you both that could’ve looked post-tennis.

To anyone else but her.

She let you pass without issue, but a fine hand pressed to Art’s chest as he tried to follow you to the showers.

“If I ever see you cum before her again, there will be trouble. Understood?”

There was no use explaining that you didn’t mind, that you kind of liked when you riled him up- made him lose control.

That he probably deserved to feel good.

Instead, you heard him murmur an apology before he finally got you under the monsoon shower head in the enormous guest bathroom.

Three more good ones on his tongue, just for good measure.

It was a miracle the Donaldson-Duncan mantelpiece didn't crumble under the immense weight of success.

Trophy, after trophy, after photo, after-

"Did Tashi meet Obama?"

Art chuckles over your shoulder as he watches you cradle the photo, eyes wide with admiration. Devotion?

"She did, he invited her to the White House the year before we got engaged."

"Your invite get lost in the mail?"

"It wasn't about me."

Is anything ever about him?

As you continued your impassioned scan of their family treasures, you came to a complete stop at a 5x7 frame.

"Is this a young Art Donaldson?"

You could feel his eyes on you as you lifted the frame with the same gentle touch as you'd lent to Tashi's photo.

This time, your fingers gingerly brushed over the glass- almost as if you could feel the crop of golden curls beneath your fingertips.

"You've never seen any of my earlier games? Junior doubles at the US Open?"

Taking your eyes off a very-pretty-young Art, you threw him a look that said something like 'be so serious.'

"No, I wasn't much for watching tennis as a- what? Six year old?"

Oh.

That's right.

It was impossible for Art to forget the elephant in the room- call him a dirty old man but Art was always thinking about the pretty young thing that he liked best in his lap.

But sometimes he forgot.

"Well, that's me the day Patrick and I won."

"Who's Patrick?"

Oh.

And just like that he's chubbing up in his pants.

Art Donaldson currently exists in a space and time where he has something that Patrick doesn't.

And you're none the fucking wiser.

How could you be? You're still enamoured with the shaggy golden curls and the unspoken pull of a backwards cap.

"Yeah, you would've driven me wild back in the day."

There's a wry smile that catches on the corner of his mouth, right at the same moment he takes the photo from you. You're forced back to reality, present day-

The one where Art's a few years older but still as devastatingly handsome.

"Would've?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, feeling a firm chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Feeling crowded.

Feeling caught.

"As if I don't already."

Art spends the evening reminding you of your place.

That, despite the age between you, he's still the one that runs rings.

Contrary to popular belief, Art Donaldson has bad days.

Unfortunately for just about everyone in the O2 Arena, he chose today.

Well, the fates decided on today.

As he thrashed his racquet through the air, you could've sworn you heard the 'woosh' it was sure to have made from all the way up here.

Tense, you were slumped in your seat as you couldn't escape the voice in your head-

the one that was telling you your luck had run out.

The one that still sounds a lot like Tashi Duncan.

"COME ON!"

Tashi's voice actually sounded from beside you, making you jump out of your skin.

Naturally, you began searching for Art- searching for something to do, someway to fix this. What was left for you if you couldn't be lucky.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Nowhere to be found- but you found Art, found his eyes.

Looking at you.

Pleading with you.

Come on.

There was that pathetic little gaze you'd come to know. When he wanted something, when he needed something.

Art Donaldson always gets what he wants.

You jumped a little when you felt Tashi's hand rest on your knee where it crossed over the other. Perfect manicure drumming against your kneecap, gripping once.

Gripping twice.

Gently, prying it away from the other till they were side by side.

Thighs being forced apart.

Suddenly acutely aware that Art's eyes weren't on your face anymore.

They were on Tashi's hand.

Acutely aware that, among all the pretty things she'd laid out on your bed this morning, there wasn't a pair of panties among them.

That same perfect manicure between your spread thighs, patting you once, twice- right where her husband had made a home.

Under a lucky star.

Art Donaldson had a penchant for getting what he wants.

With an unmatched performance, the arena was turned on its head. Neon green blitz across the court, landing right where he wanted it to.

The crowd cheered his name to a tune only he knew;

How to be a winner.

All guts, all glory.

The deafening commotion chewed you up but it was Art that spat you out. Amongst the noise, the fury, you found him stood staring right at you.

Expectantly.

The weight of responsibility on your chest. Your luck hadn't run out, it was only just the beginning.

To the victor go the spoils.

Somewhere, a rabbit was missing it's foot.

#did i want this to be more? yes #did i just have to pony up and fucking post it? yes #did i have to stop beating myself up for it not being as good as the first one? oh fuck yeah #anyway have at it!#art donaldson x reader #art donald x fem reader #challengers x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers smut

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saladscream · 22 days ago

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Merlin’s legs are ludicrous.

Bewildering.

Improbable.

They do not function the way legs should. Arthur is adamant about that. Merlin’s legs are long and lanky and laughable. They lend him a sort of fearless, thoughtless, coltish gait that is uniquely Merlin.

They’re also bendy in a manner that simply doesn’t belong on a full-grown, self-respecting adult. The way the man crouches at the campfire or sits in the grand staircase or curls up in a window seat is decidedly childlike and artless. And yet there’s something about it all, some impossible, raw grace that makes Arthur’s throat feel just a little warm and tight when he sees the long, lithe limbs folded into unlikely (and some might be tempted to say unseemly) positions.

Not that he could hold anything against Merlin’s legs, for these are good legs, however classically inelegant they might be. They’re indefatigable legs, for one thing. Arthur will candidly admit that Merlin can run like a rabbit when properly motivated. A rabbit that would sometimes trip up over roots or tufts of grass, of course. But still, the man can run fast and for a long time, which is always an appreciable skill.

The other thing about them… Well, there is no other thing, really. Arthur has never seen them bare, contrary to the manservant’s other body parts that he feels free to pass a judgement on. He has never caught the long limbs outside of their ever-tired trousers, so he cannot pronounce himself further than to say that they’re strange legs. Long strange legs.

Long strange legs that seem rather hardy.

And flexible.

As Merlin sits idly on a low wall while the knights horse around, Arthur cannot take his eyes off of the man’s posture: the soles of his shapeless boots are pressed flat on the side of the wall, spread thighs jutting out and knees wide apart. There’s something almost indecent to it. Something obscenely inviting. It makes Arthur’s breath feel a little raspy and his middle… coiled for action. The perfect height of that wall is what makes the tempting pose so compelling, probably. Arthur can actually see himself slotting perfectly into place, his hands first landing on the knees and then slowly riding up the outer thighs until they find their rightful place on those narrow hips. That would lead him to being closer to Merlin than he’s ever been in all the years they’re lived and breathed and fought together. Messily enmeshed. Terribly entangled. Ideally entwined. Sometimes…

Arthur is jolted out of his criminal musings when a passing Gwaine thwaps the waterskin out of Merlin’s inattentive hands. It splashes into a nearby stone trough, much to the knight’s amusement. Merlin tsks, shakes his head at the immaturity and murmurs something unflattering – then rolls up one of his sleeves to fish the thing out of the water.

Ah yes, Arthur thinks as the usual guilty tingle flutters down his spine.

The forearms.

Tagged: @miyriu @neptunesyellowsands @dollopole @shuukichan @merlininthedogpark @kintsugikid-moonysversion @toomanyfanficsbruh

1 - Merlin's eyes

2 - Merlin's lips

3 - Merlin's hands

4 - Merlin's throat

5 - Merlin's hair

6 - Merlin's ears

7 - Merlin's legs

8 - Merlin's forearms

9 - Merlin's chest

10 - Merlin's penis

#merthur #bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin x arthur #merthur ficlet #merlin ficlet #anatomy of a manservant #merlin's long legs

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one. CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| you're here! Word count: 5317 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig This fic on AO3

— You’re really quiet, little princess.

König isn’t ashamed of staring at you the whole horse ride. He isn’t ashamed of touching you, his precious treasure – cupping your breasts through that pathetic excuse of a corset, trying to feel of your legs through the billions of skirts, his touches sprawling across your skin like bruises. He is a soldier in all regards – his touches are far from gentle, far from how he should behave with his bride. You feel like a piece of meat being presented for him to devour. Like an unwilling sacrifice for a benevolent god.

— Should I scream then?

Snarkiness isn't something that the princess should have – but it's the only weapon you have, although you are not sure if you can even use it. Emperor is laughing, and it is supposed to be a good thing – you were trained to receive such reactions, like a little dog standing and doing tricks on command; you were taught to strive for smiles on the faces of others. But König doesn’t allow you to see his smile, but König laughs all the time while describing to his soldiers the things he wants to do to you. It is almost surely, that he doesn’t think you know his language – you wish you didn’t know.

