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photo1030 · 1 year ago

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Leather and Lace - Chapter 18: Feelings Revealed

Part 4 - SEE ME, FEEL ME, TOUCH ME, HEAL ME

Summary: You and Arthur finally have your first night together.

Warning: 18+ please, Minors - DNI; This is a long one, too.

*I had another title for this, but as I was listening to The Who, this lyric began to play as I was editing and it just seemed to fit this chapter perfectly.

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*These are NOT my images. However, I have seen them in multiple versions and on multiple sources. So I don't know who the owners are to credit. But if anyone knows, let me know.

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4 @bimbo-dollz @pine4pple-b0i @redwritr @kuri-chans-blog @queer-sadie-adler @joelmillerswifey @gimmethosedaddymilkers @pcotarelo @delilah-grimes @maemortem @wistfulwisteriawitch @lilacxxdreams @mentallyillfrogs @absolutegeek @spurz @sophiaj650 @uniqueclodzinevoid @lookingformaurice @pawoui @randomidk-123 @yyiikes @eddiemetalheadmunson @twola @kmartkiddieisle @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic @rhehr241 @earwen-x @akariver75 @djennty @nervousmumbling @xliliths @unbotheredbeeeee @onnetonprinsessa @kittiowolf210 @ezrynn @suhiss @arthurmargon @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler @alice-vanderlinde @sweetandstoned21 @j4llyf7sh @spooky631 @m0r4rx @ilovrxats @i-69-urmom @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people.

Arthur gets a small fire going outside the lean-to hunting shelter. The fire burns a deep red and vibrant yellow as the flames lick up around the logs. It’s a soft and comforting sight, the popping and crackling of the wood drowning out all other sounds in the forest this evening. The sky is deepening to a majestic royal purple hue, with its diamond-glittering stars emerging like a crown. The glow of the fire casts its light only upon your little shelter and the immediate area surrounding it as if protecting you inside of an intimate little sphere made just for the two of you.

With his task complete, Arthur moves into the shelter and sits down on the ground, nervously wiping his hands on the sides of his pants as he looks over and watches as you flit about to fix the make-shift bedding. You’ve rolled out his bedroll and fanned out a blanket overtop. You’ve even taken off your jacket, rolling it into a pillow of sorts and tucking it under the other fabrics.

Part of your fidgeting is because you want everything to be perfect. The other part is because you are so nervous. Although, you are not really sure why. Arthur is the one person in the world who you feel the most comfortable and safe with. And yet, with all of the previous restrictions and obstacles now removed, you almost feel more vulnerable than ever.

When you finish fidgeting with the bedroll and blanket, you turn and look down at him, meeting his gaze with a shy smile gracing your features. You nervously bite your bottom lip as you hesitate for just a moment before you hike up your skirts. Loosely balling the cotton into your hands to show just the slightest amount of your calves, you move to sit on Arthur’s lap. And straddling his hips so that you can face him, you slowly lower yourself down on top of his folded legs.

He tentatively sets his hands on your hips to help guide you down. Your hands come to rest upon the sides of his neck and shoulders for support, but you leave them there for a few moments after you settle, the muscle and bulk of his body keenly radiating through your fingertips.

Arthur’s hands carefully come up around your neck, his long fingers stretching around to the back and into your hair as his thumbs brush against your chin. He cradles your face, staring as if he hasn't seen you in years, because now he sees you in a whole new light, more radiant and precious to him than ever before.

You and Arthur simply sit and stare at each other with no words spoken, neither of you sure where to even begin. And yet the anticipation is epic. The comforting silence that encompasses the air is like that that follows the rain. The soft crackling of the fire just outside the shelter is the only sound you hear besides your measured breathing.

Excitement fills your mind as you cannot believe that this is finally happening. But suddenly, you have the fear that Arthur is going to change his mind about this whole thing; that he’s going to get up and bolt from you. Now that you are actually here alone together, you are filled with insecurity. What if he doesn’t like what he sees? You are not the prettiest girl in camp. What if you're too forward? What if you're not forward enough? (He is an outlaw after all.)

But your whole internal struggle is ridiculous, because Arthur is having the same exact conversation with himself in his own mind right now. He’s ugly. He’s riddled with scars and calluses. He’s older than you, too. And, he is not a good man.

But what neither of you realize is that despite how broken you both are, you are exactly what the other wants and needs.

His hands release your face, smoothing down over your shoulders and arms to now rest gingerly on your upper thighs. Arthur’s mind races as he stares at you perched so perfectly upon his lap, right where he’s always wanted you. He wrestles with his self-doubt, but in contrast, he also has to deal with his own heated desires. He's wanted you for so, so long. It is all he can do to restrain himself from throwing you down and roughly taking you here and now.

But eventually, your hand lifts and moves slowly like a butterfly hovering in the air to lay across his cheek. His skin is warm and his beard stubble tickles the palm of your hand. Arthur slowly closes his eyes the moment your fingers graze his skin. He slightly leans into your hand as he places his own massive one overtop of yours to hold it in place, basking in the tenderness found there. It is like a gift that he’s rarely received in his life, and his reaction to your simple gesture almost makes your heart break for him.

Your fingers soon leave his face and proceed to his neck to pull at the knot of his neckerchief which quickly comes off and gets tossed to the side. Then your thumbs gracefully hook under his suspenders to lower them down off his broad shoulders. Although your movements are fluid like water, you can feel Arthur’s whole body begin to stiffen a bit in apprehension under you.

With the suspenders out of the way, you drift back up to the collar of his shirt, hesitating but just for a moment. You slowly begin to unbutton, working the fasteners back through the holes with slightly shaking fingers. Your eyes follow the trail of your fingers, but Arthur’s gaze never leaves your face, watching you so intently as you work. The glow of the fire outside warms your skin and causes copper flecks to dance in your eyes. He takes note how your breathing has become a bit faster, yet shallow. He’s not sure if it is from nervousness or second thoughts.

When you get to the last button at his waistline your hands float up again, resembling the wingspan of a dove, and tuck under the collar. You slowly push the worn cotton fabric back and off of Arthur’s massive shoulders. Your fingertips trace along the thick sinewy muscles of his arms as you continue to push the fabric down to reveal more of his skin to you. The cool air nips at his skin the moment it is exposed. However, it’s a welcoming sensation to wake him up and anchor him to the present before he drifts off entirely and loses himself.

Once freed from the garment, your fingertips retrace their path, dancing back up along Arthur’s arms again until they find his shoulders. They continue to explore along his strong neck and move back up to cradle his jawline, until you are holding his handsome face in your hands once more. You pull Arthur in to you for another kiss; slow, deep and passionate. You close your eyes, savoring the taste of his lips. This kiss, just this simple kiss is all it takes for your heart to lose its balance. And all you want to do is fall.

Arthur’s hands suddenly leave your hips to clutch at your back hungrily while you kiss. He pulls at the bottom of your blouse, lifting it up enough so that he can place his hand onto the bare skin of your lower back, which is softer than he could’ve imagined.

You lean back from him just enough to catch your breath, reluctant to break the kiss, and take the opportunity to pull your blouse and chemise over your head and toss it to the side, leaving yourself now chest bare before Arthur. The movement causes your hair to ruffle, the locks falling softly like fire ash in the wind to frame your face.

Arthur blinks a few times and locks onto your eyes, as if testing if his are allowed to roam. At this precarious little moment, he is literally standing on the precipice of no return, and happily waiting to plunge over the side and into your arms.

Your soft smile gives him permission to explore and Arthur swallows thickly as he lets his gaze draw down your face and over your delicate throat, where he catches the skin flicker as you swallow and your pulse quickens. His eyes continue to float down across the delicate curve of your clavicle, until finally landing on your breasts. You watch his reaction closely, noticing his breath hitch slightly as you feel his body shift underneath you.

Arthur sits motionless, taking in the sight and taking time to appreciate the sheer beauty before him. He has waited and prayed for this moment and he wants not a second of it to be rushed. You reach down and collect his left hand into both of your own and bring it to your lips to softly kiss his dirt-stained knuckles before placing his hand on your right breast, closing his thick fingers around it. A soft puff of air huffs out of his nose at the intimate contact. Arthur draws his thumb across the bud of your nipple and gently squeezes the flesh, amazed at how supple it is.

You slowly remove your left hand from his and reach to set it upon his firm chest, trailing your fingers through the soft curls of golden-brown hair that is scattered across his body. You start at his collarbone and drift downward before placing your small, delicate palm directly over his heart.

"I can feel your heartbeat." You smile, pausing to experience the fluttering under your fingertips. "Can you feel mine?" you innocently ask him, staring at him with wide and hopeful eyes. You look at Arthur as if he is so special, so wondrous, that the feeling seems so foreign to him; almost as if it actually hurts him to be gazed upon so intensely like this. But it is not so much as the way you look at him, but how you can’t bring yourself to look at anything else.

“I feel your heart, your breath, your skin, your hair," he rambles as he gently pulls at a lock. "…everything.”

The poor man is so overwhelmed. All of his senses are saturated: seeing you perched on his lap so close that he can count the freckles on your cheeks, your honeyed voice and soft giggles of excitement ringing in his ears. He can taste you on his lips as you kiss.

And the kisses… dear God, you have lips so soft yet firm that they draw the very breath from his lungs. The feeling of your tongues rolling over each other is heavenly. But it’s your touch that does him in. When you caress Arthur’s tired face, or run your hand along his strong and burdened shoulders, he sweetly shudders beneath you.

It's been a long time since Arthur has done this; has allowed someone else to touch him in this way. Sure, there were Mary and Eliza, with the occasional working girl for the dire release, but those instances were far and few between. But Arthur has cut himself off for so long that he can’t even remember the last time he was touched like this. He can't even stand to look at himself, how could he manage to let a woman see him in this state?

Touch starved doesn’t even begin to describe it. And Arthur didn't notice how bad it was until the moment you ran your fingers along his bare arms and chest, your fingers caressing his face. Or, maybe it is just that it is specifically you touching him that is driving him crazy with desire right now.

You eventually begin to explore his body, and trace your fingers along several scars in particular along his chest, arms, and torso, mesmerized by them. Some are larger than others. Some are less angry-looking as time has healed them. But all show the contrast between an old wound and the tanned skin they bury into.

Being self conscious, Arthur instantly stiffens and tries not to instinctively recoil from you as your attention focuses on his scars. You don't pull back in revulsion as he had expected you to. But you simply stare and curiously run your finger over each one that you can find, like studying the fine thread work of a tapestry, and wondering how it got there.

"I know I ain’t much to look at for you," Arthur mutters lowly and embarrassed.

The comment causes you to look up into his eyes with a twinkle in your own before you lean over and softly begin to kiss each scar that you can reach with your lips. Each patch of hardened tissue is a target of your divine attention. The gesture catches Arthur off-guard and his eyes roll shut with a sigh at the feeling of your delicate lips on his damaged skin.

After a few moments of sweetly-delivered kisses, you sit up to look him in the eye again. "Your scars aren’t ugly, Arthur. They tell your story.” Your voice is an angelic whisper, both light-hearted and earnest at the same time; almost childlike in its wonderment. “They are a testament to how strong you really are, and of all of the things you’ve been through. Others would have crumbled under half the weight you’ve had to endure. You're like a tree; strong and weathered, and where everyone takes refuge."

Your hands dance along his chest again until your index finger lands on one scar in particular that is about three inches from his heart. Your face turns dark for a second, your brows furrowed at the thought of the glaring hardship that he unquestioningly assumes on behalf of everyone else that he cares for.

"You take the brunt of the storm while everyone is protected by you, Arthur." You gaze at him from under your thick lashes with a look of concern that darkens your once-bright face, worried about his well-being.

“Yeah, I’m rough and gnarled like an ol’ oak tree”, he sighs with a sad little self-deprecating grin as his fingertips drum nervously on your back.

The effervescent giggle that bubbles from your lips at his statement is music to his ears as that grin of yours that Arthur loves so much blooms across your cheeks.

“Yes, you’re rough, I’ll give you that,” you chuckle in agreement. “But, also like an old oak tree, every once in awhile, Arthur, you show the most magnificent colors.” The demure little smile that graces your face is enough to make Arthur’s heart stop.

He’s not used to this. He’s been denied attention for so long. Which is ironic, as all you want to do is touch him: run your fingers along his face, draw your leg along his, push yourself up against his bare chest. It's hard for you to imagine anyone ever thinking Arthur is not enough as he is all that you ever seem to think about.

Arthur pulls you to him again for more kisses which you happily reciprocate. The more you touch each other, the more the two of you relax and let go of the inhibitions and hesitations; the comfort settling upon you two like a warm blanket. Your kisses quickly lead to tight embraces, holding each other so close that it's possible that a rib may crack. Heavy breathing and gentle, needy moaning begins to fill the quiet night air.

Getting bolder, Arthur places hot, wet lips along your jawline, down your neck and over your collarbone, getting more and more greedy as your chin gently drops back to grant him access to the sensitive skin underneath. A contented sigh pulls from your slightly gaped mouth as his tongue darts out to leave trails along that soft spot on your chest above your breasts. Your arms affectionately cradle his head to you as your fingers comb through the amber-colored locks of his hair that are forever-embedded with faint hints of woodsmoke.

It is such a blissful moment as you feel each other wrapped in the other’s arms, held so close that every inch of you is heightened and yearning for more.