— I can give you a reason to scream. — You shall not threaten a… — I’m not threatening you, kleine Katzen. With a good time, maybe. — What are you referring to? — That I would love nothing more but to rip your skirt off and show your cunt a royal treatment, princess.

Emperor has a foul mouth, wandering eyes, and grabby hands – he behaves like a drunk man in a tavern, even though you have never once been in a tavern, and the only drunk men you barely saw were the castle guards on various celebrations. He doesn’t act like a glorious king from the romance novels – and you don’t think that you ever read a novel about a king or an emperor, not about princes and glorious knights. People with this much power don’t deserve love, they already have everything they have – so why would he kidnap you?

You turn away from him, the obscenity of his mouth makes your whole face burn. You are trying to hide yourself in your hands, you want to grasp something like a little fan or a handkerchief – everything to sustain your dignity. You are wearing the princess’s name and you have to behave like her – even if you don’t think that she would care about how you are behaving yourself. The dread of being exposed lingers in your chest, the only thing that doesn’t allow you to scream and launch on him like a wild cat. Rules and modesty tie you down stronger than any corset could.

Like a rabbit caught in the hunter’s trap – you steal looks at the nature around you, excited and terrified to see it for the first time – not the perfect greenery of the castle garden, but an untamed nature. You saw the city for the first time – your capital, not burned and agonized under the empire’s boot, but eerie quiet. The city doesn’t know your face, the princess was hidden, kept in the tower as a means to escape the burden of marriage proposals and possible wars for the sake of securing her beauty. Nobody here knows you for your face, and for them, it’s just the empire’s knights, a power from a country too foreign to be worried about, and a random kidnapped girl in a dissarranged dress and tears streaming down her face.

A hand on your waist secured you in place. No matter how much you squirm and cry, try to forget all the filthy nonsense he is whispering in your ear, you are forced to listen – and you want to cry every time his face hovers over yours. His hands are touching you, too much for comfort, your are still wrapped in his cape, but it’s a very small mercy for your torn dress and fragile body.

The road is long and short at the same time. Your kingdom was bordering one of Northern Empire territories, but it’s days away – you never once thought that having the Empire right on your border would be such a nuisance, that it would allow them to simply take whatever they want from your tiny country – the rules of politics are never applying to those in power and, unfortunately, you found out the worst way possible. The road is treacherous, with people surrounding you, with soldiers going through the beheaded country like it’s nothing. You were biting your lips the entire first day of the ride, trying not to cry – you do not want to give him the pleasure of seeing your distress, but you can’t help but sob every time he exits the cabin to yell at his soldiers or laugh at something.

You are not tied up, they trust you too much – they all know you would not be able to run, seeing just a helpless princess, a little war trophy of their emperor. The war trophy without the war, just a doll for him to enjoy. You steal a few glances at him – his spread legs that make you wonder how the poor horse even can handle him riding it, his mighty body, and his muscular arms. He could wrestle a dragon, you think – he could lift up the whole carriage and bring you back to the capital like this. He is a cocky bastard, not even having his sword in his hand whenever you move too much – too confident that this weak princess would not be able to resist him. You don’t want to fall from the horse and so you freeze in your tracks, even when they hit a small pause on the journey.

You can’t, of course – your hands are trained to hold clothes, to braid hair and, sometimes, fetch the water buckets – but you are mostly proficient in holding books, turning pages and embroidering. You can make tea, you can support the conversation, you can faint dramatically whenever the right opportunity occurs, but the ride has been happening for a few hours already, and you fainted three times – for specific reasons, of course, but fainting now would surely be a bit too much.

— Is little princess too tired to hold herself straight?

König chuckles in your ear, hands pushing you against his body. You don’t want to say anything, you’d rather continue your ride until you’re completely exhausted – books were never talking about how hard it is to ride a horse, that your rear would feel numb after the first hour, and your head would be bouncing on every little bump on the road. You never thought that the roads of your kingdom were so terribly maintained – and never thought it would be such a problem.

You grit your teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of confirming just how weak you are – but he stops his horse once you are not responding, a hand slides under your hips to help you get out from the damned animal. You swear to god that you will never ride this foul creature again – but the god, as always, stays silent.

— What is it?

— Princess isn’t used to long detours. We’d have to stop before dawn if we want to keep this a secret for now. — Could travel for a few more hours before it’s too bright.

His second-in-command is a weird man, no doubt. Tall, broad, wearing armor with tiger prints all over the metal – although you never saw a tiger in real life, only on various illustrations of the books you were reading for the Princess. He is painfully informal in a way that makes you wonder how he can keep his head on his shoulders – surely, if he’d talk this way to a king, he wouldn’t be such a profound member of the army. König only shakes his head, pointing at you as the reason to stop – as you begged him to get off this bloody thing. — I need my princess with all innards intact. Especially the soft ones.

Emperor laughs, cupping your ass through the skirts. He somehow managed to grope your softness without breaking the corsage, and you’d feel thankful for him, but the dress was ruined anyway – all the hard work of redoing it over and over, every time you had to manage to squish the princess inside of the harsh corset and billion skirts, every little detail you were thinking through together…it feels somehow suitable, to wear a destroyed dress. Fake princess deserves fake luxury, but even the modesty he allows you to have with his coat wrapped around you feels forced.

Stopping right now, when you feel numb and your legs are getting weak and squishy like that weird transparent foreign delicacy, is very considerate of him. So much so you don’t even want to acknowledge it, hoping he’d just continue to go forward until all the traces of your past are gone. You’re too tired to consider anything from escaping to even opening your eyes. Suddenly, being on a horse of this size doesn't sound like something out of a fairytale. Suddenly, you realize that the horses are tall.

— What’s wrong, princess?

— I’m not going down.

You are sitting, frozen on top of his horse. One of your hands is keeping his coat wrapped securely around your body while the other squeezes the reins, hoping not to fall miserably to the ground. You hear soldiers laugh – the embarrassment spreads around your cheeks when you understand that a true princess would have horse riding lessons. You two never did – it would give you too much freedom, and your castle would never accommodate to large grounds of free roaming to keep a princess and her loyal maiden entertained. You can only hope they won’t think that the absence of your riding lessons would be too suspicious – and you also hope that he would just allow you to never jump down to the ground that feels horrifyingly far from you.

— Do you wish to run with my horse?

— Yes, your Highness. — Run, then. I’ll be waiting, little princess.

There is a laugh in his voice – you squeeze the reins and try to holster them, maybe kick the foul creature to the side so it would take the hint and start running in the direction of the nearest forest. Maybe you would get lucky, and the horse would drop you in front of the house of a kind forest witch that would take you as her student – you can cook, and you can read, so, naturally, any witch would be happy to have you as a disciple. Maybe you will get even more lucky, and the horse will kick you in the head after dropping you, finishing your misery in a tragic road accident. Not a honorable death, but a quick and interesting one. The horse remains frozen in place – just like you. König gently caresses its face, giving it something to eat – an apple, perhaps, a nice and tasty fruit, or sugar cubes, the delicacy that the princess would often indulge in but never gave you, or something of a…ah, this is it – you are starting to get jealous of his horse. Mayhaps, death is the only choice for you now.

— I will run.

— Of course you will.

— Sir, should we prepare the archers?

— Don’t know it yet. Maybe the princess escape would be too swift for them.

You feel your whole face burn – they laugh, they all laugh, looking at you like a piece of meat, a funny joke between them. You don’t want to fall from the horse, and you don’t want to stand here either – but every time you look down at the ground that is so, so far away, you can only shake in your seat. You feel like crying once again – and this is what brings you to the edge. With a deep sigh and shaking hands, you jump down swiftly, your eyes closed and your legs getting tangled in the various skirts, dragging you down. ***

The emperor had an understanding of what he was getting into when he kidnapped a princess. Princesses, pretty and young ones especially, are mysterious creatures that should be carefully studied by the imperial scientist in order to determine how in hell they can even exist without killing themselves on something stupid three times per day. This one, however, was a crowned ruler of weird girls – sometimes throughout the journey, he was thinking about returning her to the king and choosing another one. Then he remembered that he beheaded the king – and so, the bloody dot was sealed in the history of relationships between Northern Empire and this tiny shithole in the middle of nowhere.