Arthur eventually rolls you to lay you down, his own body pinning the side of yours to the ground. Your leg lifts to intertwine with his as your arms slot under his own like a puzzle piece as he deepens the passion with hungry lips and curious hands. Closing your eyes only enhances the extension of his touch as he continues. Everywhere Arthur’s fingers and lips graze, the sensation bursts forth to travel the entire scope of your body.

He eventually sits up on his knees, straddling your right leg, to pull at the strings of your skirt. He’s trying not to get impatient when his giant fingers fumble with the ties. But quick enough, the waistline comes loose and Arthur’s fingers hook underneath and slowly pull the fabric back to expose your hips, and all their glory in between, before showcasing your legs.

Arthur’s hand comes up to cover his mouth in awe as he takes in the sight of you lying naked beneath him. Slightly embarrassed under his heated gazed, you instinctively pull your legs up a bit, curling in on yourself like a potato bug to try to hide from the exposure. Upon seeing your reaction, Arthur gives you a reassuring smile and leans overtop of you to protectively shield you from the world outside the shelter. His hand caresses your face, a gesture so gentle that belies his gruff exterior.

“You are so beautiful, you know that?” he whispers to you, kissing your temple. But Arthur’s compliment only makes your cheeks turn as red as the fire outside as you hide your face into his bare chest.

“Stop it”, you mumble into his muscles, self-conscious of his praise.

“Oh, so it's okay for you to say nice things, but not me?” he teases with that gruff baritone voice. “I see how it's gonna be.”

“You deserve to hear it more than I do.” Your voice is small and humble, averting your eyes from his as you roll your fingertips around his chest hair.

“Bullshit. If that ain’t the biggest lie I ever heard…”, his nose nudging against yours before encompassing your mouth with his own again.

Arthur carefully moves to crawl completely over you. Both of you are shaking slightly, but it's not from the chill night air. His movements are slow at first, terrified of hurting you physically or offending you with his pent up lust. His hands begin to roam more freely over your skin, which is softer than he ever dreamed.

Now that he finally has you, Arthur is eager to see every bit of you. His lips kiss over the faint lines and stretch marks that occasionally decorate your skin. His fingertips trace them first as he discovers every bit of you. His attention eventually lands on the soft swell of your breasts, which he caresses before clamping his hot mouth over the nipple, his tongue flicking and swirling over the highly-sensitive skin. You softly hum as your hands find their way to come up again to finger through his hair, your nails dragging slightly across his scalp before lightly grabbing onto the thick waves.

Your image, your shape, gets burned into Arthur’s brain as he continues his line of kisses and fingertrails all over your body: every curve, every freckle, even the soft roll of your stomach and hips. Everywhere Arthur touches makes you melt, as his hands are hot like the sun from his own want mixed with his nervousness.

Your heat is so sensitive as his hand carefully drops to caress it, causing you to jump slightly with a whimper. His fingertips linger around your soft mound until they dance along the delicate folds, already slick with want as you buck slightly into his hand, panting hotly into his mouth. His face now hovers so close to yours, close enough for his eyelashes to tickle your skin, as he gently slips a digit into you. Your spine arches back at the sensation of it, a breathless moan escaping your kiss-swollen lips and your toes begin to curl in pleasure.

Arthur watches your reaction carefully as he pumps his finger into you. Your eyes roll back as your chin lifts, your mouth sharply sucking in air. Your hand desperately reaches out to grasp his bicep with desire. Your eyes open again to meet his gaze, burning into each other with such intensity. His hand moves faster, adding a second digit now, and curls them to rub that certain spot so perfectly. The sensation draws the most beautiful moan from your lips. It is a sound that almost makes Arthur weep.

Suddenly, the realization of what’s about to happen hits him. What if he’s not good enough? What if you reject him after this? What if he hurts you? What if this ruins the one good thing he has in his life? Arthur pauses in his worship of you, retracting from between your legs for a moment. His hand graces over your forehead as his thumb lingers at the corner of your eyebrow.

“Are you sure this is what you want, (Y/N)?” His eyes crease with concern as he searches yours, not 100% sure if he should continue. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

But you are getting restless. You’ve been pushed to the limit in body, mind, and soul by this man and it is time to put an end to your longing. You cup Arthur’s face again with a look of seriousness settling across your features as you are afraid that maybe he is having second thoughts after all.

Your (y/e/c) eyes burn into his with such intensity and longing. “I only want you, Arthur. Of that, I am certain.”

Arthur inhales deeply, weighing the possible consequences. “If this is too much, you need to tell me. Promise?”

You lift up slightly and give him a chaste kiss upon his plump lips. “I promise.”

Giving a faint smile in acceptance, Arthur pulls away from you. He carefully stands up again, stooping slightly in the small shelter, and begins to unbuckle his pants. With no union suit on today, his remaining layers of clothing are quick to come off. His hardened cock springs forth from its confines as he bends to shuck the pants and boots from his legs.

You watch him intently, taking in the vision of him. Arthur truly is a beautiful specimen of a man. You have patched him up multiple times after jobs and fights, and of course there was that time when you accidentally stumbled upon him bathing in the river, so you have seen him before. But now you are free to observe his body, to truly take in the sight of him and appreciate the man standing before you.

Of course, he is muscular, his arms and thighs thick from years of hard labor. His entire body is littered with hair, but not in an unpleasant way. Now that he is completely naked in front of you, even more scars are made known to you. You notice old knife wounds on his thighs and an old white scar creeping up along his shin. He almost resembles a ragdoll, one that is tattered and has been stitched back together over time.

Arthur tosses his pants to the side and looks down at you, hesitating when he notices how keenly you gaze at him. Seeing his look of concern, you sit up to run your hands up his thighs and reach over his abdomen, making the mental note of how his bodyhair trials downward towards the V between his legs. When your face tilts upwards towards his, he leans in for another impassioned kiss before gently pushing you back down and settling himself between your legs.

Arthur shifts between your hips, getting his knees and elbow set. Caging you underneath him, he begins to rock back and forth causing his whole body to rub against yours. The rhythmic motion lulls you into a relaxed state like no other. You can feel his cock beginning to twitch as it pushes against your heat as if begging for attention. You hear him hiss slightly under his breath, fighting to keep his composure before he loses all self control. The sound makes you moan and mewl on your own accord.

Finally, it’s at the point where Arthur just can’t wait any longer, and neither can you by the way you're grasping and whining at him. He reaches down between you to line himself up and pushes himself into you so gently. Your hand immediately shoots out to his shoulder, bracing yourself. He's well-endowed between his legs and he knows it. Your eyes meet his, holding his gaze as he stretches you so wonderfully below, causing you to lightly gasp. He watches your face as you wince slightly, letting out a brief whimper as he pushes. He's trying to be so mindful of your comfort, knowing he's going to fully bury himself into you to the hilt.