Besides, the princess was too adorable to really throw her out. She is smart – for someone like her, anyway; her snarkiness combined with the primal fear of him and his men made him feel strong, more significant than before. It’s funny, in a way – König had defeated countless great warriors and spent his life turning the tiny Empire into the most powerful nation on the blonde, and yet, he never once felt this achieved as when he held the princess in his arms. The emperor never thought of marriage as a necessity, his whole magic endeavors securing that he would never have to worry about leaving an heir or having someone else to rule – but the loneliness can hit you like a royal stallion bred for the purpose of battery ramming into castle doors, and you can find yourself yearning for something that you never thought you’d want. Speaking of royal horses…

The princess is cute, the princess is dumb, and the princess is the most weird and perfect creature in the whole wide world. Makes him wonder just what was you doing in your little castle with your little servants, running around like ants under your dainty heel. You are snarky to him when you know that he is too busy to strike you and too tired to care about his opinion – he likes that about you, little yawns and feeble attempts to appear strong in front of him. He doesn’t, however, like the way you are frozen on top of his horse. He needs his wife helpless, yes, dependant on him in everything – and he also needs her to ask for help when needed, not…well, not jumping from the height of a royal horse in that stupid dress of yours.

God, hive him strength.

König, the ruler of the Northern Empire, biggest royal regime on the globe, thought that he overcame his anxiety when he was young, so long ago, he forgot how fast his heart can beat when the situation is going out of his control. He remembers this dreadful feeling now when that stupid brain of yours has decided that jumping from a horse is a good idea. He is fast, swift enough to catch you before you fall to the ground, and he squeezes your hips enough to hear the crack of that stupid dress construction.

He has to stop himself from yelling. From putting you in your place and slapping you across that perfect face of yours – never the one to beat women, König feels like spanking the shit out of you now. His eyes are flashing with anxiety, and he grabs your shoulders, putting you in front of him – you can’t see his face, covered by his mask, and it’s a small grace for someone like you. He is scary when angry, nostrils flashing with rage when he thinks that you’d rather break your neck than ask him for help.

— Made others set the camp for tonight.

Horangi is as perfect as a knight can be – his friend, his partner in crime, one of the only ones who still can survive his temper and not be intimidated by it. He can see the worry in his eyes when König is pushing the little princess down to his hold, draping the various skirts across his hands to rip them away – and he quickly yells at the other soldiers who produced the operation, making them run in various directions to collect wood, stones and set up the tents for tonight. They have to move away from the popular roads, even though nobody in this kingdom would be strong enough to hurt them anyways – but this operation should be a secret, at least relatively, until the princess is secured as his empress, and her body is sprawled across his sheets, withering from pleasure and…

Ah, Scheisse. König cannot stay mad at her when the mere thought of her smile makes his dick twitch in his pants. He survived through horribly throbbing erection against the metal plates of his armor for the whole ride, the small mercy of not having her soft body press against him directly. It didn’t stop him from wanting more, from whispering filthy things, completely undeserving of your virtue. You are bringing him down to his knees – even an emperor is just a man when a pretty girl looks at him, and even at is age, he could feel like a young lover searching for his bride’s hand.

Oh, but König would love something more than just your hand.

He should be thankful to his knights for how quickly they made a tent for him to secure the dignity of the first moment between a man and his sweetheart. He usually does everything himself, not wanting to make a lady in waiting out of his knights, but he enjoys their help now – he surely won’t be able to prepare for sleep with his wild cat of a bride in his hands. You are unusually active for a princess, trying to get out of his hands, kicking him with your adorable legs, still wrapped in a ruined skirt. Perhaps you were so mad at him for destroying your dress – he gets it, knowing how sensitive ladies are about this. He’d buy you a new one right away, but, for your stupidity, you deserve to wear only his coat until they are inside the borders of the Empire.

— Did you hit your head before I got you, princess? What were you thinking? — You told me to run. I did, Your Royal Highness.

He pinches his nose through the mask, not believing just how arrogant you sound – he wants to push you down, to open that dumb skirt of yours and give your precious ass a few spanks before setting you down, making you sit on the ruined muscle until you’d learn your lesson. The king was definitely not punishing you enough if you still think that you can talk to your betters (and elders) like this.

— I dared you to run. Thinking you’d accept the consequences with the dignity of a royal lady.

— Why don’t you kill me then? For belittling your dignity.

You look too snarky for his liking – he can see how terrified you are, little shakes of your hands and tears in your eyes. You are provoking him, picking the dragon with a stick so he’d burn you to a crisp. König knows that the customs of your kingdom value a good death over everything and just how much you’d love to fall into the grasp of a common tragedy. He also knows that he will not bury his bride before they are even married.

It’s only natural that the emperor grasps the front of your dress, the edges of the corset you tried to tie down to save some of your dignity. The fabric rips with ridiculous ease, all the gold spent on making it runs with the speed of a thread being torn. Suddenly, your front is exposed, even the underwear is not enough to conceal your privacy. König indulges in the view of your open skin, glossy from sweat and so, so delicious in dim magical light erupting from an artificial candle. He knows that he is playing a dangerous game, that not touching you now would be his greatest accomplishment and greatest torture at the same time – your body meant to be touched, you look like a doll and like a statue, like the greatest treasure and the most desirable slut he ever laid his eyes on.

The emperor is a man in the end – a war dog, closer to death than to the start of his life, a perfect incarnation of a horrible match to a young princess like you. Too wrathful, too arrogant, with more chips on his shoulders than the hair on your head, and yet, he holds you closely, putting you out of the torture device you are calling a dress.

You breathe for the first time in forever, and your mouth is shaking from unspoken tears and spoken pleas. He holds himself back from cupping your face in his hands and crushing your lips in a kiss, not because he doesn’t think he deserves it, but because you deserve better than to be fucked on the ground of his tent without proper preparation and some relaxing oils for your body. One kiss would never be enough for him, and he hadn’t touched a woman in far too long to handle himself properly now.

You look like you need to be ravaged – the greatest temptation König ever experienced.

— I can do so much to you, little princess. More than you could ever imagine.

— i’m not…n…not little. Your Highness.

— You are, compared to me. Should be scared, not snarky.

— I’m not snarky.

Just for this, he loses control – your voice, shaking with tears but never losing that arrogant edge, that delicious drawl that cannot be described as something that belongs to a princess, makes him lose all of the composure he had. König had prepared himself for a lady who would fall in his arms and cry the whole night long, he prepared himself for a fierce fighter that would try to kill him immediately – but you are soft and vengeful at the same time, too weak to resist him, but not too helpless to not run his mouth. You speak before you think, and it’s an adorable quality for a princess and horrible – for an empress. good thing you would be his regent, a pretty thing like you should never be annoyed with politics and mingling. König pushes you across his lap, his free hand is tearing through various skirts, and what is left from that awful strick construction you tried to pass as a skirt support. He never understood why anyone would live through this torture – you’d look way nicer in his shirt and nothing more. Or, even better, nothing at all, chained to a bed in his bedroom until he’d think that you are tamed enough to be shown in public.

You yelp in surprise, precious dumb thing. Just like a princess, you are not accustomed to the consequences of your own actions – you think that you can just run your mouth or do dumb things without his wrath falling upon you…and, little princess, you’re in for quite a shock. Your emperor doesn’t have enough patience for this, even though he did want you as his wife and knew what chaos it could bring. He just never thought that he’d have so much pleasure in looking at your adorable bottoms, all modest and long. Your underpants are adorably white, not stained from multiple washings, crisp and new – he feels the fabric with his fingers and almost thinks to not rip them away, just to appreciate the fine silks that went into constructing it.

His mercy is cut short by that sweet whimper of yours. You plead with him not to touch you – like you have a saying on this. König defiled the death itself, so why would he even consider such silly things as chastity before marriage? He certainly had enough women in his bed to forbid him from ever going to heaven, and robbing you of your innocence would be a small crime against all the countless sins he already committed.

But, he doesn’t want you to hate him – and you would, certainly, not in the fiery and passionate way he might enjoy, but a quiet, broken anger. He doesn’t want to turn this fragile thing into the broken shell of the betrothed princess, even if you need to be taught a harsh lesson – and you deserve much better than having your cunt destroyed on the harsh floor of his tent.

— You’re lucky, little princess.

He laughs, taking down your underpants – a harsh hand on your bottom, rough fingers that almost burn you without a glove to conceal his touches. You whimper when he lashes on the sensitive skin, stroking sensitive skin. If you knew how hard you make him, you’d run away with his horse already.

— How am I lucky? You…you killed the king, you destroyed my country, you…

— I killed your father, yes, but I left you alive.

— To make a show for your soldiers, I assume..

— If I wanted to leave you to waste, I would allow them to bounce you on their dicks a while ago.

— How d…

— You’re lucky because you’re mine, little princess. Not going to share you with anyone. But…

— But?

Your voice has finally gone down. he can almost taste the dread in your tone. König was burning down villages, destroyed his enemies with nothing more but a rusty sword and hatred in his heart – but he truly feels like a monster when he slaps your ass for the first time and sees your tear-filled eyes staring at him. God, he never was faithful, but hurting you feels like defiling an angel.

And he loves every second of it.

— You need to learn a lesson of respect, little princess.

It’s a small grace that he doesn’t make you count his slaps – he simply pushes you down, makes sure that your face is lying on his cloak, just for something soft to rely on, and gives you enough slapping to make the rest of horseriding as painful as possible. Maybe, it would teach you a lesson that if you need help, you’d have to ask him, to beg him for this – and not try to hurt yourself by doing it on your own. You’re awfully independent and resilient for the princess.

It took him at least five strong, harsh lashes of his hand on your rear to make you cry as loud as he wanted you to. He cups your face in his palm, forcing you up his lap – and smothered your lips with a kiss. König knows he is overstepping; he wouldn’t be able to let go of you after devouring your lips like that, but he doesn’t care, at least for now. He wants to be your everything, to push every thought out of your head and fill it with himself.

He adores the thought of being your first kiss, your first everything – you’re so inexperienced, so fragile in his hold. Never once thinking of himself as an appreciator of all the thighs dainty and artsy, he wants to worship that pout, your closed eyes, and little prayers of mercy you whisper between each kiss. Your body feels too enticing in his hands, a treasure he needs to keep all to himself. It’s a miracle he didn’t push your underwear down and took you all the way – as much as he wanted to touch you.

König smiled when you cried into the kiss, trembling in his hold like a caged animal. Never once he thought he’d have this much fun without taking some plumpy woman on his dick, but you are full of surprises. Another five smacks on your ass left you with a bruised bottom and tear-strained, wet face. The look of misery in your eyes made him cackle – god, you were adorable. Continue like this, and he’d spend the rest of his life with you on his lap.

— We will sleep now. The Empire borders are still days away, and you don’t look like you could handle the road right now.

You pout, pushing yourself off his lap. Even the hard floor of the tent was better, the cold fabric made your butt sting a bit less. You still couldn’t sit straight, still miserable, with a burning feeling in the depths of your tummy – hate, perhaps, that made your hands shake and your thighs feel a bit too wet and warm for your liking. There is a knot in your lower stomach that makes you feel weird, anxious, that makes you squeeze your legs shut as you push through the pain and get your underpants on again. The soft silks of the princess’s undergarments made you feel a bit better.

— I’d love nothing more but to run away while we’re still at my home, Butcher.

He smiles under his hood, pushing his hand on your backside. You freeze as he rolls you over, making you fit perfectly against his broad chest. He is a horrible, disgusting human being, clingy and warm around you – his bear-like hold is too strong on your limbs, making you freeze completely.

— I’m sure you are, Liebling. And I would love to catch you and spank your rear again.

— I will…you won’t catch me.

— Someone will. I’ll pay handsomely to any knight or wandering hunter to bring my wife back to me.

— I’m not y…your wife.

— Yet.

You turn away from him – try to, at least. He squeezes you against his chest makes you calm down in his hold like a wild cat he picked up on the side of the road. You don’t want to admit it, but he is warm, cozy, and even the harsh fabric he threw on the ground to make you a bed feels nice compared to the castle floors where you spend so much time. You still squirm, trying to find a good position to lay next to him without feeling like a toy in the hands of a grabby kid. König feels your wounded, perfect ass grinding against him – out of most of his armor, he can’t contain his erection now. Oh, how the strong emperor wished he’d have

— Stop moving, princess. Unless you want to consummate our marriage early.

— I’m not…I’m not moving.

— You are squirming. Is the ground not to your liking?

— I must prefer sleeping in a grave with my papa. — Can’t promise you this…but isn’t sleeping with the Death himself would be enough? — You’re not death, your highness. A blight, maybe. Or a plague. — You’re making me blush, little princess. There is a smile in his voice. You feel your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t say anything. Too many nights sleeping by the princess’s bedspot, always being the first one to greet her at sunrise and the last one to tell her stories before going to sleep. Like a loyal dog on the wooden floor, with a pillow under your cheek for comfort – all of her other handmaidens, precious ladies from good families, had their own quarters and rooms.

You had a cot by her bed and her endless affection.

Compared to this, sleeping on the floor of a rich tent with an emperor by your side isn’t as bad. You have to remind yourself that you are sleeping with a murdered, pillager, kidnapper and colonialist – you shouldn’t feel warm by his side. But, he hugs you like a lover. But, he buries his masked face in your hair and inhales your scent – sweet fragrances mixed with the blood and sweat of a long journey.

You fall asleep in his arms before you can think of something smart to say.

König doesn’t fall asleep until hour later – too busy looking at your precious form, wrapped so perfectly in his arms.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere cod #male yandere #konig x you #konig x y/n #cod x y/n

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rwpohl · 9 months ago

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obchod na korze, ján kadár, elmar klos 1965

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sai-int · 12 days ago

Note

hear me out, in the rdr2 universe right… imagine it’s close to sunset and you’re making your way back home after maybe a hunting trip or just going to another town for bartering/selling some goods.

you’re in the outskirts of a slightly wooded area where you hear soft singing, a slightly deeper or raspier yet not too bad of a singing voice. getting closer, it’s arthur morgan with his back turned, setting up camp and singing to himself to stay occupied as he was alone with his horse.

maybe he doesn’t hear you but his horse alerts him or you step on a branch and you call out to him to let him know “hey, someone is behind you but i’m friendly”

obviously you’d both be on guard, both don’t know if either would attack but you start to talk to one another, trade stories by the campfire as the sun continues to set, casting a gorgeous orange and pink hue over the two of you

(idk just an idea i’m not an author)

UNDER THE GUN | arthur morgan

in which you harbor a wanted man that's undeniably sexy.

this had a mind of its own, so it's not exactly what you wanted, but i hope you still like it!

cw: MDNI, 18+, arthur morgan x f!reader, lots of porn, lots of plot, smut, unprotected piv, oral (f!recieving), size kink if you squint, creampie LONGER READ

The ground beneath your boots crackles, the dry twigs and leaves giving way with a sound that seems too loud for the stillness around you. Each step sinks deeper into the thick carpet of earth and rotted flora, the weight of your pack pulling at your shoulders as you push forward. The air bites at your cheeks, a cool and sharp reminder of the early autumn chill that clings to the woods. It’s the kind of cold that seeps in unnoticed, the kind that finds its way under your coat and lingers in your bones.

The scent of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves fills your nose, familiar and homely. It’s a smell you’ve come to know intimately since you left Valentine years ago, set on ‘living off the land’ or whatever you used to rave about in your teen years. There’s something heavier in these familiar wood, like the forest is both alive and ancient, as though it remembers things you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

You’d been out hunting since dawn, and now, with the last rays of the dying sun slanting low through the trees, your haul weighed heavy at your belt. Two rabbits, freshly killed, their lifeless bodies swinging with each step, and a plump turkey wrapped up in your pack. The promise of a fire, a meal, and the solitude the woods offered made your pace steady but weary. Every muscle in your legs screamed for rest, but the thought of home—the small camp nestled just over the next ridge—kept you moving.

But as you crest the rise, the air in your lungs turns frigid, freezing your breath as it escapes you, your heart skipping a beat.

Thin smoke curled lazily into the sky, trailing upward in the fading afternoon light. It wasn’t the gentle wisp of a dying fire—it was too steady, too persistent to be that. Your fire, the one you’d used for coffee in the morning hours, had been snuffed out. You made sure of it. Right? Yeah. You’d done it. A cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck. The sound of crackling flames reached your ears, sharp and familiar, like a grim confirmation: someone was here. In your camp. And they weren’t supposed to be.

Every instinct you’ve honed over years in the woods kicks into high gear. Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and shallow. You drop to a crouch, sinking into the cover of the trees. Your hands automatically find the rifle slung across your shoulder. Cold wood against your palms, fingers tightening around the stock and barrel like a lifeline.

You’re fluid, practiced, slipping through the underbrush, heading down the small hill. Each step is calculated to avoid the snap of a twig or the rustling of leaves as best you can. The camp’s just a few yards ahead, your senses sharp and alert as your eyes lock on the man sitting by your fire. He doesn’t notice you. His back is turned, broad, solid, and tense, hunched in a way that suggests the weight of the world presses down on him all at once.