"You alright?" Arthur cautiously asks as he grabs and hooks his arm under your leg, lifting it up and over his hip to open you up more to him.

"Yes", you pant out, smiling sweetly and lifting your face up to kiss him gently again. He takes a brief moment to get himself adjusted and then begins to move, causing your breathing to be heavy in his ear. He pushes his cock all the way into you, grunting at the heavenly sensation of it, before retracting again. He moves so slowly at first, but then begins to move at a steady pace. The experience is so utterly amazing to you both as you can feel every inch of each other in the most intimate of ways.

He begins to pump himself in and out as your whole body moves with him. You hook your arm around Arthur’s wide shoulders and neck while the other hand has a tight grasp onto his bicep, fingers digging into the muscles there. After a few moments, he wants to ask again if you're okay, but when your mouth falls open and he hears the words, "damn, Arthur" whispered into his ear, he knows his answer.

But you can still see the apprehension in Arthur’s face; feel it in his fingers as he touches you. He buries his face into your neck and holds you so tightly as his hips find their place in a steady rhythm between yours. Yet Arthur is still so hesitant, still holding back from you as if nervous.

"Arthur…I need you," your whisper to him barely audible.

“You're sure about this?” he asks again, lifting his face from your neck to look into yours. “I mean, I really don’t want to hurt you, (Y/N), after everything and all.” Arthur sweetly searches for any misgivings, for any sign that you are not ready for this next step.

“I want all of you, Arthur," your voice yearning with desire as you cup his face again. You are so touched that this sometimes-brutal man can be so careful with you, especially in this situation. "It’s okay. I’m tougher than you think." You give him a little nod as his favorite little smile graces your lips once more.

And just like that, that confirmation is all that Arthur needs as he suddenly crashes into your lips, hot and all consuming this time. His thrusts instantly become deep and steady as his hips begin to snap sharply into yours with the ferocity of a caged beast that has been released back into the wild. And you gasp in the most satisfied way as you give in to him.

“That’s it,” you pant, praising him as you wrap your one leg around his waist to pull him deeper into you, while using the other to stabilize yourself against his force and push yourself up to receive him.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to give in to his long-denied desires and lose himself completely, drowning in his senses. He didn’t realize just how empty his soul was until you were there to fill it again. And you are more than happy to be the one to provide that comfort to him. It’s the simplest, yet most selfless thing that you could offer him with your humble existence.

Arthur used to think that he just wanted to disappear sometimes, to get lost from everyone and everything in the world. But what he realizes is that all he’s ever wanted was to be truly found. And clinging to him, you are just as desperate as Arthur is. Loneliness isn’t something just for an outlaw. You wrap yourself up into him, into his arms, against his barrel chest which is heaving and trying to catch the air for the lungs within as he moves faster and faster on top of you.

“Don’t let me go." Your plea wafts into his ear as tears form in the corners of your eyes as the weight of everything that you've been through and everything you've been waiting for, finally comes to a culmination.

”Never” is all he manages to murmur in response, not even sure if you hear him.

The feeling of Arthur on top of you, of him inside of you, is so wonderfully overwhelming and electric. The fullness of him inside you, his rough hands on your skin, his soft lips nipping at your jawline, and his hot breath on your neck, it’s all as if lightning has hit you and is traveling throughout your entire body. Your skin is buzzing with the exquisite sensation, acutely aware of even his chest hair as it drags and rubs against your sensitive breasts as he moves.

Arthur grabs onto your hip again, digging his fingertips into the soft flesh there. There will be slight bruising there for sure later, but neither of you are in any frame of mind to acknowledge or care right now. His cock continues to ram into you, hitting the back of your walls as his girth stretches you so wonderfully. His thrusts are sharp and hard, more desperate than harsh, chasing you, as if you’ll vanish from him in moments like the sun burning the morning fog away.

It is a good thing that your first time together is out and away from anyone else in camp. It gives you both the opportunity to explore and appreciate each other properly. But it also allows you to be free and unrestricted, as the sounds of your lovemaking burst forth in waves of moaning, squeals, and grunting, only getting louder and louder with each cascading wave of building ecstasy.

Looking down at you, Arthur never thought he’d see you like this: flushed and pupils blown, your mouth fallen open and making the most incredible noises in his ear. In all the time he's watched you from afar and sketched your image to keep privately for himself, Arthur never dreamed it could be like this. He looks down at himself pounding into you, watching how your body shudders with each stroke. Like a musician playing a fiddle, you move and moan with his fingers. Your chest heaves while your back arches at an almost inhuman angle, desperate to receive more of him. It makes him want you even more. It's crazy how your body responds in perfect union to his. Every time you moan his name in broken syllables and wanton whispers, Arthur shudders and groans even more as it is a confirmation that you are really here for him and only him. And like a selfish child, he wants you all to himself.

The two of you form a beautifully ungraceful knot of limbs and noises, hard to tell where one of you begins and the other ends. Arthur rocks into your hips like a wave on the ocean, repeatedly surging and retreating. Your hands wrap under his arms to grip the planes of his back as your fingers dig into the hard muscle there, clawing for a handhold. You draw your knee up, causing your hips to open wider and granting Arthur more access to your core before your heels dig into the backs of his thighs. And in reaction to your movements, he swallows each of your gasps with his mouth, hungry for you. He winds his hand up into your hair again, pulling slightly to tip your chin back to expose the delicate area of your throat and allowing him to claim what is his with a twinkle of pure delight in his eyes. Your mouth opens up into a soundless scream, an airless breath that fights to escape your chest. And all the while, you are completely absent of coherent thought. Your mind is taken over by the feel of Arthur completely encompassing you.

This goes on for what seems like hours, as time seems to stand still. For the first time in forever, this feels different for both of you. You cling to Arthur as if your life depends on it because maybe it does. Arthur is the very air you breathe. But that is okay, because he clings to you just the same. The two of you lie there, skin against skin, yet you still try to pull each other even closer. It's a wonder that either of you can move at all for how tightly you hold each other. But it's because you move in perfect unison together that you are able to make it work so heavenly.

In this beautiful moment, nestled in the thick of the forest and caressed by the darkness of the night, yet kissed by the glow of a fire, you and Arthur give in to each other so completely and so deeply, each finding that missing piece in each other to make you both whole once more. He is the strength that you so desperately need, and you are the hope and humanity that he lost so long ago.

Lightning begins to build in your abdomen as your climax is soon to come. You can’t even form words to tell him, but Arthur can tell by how much faster you're panting and squirming beneath him. Your hot breath dances across Arthur’s neck as your bottom teeth drag along his earlobe, causing an almost animalistic grunt to erupt from him.