The faint glow revealed a rugged silhouette, a weathered, black hat pulled low over his head, a sleek black vest and matching pants, and—most unsettling—a set of silver pistols resting at either of his hips.

You stalk closer to him like a predator as he stretches his hands closer to the fire. Your rifle follows every twitch of his movements, trained at the back of his head. Your eyes flick between his hands and his pistols. If he made a wrong move, you’d end him right there.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, a drumbeat in time with the crackling flames. You halt just behind him, rifle trained, your breath steady and controlled.

“Don’t move,” you hiss, nudging the barrel against his head.

He freezes, every muscle in his body locking up. His hands lift slowly, palms raised in a gesture of surrender. His voice came low, rough like gravel scraped underfoot. “Easy now,” he drawled. “Ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”

“Well you’ve found it, Cowboy,” you snap back, nudging the barrel harder against his hat, a reiteration of your threat. You could smell the smoke from the fire, feel the heat on your face. “Who the hell are you, ‘n what are you doing at my camp?”

He turns his head just enough to catch you in his peripheral, but he doesn’t fully face you. His side profile is illuminated by the firelight, the sharp slope of his nose and the weight of his eyes etched in shadow. His chestnut hair, slightly overgrown, curls into a subtle mullet at the back, with loose strands falling across his eyes. A rare touch of neatly trimmed stubble outlines his jaw—surprisingly well-groomed despite his otherwise rugged appearance.

He hums a low, deliberate sound, like he’s in no rush, as if he could keep this up all day. Maybe he does—lurking around, picking off unsuspecting camps. "Name’s Arthur," he drawls slowly, the words slipping out with an ease that juxtaposes the tension in the air. "Arthur Morgan. Needed a place to lay relax for a spell, miss. Didn’t think anyone’d mind-"

“Well, I do mind,” you grit your teeth, grip tightening on the rifle’s under-barrel, your finger lowering to hover over the trigger. “You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to blow your fuckin’ head off.”

Arthur’s lips quirk upward, the ghost of a smile barely visible under the shadow of his hat. “Reckon you’re a good shot, but you’d be wastin’ good ammo.” His voice was steady, calm, and there was a strange ease in the way he spoke. “I don’t mean no harm, girl. Just needed some warmth and a chance to catch my breath.”

“Nine.”

He let out a sigh, the first sign of frustration breaking through. “Look… I’m just damn tired, alright? Needed a minute. Ain’t lookin’ to ruffle your… lady feathers.”

Your eyes narrow, scanning his body for any sign of threat. It was as if he wasn’t afraid of the rifle, or of dying. Something tells you he’s dealt with worse than guns in his face. “Lucky for you, I’m not trigger-happy,” you muttered, lowering the rifle just a hair, but still keeping it ready. “I’ll give you half of supper, Morgan. Then you’re gone.”

“Fair enough,” he exhales as he drops his hands, “Appreciate your generosity, mi-”

“Generosity’s got nothing to do with it,” you interrupt, putting the barrel down and rounding to his front, taking in his features in their entirety. “I just don’t feel like dragging your corpse outta here.”

Arthur chuckles, the sound rough and deep, like the rumble of distant thunder. It sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. “Fair point. Mind if I ask who I’m thankin’ for not blowin’ my head to bits?”

You hesitate, your gut twisting. You’d never been one to trust easily, but something about him, in the way he held himself, the rough edges to his voice—made you reconsider. Maybe it was the familiarity in his eyes, the quiet respect in his tone. Or maybe it was just the solitude of the forest making you soften when you shouldn’t.

You give him your name as you toss your pack aside the small tent. You turn and sit a safe distance from him, but close enough to the fire to feel the heat on your skin, the crackling flames casting long shadows between you. You set your rifle down beside you, fingers lingering on the stock, just in case. "Just don't make me regret lettin' you stay," you mutter low and sharp.

Arthur nods, his posture relaxed as he shifts back against the log. "Fair enough," he says, his voice steady. He shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls out a loose cigarette, tapping it lightly against his thumb before holding it to the flame. The tip catches, glowing bright as he brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifts lazily into the night air. “I’ll be outta your hair as soon as it’s safe.”

You quirk your brow. As soon as it’s safe? You shake your head. Don’t get involved. You turn your attention to the rabbits on your belt. You untether them, fingers working quickly, skinning them with precision. Your mind keeps wandering back to Arthur. The way he sits by the fire, his broad frame casting such a large shadow behind him, the way the heat of the fire seemed to reflect in his eyes. There was something buried deep in him and you couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

You make quick work of the rabbits and you prepare a stew to brew over the fire. The sounds of the crackling flames and the rhythmic chopping of meat fill the silence between you. Arthur’s eyes never leave you. He thinks you don’t notice, but you don't need to, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. It makes you breathe a little harder, tension building in your chest, your hands shaking ever so slightly as you put the ingredients in and set the pot over the fire. You can’t lie to yourself—it's been a long time since you’ve been this close to a man. And if Arthur Morgan was anything, he was undeniably… sexy.

You sink back against the log, eyes briefly flickering to Arthur, accidentally meeting his gaze before looking elsewhere. Arthur shifts almost awkwardly, clearing his throat. “So… what’re you doin’ out here all alone?” His voice is low, but there’s a genuine curiosity in his tone.

You glance up briefly, giving him a sharp sidelong look. “You really makin’ small talk?”

He shrugs, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Figured I’d get to know the person I’m campin’ with. Ain’t every day one finds a woman like yourself this far from town.”

You cock an eyebrow. “‘Like myself’?”

He hesitates for a second, then exhales a slow breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, you know...” He clears his throat, voice dropping a touch lower. “Pretty.”

You narrow your eyes as you study him. “You butterin’ me up for somethin’?”

Arthur lets out a smooth chuckle at that, his shoulders giving a brief, easy bounce. “I’m just an honest man.”

You shake your head, a smile cracking through the tough front you’d been holding up. On your haunches, you move over to stir the stew, your movements quick but steady, before plopping back down—closer to Arthur—and shifting the rifle out of the way. “Guess I like my peace and quiet. Ain’t much else to it.”

Arthur scooches toward you in return, an arms length away as his elbows rest on his knees. “Yeah? You don’t strike me as the type to just sit around, waitin’ for something to happen.” He pauses, looking you over with an easy sort of scrutiny. “You huntin’ for sport, or you just survivin’ out here?”

You flick him a quick glance, trying to ignore the heat building in your chest. “Bit of both, I guess. Gotta eat somehow.”

“Fair enough,” he says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Reckon you know what you’re doin’.”

You don’t answer immediately, gazing into the dancing flames and letting the silence stretch out between you. When you finally speak, it’s softer, but still guarded. “You always ask so many questions?”

Arthur chuckles like he’s genuinely amused. “Only right to get to know the pretty woman cookin’ me supper.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch with a reluctant smile.You don’t respond right away, You can feel his gaze on you again, though—studying your features.

Finally, you break the silence, changing the subject to ease the burn in your cheeks. “Well if you’re way out here, I reckon you’re not the type to stay in one place too long, huh?”

Arthur’s eyes flicker with something unspoken, but he doesn’t shy away from the question. “Not usually,” he says slowly. “But sometimes, a man gets tired of movin’. Need a break now and again.” His voice softens slightly, like he’s letting something slip past his usual guarded tone.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s your idea of a ‘break’?”

He grins, that lazy smile creeping back onto his face. “A warm fire, a decent meal… Pretty woman by my side, if I’m lucky.” His eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, before he looks away, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. “Could do worse than this, sweetheart.”

You don't say anything for a moment, caught between the stillness of the night and the tension between you and him. Finally, you give him a small nod, almost imperceptible. "Yeah. Could do worse."

You keep your focus on the stew, but you can sense him edging closer again, his knee almost brushing against yours. “You know, for someone who says she likes peace and quiet, you sure don’t mind me stickin’ around.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just likin’ the company.” You let the words hang in the air, just long enough to make him wonder if you mean it or not.

Arthur’s grin widens, and he leans in just a bit, “Yeah? And what exactly about ‘your company’ do you like?”

You turn your head to face him directly, the fire casting a warm, golden glow on his skin. Your gaze sharpens as you look him over. “Could be his way with words.”

He chuckles a low, gravelly sound that makes your stomach flip. “That all, girl?”

You hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch. It reeks of ‘What If’s’. “Could be the way he’s lookin’ at me right now.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up to your eyes. He doesn’t move for a second, just watches you, like he’s weighing something. He seems to come to a conclusion when leans in a bit more, tilting his hat further up to avoid hitting your forehead. “That so?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek.

You crane your neck to him,, bringing your face a hair’s breadth closer to his. “Could be,” you reply, your voice almost a whisper.

For a moment, it feels like everything else—the fire, the stew, the night itself, just fades away. “You know,” he rasps, “I’m startin’ to think you want me to stick around a little longer than you planned.”

You can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up, but it’s light, teasing. “You might just want to, Mr. Morgan.”

His smile never wavers. “Oh, I’m wantin’ a whole lot of things right now, darlin’.” His eyes flicker down to your lips again, then back to your eyes. “A whole lot.”

You lean in, your lips just barely touching his, when a distant sound echoes through the forest. The crunch of twigs snapping under the foot of someone careless. A few horses. The low murmur of voices, drawing closer with every second.

Arthur stiffens, his eyes darting toward the inky forest. His expression hardens, the playful grin slipping away as quickly as it had appeared. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “Don’t like the sound of that.”

The crunch of leaves grew louder, their footsteps unmistakable. Anyone out at this hour spelled trouble. You knew it, and so did he.

You’re on your feet too, instincts kicking in. Arthur looks back at you, brows furrowing in discontent. “I ain’t got time for this,” he says, voice tight. “I need somewhere to hide.”

You froze for a moment, doubt creeping in. Sure, he might’ve done some questionable things—Lord above knows you had—but enough to be on the run? What could he have done to need hiding?

Before he can take another step, you’re already moving. Without thinking, you shove him toward your tent. “In there. Now.”

Arthur hesitates, clearly flustered. “What—? You can’t—”

“Go!” you snap, the urgency in your voice cutting through the air. “Get in the fuckin’ tent, Arthur.”

He shoots you a look, but you don’t have to tell him twice. He nods sharply, ducking into the ten, the flap shutting behind him. You turn and pick up your rifle, holding it tight in your grasp.

A man, a Bounty Hunter emerges from the trees with his horse in tow, his frame illuminated by the light of the fire. He stops just on the edge of your camp, taking in the scene with an appraising look. His partner follows, a little slower, scanning the area more thoroughly. Their presence sends a prickle of unease crawling up your spine, but you don’t let it show.

"Evening, miss," the first one says, almost casual but with an air of inquisition behind it. He sizes you up quickly, eyes flicking over you before scanning the area of the camp. "You alone out here?"

You keep your expression neutral, hands relaxed around the rifle but ready to move if you need to. Your voice comes out calm and steady. "Just me. Goin’ about my business."

The second hunter doesn’t waste any time, moving toward the fire and eyeing the camp as his hands tighten around his horses tack. His eyes lock onto your rifle before drifting back to you. "We’re lookin’ for someone," he says, his tone more serious now. “A man by the name of Arthur Morgan. Seen him around?”

The name hits you like a blow to the chest, but you don’t let a flicker of recognition show. Instead, you furrow your brow slightly, feigning confusion. "Arthur… Morgan?" you repeat as if saying the words for the first time, giving a slow shake of your head. "Can’t say I have."

The first hunter takes a step forward, clearly unconvinced. "He’s been causin’ trouble ’round here. Stealin’ horses, robbin’ folk. We’re checkin’ all the camps." He looks over your fire, the tent, and the surrounding woods with a calculating eye, as if trying to catch any sign of someone hiding.

An ‘honest man’ huh? You keep your posture relaxed, playing the part. "Like I said, it’s just me out here. Ain’t seen anyone else."

The second hunter doesn’t seem to buy it. He takes a few steps closer, eyes narrowing as he sweeps the camp again, this time lingering on your rifle and the faint trail of smoke in the air. He cocks his head slightly, studying you with suspicion. "You sure about that, miss?" His voice carries a bite of challenge now, his stance a little more defensive.

You meet his gaze evenly, giving him a small, almost dismissive shrug. "Reckon I’d know if someone was here. Not the first time I’ve been alone in the woods."

The first hunter looks back at his partner, exchanging a tense glance before he nods and steps back. "Well, if you’re sure," he says, though his voice still holds a note of doubt. "We’ll take your word for it, miss."

The second hunter hesitates for just a beat longer, his eyes narrowing once more as he looks over the camp. He seems to weigh his options, but after a long moment, he finally sighs and glances back at his partner. "We’ll be back if we need more help findin’ him."

You give a small nod, never breaking eye contact, your voice casual as you reply, "Right then. You take care now."

The two men exchange a final, uncertain look before turning on their heels and heading back toward the tall pines. The crackling of the fire and the chirping of the crickets fill the silence as you stand still, listening intently. Your eyes dart, scanning the trees where the hunters walked off. You wait, every second stretched out, until you finally hear the sound of horses hooves thumping against the earth. Away.

You stay frozen, rifle still in hand, until the sound of their horses completely fades into the distance.

"Come out," you call, voice barely above a whisper but carrying through the quiet night.

The flap of the tent shifts before you hear his boots brushing against the dirt. He steps out slowly, a shadow in the firelight, his broad frame emerging from the darkness. He looks at you with that same easy expression, but you don’t miss the flicker of something beneath the surface—something guarded, maybe just as wary as you.

He stands before you, hands at his sides, tense as if he’s waiting to get socked in the face.

You don’t lower your rifle this time. Instead, you stand tall, staring him down with your eyes narrowed.

"Thought you were an ‘honest man’, Arthur," you say it low, each word slow and deliberate, carrying the weight of your suspicion. "Left some things out, did you? Robbin' and stealin’. The fuckin’ bounty you’re wearin’ in my camp? Probably killin’, too, right?."

Arthur’s expression falters for only a moment, but it’s enough for you to see the brief flicker of discomfort in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.

"I should’ve known better," you continue, your grip tightening on the rifle, still not lowering it. "You didn’t just need a place to rest. You were hiding. Just like the rest of ‘em."

He looks at you for a long moment, the silence between you thick and taut. Then, slowly, he sighs, a long, drawn-out exhale that seems to carry the weight of his frustration.

"Yeah, alright," he mutters, taking his hat in his hands and running a hand through his hair. He steps closer, but keeps a respectful distance. "I didn’t tell you everything. Ain’t proud of it. But you don’t know what it’s like—always looking over your shoulder, never knowing who’s gonna come after you next."

You don’t answer right away, watching him carefully. The firelight flickers over his face, and for a moment, he looks tired—worn down, like the world’s too heavy on his shoulders. But there’s still something about the way he stands there, trying to explain himself, that softens the edge in your chest, even if you don’t want it to.

He takes another step closer, his voice low but calm, like he’s trying to placate you, trying to make you understand.

"Those men?" He gestures vaguely toward the trees. "They ain’t the first to come lookin’ for me. They won’t be the last, either…I ain’t gonna put you in danger. I promise, Ain’t gonna let you get hurt. I just needed a place to lay low for a bit. Ain't nobody else around for miles."

You keep your eyes locked on him, but the harshness in your grip loosens just a bit. The tension in your body starts to fade, even as your mind races with the implications of what he’s saying.

"Yeah?" you say, your voice softer now, though there’s still a bite to it. "That’s it? You’re just ‘tired’, and ‘needed a rest’? That is what you said, right?"

Arthur’s gaze softens, and he nods, his lips curling into that half-smile of his. "Pretty much. Wouldn't lie about that."

You breathe out slowly, your rifle now hanging loosely in your hands. The hard edge in you has started to dull. You don’t feel as guarded as you did. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, like he values your opinion of him. Maybe it's just the firelight, the warmth, or the way his eyes bore into yours, silently pleading with you.

You stare at him for another beat, then let out a small huff. "Fine," you relent, your voice carrying the weight of reluctance. "Don’t make me regret it. I’ll put a hole through that stupid hat you got."

Arthur’s smile widens just slightly, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You set the rifle aside and move to the fire, the heat from the embers warm against your skin as you reach for the pot. The stew is well past ready, the rich scent of rabbit, herbs, and vegetables swirling in the air. You take it off the fire carefully, the sizzling sounds dying down as you settle it on the edge of the stones.

Arthur doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you. His eyes linger for a moment before he shifts slightly, as though he’s unsure of what to do next, where you both stand. The tension between you is still palpable, the silence bringing you back what happened mere minutes ago. You both know what almost happened—what could have happened—and the weight of it hangs in the air like the forest is beckoning it to happen again.

You pour the stew into two tin bowls, your hands steady as you bring them over to where Arthur’s moved to sit by the fire. You settle down next to him, your shoulders brushing lightly, the silence between you heavy.