Now it’s your turn to dig your fingers with bruising pressure as your fingernails begin to cut into the flesh of his strong back, holding onto him desperately while the crescendo builds between your legs. You throw your head back with a loud and overwhelmed moan the moment it hits, stars clouding your vision as your climax comes hard with full force like a tidal wave. Arthur stares at you, mesmerized, as his hand comes up to cradle your face as if he’s trying to actually catch the feeling of it into his palm. He is utterly amazed by you. He can’t remember when, or even if, he’s seen a woman react to his touch like this.

And with this sight, Arthur is soon to follow you. Moaning loudly, his eyes shoot wide before screwing tightly shut again to brace himself for the impending sensation about to rock his entire body. And the intensity of his orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks. Arthur quickly reaches up to fist your hair again as he pulls himself out of you just in time to release between your thighs. The muscles of his entire body tense up and restrict, clamping down tightly onto your body underneath him. His breathing becomes staggered and jagged as he sputters to catch his breath.

Arthur has a split second of panic as he pulls out of you, not sure if he has timed himself properly. He almost doesn’t make it because he can barely pry himself from your reflexive grasp to move. Aside from the obvious precautions against pregnancy, Arthur doesn't want to offend you by assuming he could release inside of you.

Arthur remains motionless for a few moments, still trying to catch his breath from his own orgasm, before his bear-like frame collapses onto you. You notice how sweetly his legs and arms tremble as he tries not to crush you beneath him. His face returns to the crook of your neck, panting hot breath onto your sweat-glistening skin. The cool night air is a blessing as a slight breeze chases away the excessive heat that radiates off of your naked bodies. You slowly drag your fingers up the valley of his spine, dancing along the back of his neck and into his hair as the feather-light touch of your fingers causes him to shudder again. You let out a satisfied moan as you flex your fingers into his sweat-damp hair.

Arthur eventually pulls himself up onto his elbows to look you in the face again and is relieved to be greeted by the softest of smiles. You place your hand along his cheek again, just as you did before, and lift up to pepper his face with sweet kisses along his jaw and his cheek and over his eyelids and nose.

Carefully, Arthur rolls off of you and onto his left side, but keeps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he moves. He reaches over you to grab his neckerchief that was discarded earlier and uses it to gently clean your legs and then himself before tossing it aside once more.

Laying there wrapped up into each other’s arms, you forget that the rest of the world exists. You stare into each other's eyes, soaking up the reality of what has just happened between you, as your hand floats up to nestle your fingertips in between the pectoral muscles of his chest. There is a new sense of depth to Arthur’s ocean-blue eyes, a calmness that you haven’t seen before. Arthur studies your face, taking in the way the firelight catches in your irises and mapping the curvature of your lips that he has to fight the urge to kiss again and again.

“So now what?” Arthur asks, finally breaking the blissful silence.

You release a hum of contented exhaustion as you smile at him. "This doesn’t have to be anything that you don’t want it to be, Arthur. Although I’m really hoping it goes past this moment."

“I gotta be honest, (Y/N), I haven’t done this in a long time. I...I don’t know if I can.” He draws his lips inward, biting down slightly as he’s embarrassed to tell you this, worried you’ll reject him here and now.

“But what you don’t realize, Arthur, is that’s where you have me at a disadvantage,” you tell him with a voice so soft and gentle. “At least you’ve had love before. I’ve never been fortunate enough to have what you had, even if it was only for a brief window of time.” You lovingly reach over and run the pads of your fingers over his lips and chin. A lop-sided grin dusts your face as you study him for a moment. “You are capable of so much more than you know, Arthur. I can’t wait for the day that you realize that.”

Arthur hums in contemplation, averting his eyes for a moment as the corners of his mouth lift a bit. His fingertips roll over the delicate skin of your back as your words embed themselves into his mind.

“I don’t want anything from you, Arthur. I just simply want you.” Your breathy voice carries your warm proclamation, assured with the glinting look that you give him.

“This could go so wrong, you know,” he warns, his eyebrows knit with concern as his gaze meets yours once again.

“True. But, it could go so right, too,” you counter with a smirk. “This could be the best thing to happen to either of us, Arthur." You reach over again and gracefully run your fingers through his hair before cupping his cheek again as your thumb gently swipes over his bottom lip. "And I think you’re worth the risk.”

Arthur runs his hand along your back and over your hips, taking in all of your beautiful words. He thinks he is just so ordinary. Or maybe not even that. But to you, he is extraordinary, vast and breathtaking like the bluest sky over the valley. And he can see it in your eyes when you look at him and it makes it hard for him to breathe.

“Do you have any idea what you do to a man?”, he finally smirks, his eyebrows arching questioningly at you.

A coy smile dances upon the petals of your lips in return. “Don’t care about other men. Just you.”

That affirmation causes Arthur’s heart to soar higher than the stars sparkling in the sky above you, and he surges forward and into your lips again. He doesn’t want this moment to end, but only to fold the two of you up into it forever. You smile and hum into Arthur's mouth as his tongue pushes over yours again and again as you can feel his confidence building with each caress of his strong hands across your body.

When you feel him harden against your legs again, you take advantage of the opportunity and gently push the man over to climb on top of him. Your hair falls to create an intimate curtain, housing your two faces so sweetly as you catch Arthur’s lips with your own. You pull away from his mouth and begin to place kisses along his neck and over his shoulder. The thin blanket that Arthur had wrapped around the two of you slowly falls away to expose your naked body to the cool night air once more, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin.

Using one hand to steady yourself, you use the other to explore Arthur’s muscled chest, rolling over the chest hair that decorates his weathered skin. Playing on both angles, you draw your leg up along Arthur’s body, running your knee and leg along his side, while simultaneously moving your hand and lips down his thick torso. The full body caress makes Arthur’s whole body come to life. His body is used to hardship and blows; to be abused and pushed to the limits of its capabilities. Certainly not this type of coveted affection and touching that you are providing him now.

Arthur’s head rolls back with a moan as he is now the one being taken care of. His head thumps back against your make-shift pillow with a soft ‘thud’ sound as his hands land on your shoulders, massaging the muscle there between his strong fingers as you travel downward along his body. Your trail of kisses leads you down to his hips as your hair feathers out over his abdomen.

His breath suddenly hitches as he quickly looks down as you hover over his cock. You look up at him and meet his gaze, before you duck back down, gently taking his large cock into your hand. Arthur’s eyes go wide then immediately heavy-lidded as the heat from your mouth envelops his tip before slowing working down the thickness of his shaft.