The crackle of the fire fills the space where words should have been. At first, the quiet is just uncomfortable—a reminder of the spat you just had. Arthur shifts a little, taking a bite of the stew and swallowing before speaking again, his voice softer now. "You know… that’s the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time." He looks over at you, his blue-hazel eyes glowing in the firelight. "Protectin’ me like that... You didn’t have to do that."

You glance up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. It’s not what you expected, but you mull over it before responding.

"Guess I don’t like people pushin' folks around," you say with a small, almost teasing shrug, trying to brush off the seriousness of the moment, staring down at the stew. "But I also don’t take kindly to anyone gettin' hurt if I can help it."

Arthur smiles, his gaze steady as he watches you. "I’m grateful then," he says, his voice low. “Ain’t never expect anyone to do all that for little ol’ me."

A silence settles over you again, but this time, it feels different. The words hang between you like a thread waiting to be pulled, and Arthur shifts closer, just enough that you feel the heat of his body next to yours. His tone changes.

"For the record," he says, leaning a little closer. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen."

Your brow furrows, and you glance over at him, a slight confusion pulling at your features. "What?" you ask, not sure you heard him right.

He doesn’t miss the perplexed look in your eyes, and he chuckles, that same mischievous grin creeping back. "You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about?" he asks, eyes gleaming with that playful edge.

You shake your head, your heart beating a little faster.

Arthur leans back, but his gaze never leaves you, steady and intense. "You shoved me right in that tent, all bossy-like, told me to stay put while you handled those hunters. That... that was somethin’ else, girl."

A flush creeps up your neck, the heat of it settling in your cheeks. "That’s not—" you start, but Arthur’s grin widens, and the way he’s looking at you—like he’s memorizing every detail of your reaction—makes your words falter.

"It is," his voice almost a whisper, "ain’t even hesitate. Took charge like it was nothing." He gives a low whistle. "Got me all fired up."

He leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips again and its more than welcome. He hovers there, tantalizing and teasing. Arthur’s voice is low, a soft growl under his breath, as he looks at you with something deeper in his gaze. "Reckon we’ve got some unfinished business, ain't that right, doll?"

You take a shaky breath, trying to regain some sense of control, but his words leave you in a haze. Your mind races as your heart beats louder, and for a moment, you think you might just say fuck it and close the gap just to feel his lips against yours.

But you hold back, just barely.

"Right," you say softly, voice almost a whisper.

It’s almost too much, the way he’s watching you, daring you to make the move. The temptation is unbearable. Your hand moves instinctively, pulling his head to yours and closing the gap, feeling his lips completely against yours for the first time.

It's gentle at first, a tender dance like neither of you are sure how much to push or how much to pull. It doesn’t last long. Arthur deepens the kiss, his hand finding the scruff of your neck to pull you closer, his other hand palms your waist as he guides you to straddle his lap, pulled tight so your chest is flush with his.

His hands roam your back and paw at your hips with hunger. The kiss deepens, messy and impatient, as his teeth graze your lower lip, pulling it into his mouth and nipping it before he soothes it with the heat of his tongue. The taste of him is sharp—tobacco, the faint tang of whiskey—and underneath it all, you. Every press of his lips against yours leaves you wanting more, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Your hands explore him, trailing up to tug at the collar of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to have him welded to you. His body is firm beneath your touch, sturdy and strong with a plush layer of fat and hair to keep him warm, the feel of it against your skin sends hot bursts of heat down your spine, where they settle in your cunt and drool out of you.

Arthur’s hands leave your back, moving to the front of you, his fingers brushing against the curve of your ribs before they slide lower, gripping your waist with possession. He pulls away from the kiss for a moment, his lips slick and swollen, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his breaths.

You take this as an opportunity, hands unbuttoning his vest and shoving his shirt up over his head. When he’s bare, your fingers brush against the hard planes of his chest as you pull him closer again. You kiss him with everything you have, a silent agreement that this is what you both want, what you both need.

His canines nip your lips, pulling a sharp mewl from you. He takes full advantage, slipping his tongue past your parted lips, tasting you with a hungry, unrestrained fervor, like an untamed mutt. He knows you won’t stop him—knows you’ll let him take as much as he wants.

You both move with a desperate kind of need. Arthur savors everything, though—his touch is firm, but there's a certain reverence in the way he undresses you, like he's trying to drink up every moment, every inch of skin he uncovers. He peels off your top, letting your tits bounce free, he’s near hypnotized, immediately palming them with a groan. He takes your right nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking it with his tongue as his hand pinches the other. You arch your back into him, whining at the way his ministrations get you breathless and all red in the face. A low groan rumbles from him at the sound you make, his hips rolling up to meet yours, grinding his clothed cock against your cunt with need.

He pulls away, eyes flickering with something dark and hungry, but there's a tenderness there too, as if he wants this to be as much about you as it is about him. You see the way his chest rises and falls, his breath heavy as he fights the urge to pull you even closer, even faster. But he doesn’t. Instead, he flips you under him, carefully lowering you onto a discarded coat, the rough fabric cushioning your body as he hovers above you, his eyes searching yours.

"Comfortable?" he asks, his voice hushed and serious, even as his hands trail down your body, squeezing the plush of your waist and hips, near branding your skin in their wake.

You nod, your throat tight with anticipation. "Yeah," you breathe, your voice rough. "Just don't stop."

Arthur gives you that grin again, that dangerous, charming smile that you know will be the death of you. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

He leans down, his lips brushing against your neck, slow at first, like he's giving you time to adjust, to breathe, but it's not long before he’s kissing you again—harder this time, more urgent. You feel the weight of him on top of you, his body pressing against yours, the heat of his skin burning through you. His hands explore, tracing the lines of your body, memorizing every curve like he's afraid to forget.

The coat beneath you feels rough compared to his touch, but it’s grounding, real. As he hovers over you, his hands deftly undo your pants zipper and tug them down. You feel it—the overwhelming need to be consumed by him, in all measures of the word.

Arthur tosses your pants carelessly behind him, leaving you bare before him, your body illuminated by the flickering firelight, looking like something ethereal. You squirm, desperate for any hint of his touch. “Arthur, please…”

He groans, his hand palming his painfully hard cock through his pants, eyes drinking in every curve, every inch of you. “Tell me what you need, princess.”

“Fuck, touch me—anything, just... as long as it’s you,” you plead, your voice breathless with need, eyes blown wide.

“Atta girl,” he hums, a smirk tugging at his lips.

He presses his lips to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, sucking and biting hungrily, saliva trailing down your neck as he marks you with raw intensity. His mouth moves down, giving each tit special attention, his tongue flicking over your skin before dragging down your stomach. Every touch, every brush of his fingers, has you reeling, arching your back into him.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading them with primal sort of determination as he presses a searing kiss right above your mons. His gaze locks with yours—dark, hungry—promise and danger flickering in his eyes as he finally settles between your legs, his breath heavy, the air thick with tension.

He dives in without hesitation, his lips instantly latching to your clit, licking and sucking with just enough pressure to make your eyes screw shut. You hear him slobbering all over you, making out with your cunt—his tongue laving over your folds like a home cooked meal. His tongue dips to your tight hole, greedily gulping down your juices, groaning at the taste of you.

The sounds he makes are oh so primal, so sinful they could conjure a demon right then and there if he wasn’t so focused on the way your hole pulses with each flick of his tongue on your clit. You bite down on your lip, the pain sharp as you struggle to suppress the desperate cries building in your chest. Blood wells in the small cut, a testament to how much you’re trying to hold back. But it's impossible. Your hands card through his hair, unsure if you should hold him close or force him back because—God—he’s just too good.

He reluctantly pulls his mouth away from your cunt, and the loss leaves a harsh cry on your lips. He had brought you so, so close to the edge.

“Awe,” he shushes you gently, “none of that whinin’ now, I’ll take care of you.” His face is soaked, stubble glistening, his lips covered in your slick, catching the flicker of the firelight. He leans forward, tongue flicking out to lick them clean, savoring every trace of you.

He rises onto his haunches, unzipping his pants and pulling them down quickly, muscles rippling as he moves. Once free, he leans back over you, hovering just above, his gaze heavy with desire. He taps his index and ring fingers lightly against your lips, his eyes locking with yours, waiting expectantly.

“Open up,” he coos, his voice low and commanding. You part your lips, taking his fingers into your mouth, your tongue swirling around them in slow, deliberate motions. Your eyes meet his, and a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Fuck, there you go… Sweet thing… so fuckin’ gorgeous… Gonna look so nice sittin’ on my cock, ain’t that right, girl?”