You have only done this a few times before now, and Arthur is much larger than you're used to. But desire is a wonderful motivator. Your head starts to bob slowly at first before picking up a faster pace. Using your hand, you're able to take him entirely into your mouth without gagging. Your tongue wraps around the shaft before teasingly flicking at the tip. The muscles of your mouth firmly encompass his cock, creating the most blissful sensation of pressure and suction as you pull up and down. You can hear the hissing and moaning sounds the man is making and it only increases your confidence in your performance, and you change your technique to elicit the specific sound you desire from his trembling lips.

Right now, you only want to take care of Arthur; to make him feel good and show him the attention that he so rightfully deserves. And yet, the idea that you could hold this strong and fearsome outlaw hostage in the palm of your hand is incredible. This position also gives you the opportunity to take note of just how large Arthur is. It’s little wonder how he was able to pull such an intense orgasm from the depth of your body just moments ago. The very memory of it causes your own desires to ramp up, as your heat begins to tingle and get wet between your legs again.

Once Arthur is at the point that he is rock-hard again, you slowly remove his cock from your mouth with a soft “pop” and gently rise-up to place yourself on top of him. Arthur watches you, captivated, as you crawl over him like an animal stalking its prey, and slowly rock back and forth, rubbing yourself against him. He’s tempted to take himself in hand, line himself up with your heat and push up into you again. But he’s too transfixed by your dominance at the moment to do anything but watch you move atop of him.

As if reading his mind, you smirk and you lift up a bit more, wrapping your hand around his rigid cock to guide yourself as you lower onto him, moaning softly and biting down on your lip as his size fills you up yet again. Your head drops back, hair cascading down your back, as you start to slow-grind on him in a hypnotic rhythm.

Finally able to pull his mind out of its lust-drunk fog, Arthur runs his hands up the front of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing small circles into the plush skin there. He snakes one hand along your stomach and up into the valley between your breasts as the other hand lands on your hip, his fingers digging slightly to help hold the pace you are setting. Letting you take the lead this time allows Arthur to take in the sight of you as you straddle his hips with your own.

You're not perfect. But it’s your imperfections that make you perfect to Arthur. It really is as if you are made for each other. You have curves, for sure. You're not as small as some of the other girls in camp, but you fit into Arthur’s large hands perfectly. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to break you as if you are a porcelain doll. Your individual features are pleasant for sure, but taken in as a whole, you are striking. At least to Arthur you are.

He savors the touch of your soft skin against his which is rough and weathered; how the large orbs of your adoring eyes are looking down at him right now, and how you so generously take him into yourself. You are beautiful, you are kind…and you are his. And the two of you can’t get enough of each other.

For you, you had been so worried that what happened in Rosewood would have ruined you. And it almost did. But you didn’t want that act of depravity to define you. And you pulled from the common adversity of your new family to help rebuild your spirit like a phoenix rising from the ashes. And if that hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t be here now, like this. With Arthur.

If it were anyone else touching you like this, you’d probably curl up into a ball, retracting into yourself in fear or self-loathing. But with Arthur, you feel safe and shielded as if no one else in the world would, or could, touch you.

Arthur is different and you’ve always known it by the way he makes you feel, even when he simply speaks to you. He is warm and instantly feels familiar to you, like he has always been the other half of yourself. He feels solid and secure to your touch and almost makes you feel drunk with emotions that can’t even be named. The best feeling in the whole world is to be with someone who wants you just as much as you want them.

It's amazing how life works sometimes. Some people always have the sunshine in life while others always seem to get the rain. But sometimes, you really do need to suffer through the storm to see the magic of the rainbow at the end of it.

As you continue to ride him, Arthur can see and feel both of you rapidly approaching your conjoined climax again as he can feel the velvet walls of your heat clenching around his twitching cock inside of you. As you begin to move even faster, you take your hands off of where you've been holding on to Arthur’s forearms and lean over him to plant them on his shoulders. This angle gives you more leverage to grind Arthur even deeper into yourself, if that’s even possible. Harder, faster. Deeper than you thought possible, until you feel as if he’s up into your ribcage. Arthur reciprocates by bucking his hips up into yours with each stroke, causing you to gasp as the breath is taken right out of your lungs with the feel of it. And it’s shortly thereafter that you both start to grasp at each other again, bracing for the overstimulation about to hit.

Your climax is intense and hits first again. A sharp moan erupts from your lips as your head instantly snaps backwards. And as your muscles begin to go limp as you come down, Arthur grabs you and takes control, sitting up slightly to wrap his strong arms around you, and rides you through the surge of it.

Watching your eyes roll back into your head with a strained cry, he is quick to hit his own climax and swiftly lifts you up to pull himself out of you again. He pitches you forward, causing your trembling arms to brace yourself against him as he spills his seed along your conjoined thighs once more. It’s a good thing Arthur has a hold of you, too, as you are completely undone at this point, your whole body seemingly boneless. You roll your head to the side and close your eyes before leaning forward to collapse against his chest.

You both lay there for some time, motionless except for your heaving chests. Arthur’s massive arms encircle you to hold you tight to him as you curl up onto the plane of his chest, your fingers clutching at him. Eventually, you shift to lower yourself to lay along Arthur’s side. You turn into him and snuggle your face into his chest as your hand rests across his heart which you can feel beating like crazy beneath your palm. You absentmindedly rake your fingers through his chest-hair and lift your leg up and over to entwine with his, still trying to keep as close to him as possible.

Smiling slightly at the feeling of your warm body against his, Arthur pulls the blanket around you again to cover your naked body as it drapes over his own. He lays his hand atop of yours that rests on his chest and wraps his other arm around you to cradle you back into him, his hand tangling in your hair as he holds your head.

And here in this perfect little moment of satiated bliss, Arthur is happy.

“We could have done this a long time ago, you know,” you snicker as you roll your eyes up to look at him.

“Hmmm, don’t I know it. Remind me next time to listen to you, would ya?” He pulls his rough fingers along your spine and up over your bare shoulders, still fascinated by how soft your skin is.

“It’s like I told you before, Arthur: you look out for me, I’ll look out for you,” you say drowsily, as sleep is about to take over your worn-out senses. And within moments, you are asleep.

When you go silent and the only sound he hears is the crickets in the night, Arthur looks down at your form, curled up into him like a kitten and almost as fragile looking as one, too. He runs his fingertip along your shoulder again, admiring how the appendage curves. And as he watches you in your euphoric slumber, his mind starts to wander now that it’s quiet and his wits are about him once more.

It is amazing how this person who was once a total stranger to him can suddenly, and without warning, mean the world to him. You are everything Arthur has ever dared to hope for. And somehow, by some miracle, you have graced him with your affection. And Arthur knows it now: time, distance, background - nothing could separate you two. This is real and this is right. Arthur understands now that you are the person that he was always meant to find, and he is unimaginably captivated by you.