You nod fervently, releasing his fingers with a soft pop. “Need it, please, Arthur—” Your words falter into a desperate plea. “Shh… Shh…” He murmurs, his hand brushing your cheek, his voice low and soothing. “I’m gonna give you what you need, baby doll. Gotta work you open before you take me.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours as he brings his fingers back to your searing cunt, all wet and messy with his spit and your slick. Your hands find his broad shoulders, holding onto him as he teases your hole with the pads of his fingers. He bites back a laugh when you clench around nothing. He gathers some slick, moving up to draw a few quick circles to your clit before snaking back down and pressing his thick digits into your cunt.

The stretch is immediate, overwhelming, so much bigger than your own. Your eyes well from the relentless teasing, a mix of pleasure and ache burning in your belly. With a click of his tongue, he leans down to kiss a loose tear away, soft and tender, before giving experimental curls of his fingers. His gaze scans your face, waiting, searching for that sweet spot. After a certain thrust, your face contorts and you clench around him with a whimper, a smirk curls on his lips, and he continues, steady and deliciously curling his fingers inside you, stretching you out and hitting spots you never knew existed.

You clench around him again, the familiar hot burn of raw pleasure pooling in your core, pleading with him to let you cum. You've been on the edge for so long, your legs tremor uncontrollably, and he can feel it, knows just how close you are.

“Getting close? Makin’ you feel all warm inside? Gettin’ real wet down there, baby, you gonna cream my fingers, hmm?” He murmurs in your ear, his fingers curling at the same steady pace, but you’re desperate, you need more. The slow rhythm isn’t enough anymore—your body aches, craving that sweet release.

“N-no, wanna cum on your cock— Arthur— Please, fuck!” You wail unabashedly. He slows his movements before gently pulling his fingers out of you with a wet schlick that makes your ears tinge pink. “Easy, easy, girl,” he hums, patting your hair with his other hand, “that’s what you want? Want me to make you cum all over my cock, pretty girl? You want that?” He babbles in your ear all desperate, wanting nothing more than to hear you say it again, the words falling from your lips like a prayer.

You nod vigorously, and a genuine smile spreads across his face. He finds you so endearing like this—sweet, eager, and willing. He settles back against the log, his hands moving to your waist, guiding you to sit atop his thighs. With a swift motion, he pulls his drawers down, and his cock genuinely makes you gasp. He’s incomprehensibly thick and decently long, thick, dark curls around the base and a deliciously ruddy tip, drooling with pre and begging for attention.

He takes it in his hands, giving it a few lazy strokes before holding atop your belly. “See that, baby?” He drawls, tapping his cock against you, “Gonna fit so snug, so deep in your belly.” You look down, seeing how he’s perfectly lined up, length resting just below your navel. The thought of him inside you, all of him, has you trembling, your mouth watering at the anticipation.

You lift your hips hovering just above his length. His hands find your sides, guiding you and letting you move at your own pace. You sink down slowly and it's euphoric.

You lift your hips, hovering just above his cock. His hands find your sides, guiding you gently but giving you the freedom to move at your own pace. Slowly, you sink down on him, and the sensation is euphoric, every inch of him stretches you, slowly remolding your pussy to fit him inch by agonizing inch.

Arthur doesn’t believe in God, but in this moment, he looks up at the sky, searching for something, any deity or saint to anchor him. If he spent another second watching the way his length disappears inside you, he knows he’d blow his load instantly. You’re just so tight around him, as if you’re trying to cut off circulation.

Finally, he’s buried to the hilt. You can feel him in your fucking lungs, every part of you aware of him. Your body no longer feels like your own—it’s as if you've become one with him, his cock filling you completely, and everything else fades away. Each breath you take, each subtle movement beckons his cock to hit new spots so deep inside of you, your senses overwhelmed.

You’re both sweating, your bodies a tangled mess of movement, desperate and breathless. Your hands cling to his shoulders, and his grip on your waist and hips is firm, controlling. He mutters softly, almost incoherently, “There you go, girl…” The words send a shiver through you. You take his head in your hands, your eyes locking for a brief, intense moment before you kiss him with everything you have, your passion and need pouring into the kiss. He responds in kind, his movements slow at first, as he begins to thrust, the rhythm causing the kiss to falter. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ deep, darlin’, such a good girl,” You’re both panting into each other’s mouths.

You’re already so fucked dumb, your mind a haze of pleasure. All you can do is meet his thrusts, your body moving in sync with his, bouncing with each sharp motion. Every movement sends a new shockwave through you, a mix of pleasure and pressure that has you near whining, your breath hitching—soft ah ah ah’s—as you struggle to keep up with the intensity.

All you can hear is the sound of his thighs meeting yours and the sound of your pussy making an absolute mess of him. He’s muttering, groaning incoherently into your skin. “Fuckin’ made for m— Fuck! So fuckin’ tight, baby, milkin’ my fuckin’ cock— My girl—” He cradles your head against his and thrusts up into you at a pace that’ll leave you sore tomorrow, your tight wet walls clamping around him, milking him for all he’s worth while he hammers your g-spot. Each roll of his hips rubs against your clit, the friction is delicious and you feel heat begin to simmer in your belly, your walls clenching tight around him. “A-arthur, I’m gonna… Gonna cum..” You mewl into his shoulder as you claw into his back, your voice hoarse.

“Fuck, cream my cock, sweet thing. Come on now, I got you, focus on me,” He huffs, keeping up his pace despite the fatigue in his hips. He can feel you pulsing around him already and it’s egging on his own orgasm alongside yours. He guides your eyes back to his, keeping you locked there.

He can feel the tension building, his balls tightening with the urgent need to release, every thrust pushing him closer to the edge. His body trembles with the effort of holding back his orgasm so you could have yours first. You bounce in his lap, ragdolling from the strength of his thrusts.You crash your lips onto his, messy and urgent, as you swallow the wail threatening to escape. The coil inside you finally snaps, an intense rush of pleasure flooding your senses as you come undone, your body trembling uncontrollably against his as you cream his cock.

“That’s my girl— Fuck,” he starts but is cut off by his own orgasm washing over him, his balls empty and fill your cunt with his spend, pumping you full. He gave a few lazy thrusts while riding out the after-shocks, each thrust making your body twitch in overstimulation.

You sit atop him, your legs trembling with exhaustion as both of your chests rise and fall in tandem, each breath heavy and ragged. His body stills beneath you, his cock softens inside you, but he doesn’t make any attempts to move. He stays with you, fully embedded, the connection between you both lingering in a slow, steady pulse.

Arthur brushes your hair out of your face, his hand resting gently on your cheek. His eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, everything else fades. There's a quiet intensity between you, the kind that doesn’t need words but still feels so heavy. His thumb moves slowly across your skin, grounding you in the softness of his touch.

"You alright?" he asks, his voice low and steady, as if he’s reading the tension still lingering in the air between you. His gaze doesn’t waver, just searching your face like he’s trying to understand every little shift in you.

You nod slowly, feeling the warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breath. "Yeah… just… give me a second."

He watches you carefully, but there’s a softness to his expression, a kind of understanding that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. He leans in slightly, his forehead brushing against yours, close but not quite touching. "Take all the time you need, darlin’," he murmurs, his voice rough but comforting.

As you come to, you feel the lingering rush, the aftershocks of what just happened, and it’s almost overwhelming. But Arthur’s presence is steadying, his calm and quiet like an anchor. "I’m good," you say finally, though your voice feels a little breathless, like you’re still trying to catch up with yourself. You meet his eyes again, and this time, the intensity is different—softer, maybe even a little tender.

Arthur lets out a low, quiet chuckle. "You ain’t gonna be sayin’ that in the mornin’," His voice holds a hint of teasing, but there’s no judgment in it, only affection, a quiet warmth that makes you smile despite yourself.

"Probably," you admit, shifting slightly, still feeling a little shaky. " I doubt I’ll mind, though."

Arthur’s smile is small, but it holds more than words could say. He stays close, his hand still on your cheek, his thumb running in slow circles. "You don’t gotta worry about a damn thing, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rough , like the realization of everything that just happened hasn’t quite settled in for him either.

You stay there in Arthur’s arms for what feels like forever, neither of you making any effort to move. The fire crackles softly, its warmth enveloping you both, casting flickering shadows in the night. You don’t know what’s in store for you and Arthur, but at this moment, none of that matters. He’s here, his hand gently cupping your cheek and arm is wrapped securely around your waist. Right now, that’s all you need.