In the quiet night air, now that the symphony of moans and panting are done, the only sound carrying through the still night air is the popping of the fire as it dies down. The faint noise of a hooting owl in the trees can be heard off in the distance. Left to his own thoughts, Arthur’s reason and self-doubt begin to creep up again, but it’s only for a moment. Spreading like black ink, Micah’s words ring through his mind : if Arthur really cared for you, he’d save you the heartache and keep you safe from him and the trouble that someone like him brings.

But now, Arthur doesn’t think he could ever do that even if he tried. Selfishly, now that he has you, he doesn’t want to let you go. It would be like taking the air from his lungs or the blood from his heart. Arthur is all-consumed by you now. He could die tomorrow and he'll be a happy man.

What if he doesn’t run this time, but stays and lets your affection for him, possibly even love, overtake him? Arthur never fathomed that even something as simple as the sound of your voice could ever calm his soul like you have.

So instead of the foolish notion to leave you in order to protect you, Arthur determines he’s going to do everything in his power to keep you safe and protected in his care. He is your guardian, and you are his angel.

As he comes to this conclusion, Arthur’s powerful arms involuntarily tighten around you as if someone was going to come and take you away from him. He leans down and places an ever-so soft kiss on the top of your head, causing you to shift even closer into him in your sleep.

“I got you, baby-girl. I got you”, he whispers.

-----------------------------------------

Several hours go by and you slowly wake from your blissful slumber to the sound of chirping birds in the air. The lightening sky of soft lavender and subdued pinks washes over the landscape and creeps its way into the hunting shelter, intruding upon the blissful solitude where you and Arthur are still tucked away.

The last few plumes of smoke from the dying fire slowly waft through the air. Both of you must have been worn out from your passionate love-making as you are both in the same position as when you fell asleep in each other's arms. The slightly damp, cool breeze of the morning blows across your exposed shoulder, causing you to stir. You slowly stretch and curl into a tighter ball around the bulk of the man beneath you. You inhale deeply as your muscles flex and you instantly catch his scent. The smell of leather and cigarettes, mixed with a bit of clove from his soap, fills your nose. It instantly makes you smile in your hazy sleep, remembering where you are and that this is indeed not a dream.

Arthur refused to sleep much overnight, keeping a watchful eye on you as you slept, but he did end up dozing lightly here and there. When he feels you move against his bare skin, warm and soothing, he peels open his blue-green eyes with a sleepy grunt and peers down at you.

“Hey you,” he murmurs softly as he runs his thumb across your temple. You smile, inhaling deeply again, taking a moment to appreciate where you are before you reply with your own sleep-hushed “Hey you”.

“We’re gonna have to get goin’ here soon, little miss. Dutch ain’t gonna be too happy if we’re out much longer.” Arthur’s voice is thick with sleep and, of course, carrying with it the reluctant tone to enforce what he's saying.

You groan in disappointment, burying your face back into him as you shuffle a bit as your limbs slowly awaken once more. “You sure that’s the way you want to go?” you ask coyly, as you start to leave kisses on Arthur’s chest while seductively drawing circles on his skin with your fingertip.

“Aw c’mon, you’re killin’ me,” he whines, causing you to giggle mischievously. Arthur wraps you up into his arms and squeezes tightly before relaxing again. When you’re able to lift your head, you reach up to pull his face to yours and plant a soft, yet very intimate kiss on his lip. Your eyes create that dreamy, longing stare again as you look up into his face and run your knuckles along his cheek.

“You’re gonna get me in so much trouble, you know that?” Arthur raises an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I know.” With a quick kiss to his nose, you slowly sit up and stretch, looking around for your clothes with a sigh of disappointment. “But I suppose you’re right. We should get going.”

Arthur reluctantly sits up as well, leaning over to kiss your naked shoulder as he runs his hand slowly down your back, his touch tickling your skin. Your eyes slowly float closed as you turn your head into his, trying to savor every last bit of time you have alone together.

“Trust me, Darlin’, I’d stay out here with you forever if I could,” he mumbles into your skin as his nose and lips smoosh into your shoulder as if trying to melt the two of you together.

“Yeah, yeah, promises, promises,” you joke as you roll over to grab your blouse and skirt. Arthur sees the perfect opportunity and playfully smacks your exposed butt, pulling a slight squeak from your lips.

But soon enough, the two of you get yourselves together. You reluctantly pull apart from one another long enough to pack up the few things you had brought with you in your hasty departure yesterday and prepare to leave the little hunting lean-to and head back to camp. The sun has awakened as well at this point and begins to shine down, its beams freckling through the tree branches. It is a gloriously beautiful morning and you look upon it with a whole new sense of wonder and happiness in your heart.

As you shake out the blanket and roll it up in your hands, Arthur stands hesitantly behind you, watching you gracefully move as you tuck the last bit of things onto Buck’s saddle. Noticing him out of the corner of your eye, you turn and give him a curious look. “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine. Just rolling the last 12 hours around in my head," he mumbles, swirling his hand in the air by his temple. "It’s hard to believe what just happened.” Arthur smiles sheepishly, rubbing his hand along his chin as he thinks about his current situation.

So much has changed in the last few days, let alone hours. From the fighting between you, to his ride to Rosewood; from the confessions to the embrace. And of course, the beautiful night you’ve just spent together. The river of emotions have weighed heavily on Arthur, leaving him delightfully overwhelmed and uncharacteristically content.

You beam with sparkling eyes as you take a few steps over to him. “Well, now you can touch whenever you want to. That should be fun, yeah?” You reach your arms around his barrel-chest, squeezing him to you, and lift your face upwards to start placing sweet kisses along his face and neck.

"Whatcha doin?” Arthur asks cautiously, a suspicious eyebrow raised, but one that belies the grin creeping across his bearded face.

“Just lovin' up on you again,” you giggle into his neck. "Something tells me you're past due and I got a lot of time to make up for."

A low hum rumbles from deep in his chest as Arthur folds you up against him, squeezing you into a strong embrace in return. He collects your beautiful face into his giant hands and leans down to kiss you deeply. Your breath rolls over each other’s as you indulge your senses yet again. Once more, the rest of the world falls away the moment your lips touch. The feeling leaves your knees weak and you have to fight the urge to push it farther as your arms tighten around his torso and begin to creep up his back.

When he pulls back again, Arthur looms over you, looking down into your face and admiring the precious gift he’s holding in his hands. He gives a slight shake to his head, absolutely blown away by his dumb-luck and how he’s managed to fall ass-backwards into your life. Arthur stares at you for a moment, those vivid blue eyes of his bright with a whole new purpose behind them as you reflect back to him the most resplendent smile he has ever seen.

“Mine,” he whispers.

“Yours,” you respond breathlessly.

----------------------------------------

It is mid-morning by the time you and Arthur make your way back to camp. You’re not too sure of what you’ll come back to, but prepare yourselves for the teasing and cat-calls you’re sure are coming. Thankfully, though, it’s mostly knowingly smirks and waves that greet you. A slight wave of relief settles over you at that, as you are not sure how Arthur would react to such personal teasing. Despite the connection that the two of you have, he is still very much a private person.

You both get Arthur’s horse taken care of, offer your apologies to a very agitated Blue for being left behind, and then head over to Pearson’s wagon to get some much-needed coffee. The camp is relatively quiet this morning, with a few members milling about with their own agendas. The slight breeze waffs the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee in your direction and pulls you like a tether. You inhale deeply, your eyes briefly rolling shut, and smile with the feeling of “being home”. This little moment is so perfect: a beautiful morning, surrounded by friends, hot coffee on the fire, and your man at your side.

“There’s the love-birds,” Pearson chimes loudly with a wink when he notices you and Arthur. The cook stirs the last remnants of breakfast in his pot, clanging the utensil loudly on the side to shake off whatever coats the spoon. The portly man quickly puts down the ladle and grabs the coffee pot and a few cups for you.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Arthur, waving him off as his face turns a slight shade of pink. You simply smile and gratefully take the cup from Pearson’s hand. A quick, eager sip of the hot, bitter liquid cascades down your throat, warming you from the inside out and a soft “Ahhhh” escapes your lips. And before the two of you can do anything else, you are greeted by the sound of Dutch’s voice carrying through the air.

“Well, well, nice of you two to join us again!”

You and Arthur both turn to see Dutch and Hosea approach and notice Hosea holding a few rolls of paper in his hands.

“Are you two done foolin’ around so we can get some work done around here?” asks Dutch, raising his eyebrows at you both in impatience with a slight wave of his arm.

“For now,” you quip back. “But I was hoping to fool around a bit again before dinner”. You give Dutch a cocky smirk and a wink.

Hosea's face wrinkles delightfully as he tries to stifle a laugh while Arthur lowers his head to hide a huge smile under the brim of his hat at your insinuation. But the look on Dutch’s face is anything but amused by your comment right now.

“Not in the mood. Right,” you say awkwardly under Dutch’s impatient glare, clearing your throat and quickly minding your place. “I’ll just...go somewhere over there.” You wave your hand dismissively towards the center of the camp before turning to Arthur. “I’ll see you later, Arthur,” you giggle.

Placing your hand on his arm, you give it a slight squeeze along with a big smile. He gives you a quick nod before you quickly scurry away from the men. Arthur’s eyes continue to follow after you, landing on the curve of your rear as you walk away, instantly missing your presence. He reluctantly turns back to Dutch only to be met with the older man’s stink-eye look.

“What?” asks Arthur innocently, chuckling a little.

Dutch plants his ringed hands onto his hips in annoyance, tilting his head to the side just a bit as he looks at Arthur. “This is going to get really old, really fast, isn’t it?” asks Dutch with an exasperated sigh.

“Oh, leave him alone, Dutch. He’s finally got a good thing goin’ there for himself,” interrupts Hosea approvingly with a knowing grin on his face. “Now, come on you two. We need to go over these carrier routes.” Hosea waves the papers he’s been holding in front of them and motions to the nearest table with his head.

Leaving the three of them to their business, you take your cup of coffee and saunter over to the fire to take advantage of a rare quiet morning to relax. Noticing that you are back in camp, Abigail is quick to run up to you with a huge cheshire-cat-like smile sparkling on her face.

“Well, good morning, Miss (Y/L/N),” Abigail sings as she hustles over, shimmying up to you and elbowing your arm. “Soooo?” she questions you with a smirk.

But you playfully roll your eyes at her and shake your head as you take a seat next to the other girls who are already gathered around the fire and trying to wake up for the day. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell," you tease Abigail with a grin, demurely pulling your shoulder to your chin.

“Well, we know there was more than kissin’ going on last night, so why don’t you tell us about that then?” jokes Abigail, swatting your arm.

"So tell us, (Y/N)! How was it?" Karen blurts out eagerly. Her sleepy face instantly perks up the moment you sit down.

"Karen!" scolds Mary-Beth in a hushed tone. Judging by their snickering, you can only imagine that your departure last night has been the talk of the camp.

"What?” Karen protests innocently to Mary-Beth. “I'm genuinely curious.” She waves her hand nonchalantly towards you. “I wanna know if it was worth all the trouble and the wait.” When Mary-Beth gives nothing but a disapproving stare, Karen leans in to her and swats her friend’s leg. “Oh c'mon, like you ain't dyin' to know yourself," she hisses.

"Actually, I'm kind of curious about it myself," interjects Abigail, looking back to you with that same cat-like grin.

“Yeah, (Y/N), how’d it go?” asks Tilly, leaning forward in her chair and planting her elbows on her knees in keen interest.

It is so sweet to you how your friends want to share in your excitement. You’ve never had siblings, and even your friendships as a young girl were never as open and close as the relationships that you have quickly cultivated with these women. Your face begins to bashfully dust pink at their attention, yet you can’t help yourself as your smile gets even wider by the minute.

“Some of the best moments in life are the things that you can’t tell other people about,” you gush, yet still trying to be elusive.

“Oh, come on! That ain’t fair! You gotta give us somethin’!” begs Karen, smacking her hands on her thighs and leaning in towards you.

You simply reply with a long, mockingly-impatient sigh before your face turns a deeper shade of scarlet. You cover your face with your hands for a few moments before pulling them down to peek over your fingertips at your friends, blushing and giggling like a school-girl.

"It was...perfect," you say with a dreamy, love-drunk grin on your face.

“Ooooo” They all let out a collective excited giggle, elbowing each other and so happy for both you and for Arthur.

—------------------------------

Fortunately, it is a bit of a slow day today and Ms Grimshaw is not chasing after everyone to get back to work for once. So you are able to just sit and socialize with the girls. You pass the time sipping coffee and gossiping, discussing what the plans are for the day and watching Jack play “swords” with a stick with Uncle. It is a perfectly content afternoon for once.

Somewhere off to the side you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat before they approach your little group. You turn your head when movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention and instantly grin ear to ear when you see that it is Arthur. The way your whole body lights up the moment that you see him makes Arthur instantly wish you were back at the hunting shelter. You’ve only been apart for a little over an hour and yet it already feels like days.

"Ladies", he addressed the group of you with a nod and polite touch to the brim of his hat.

"Hey, Arthur" they all giggle and smirk at the outlaw at their inside joke. You are quick to swat at them, trying to get them to hush.

"Uh...right.” His hand comes up behind his neck as he stands there awkwardly, suddenly a little uncomfortable with their smirking faces all turned to him. “(Y/N), can I talk to you for a minute?" He waves his hand to usher you away from the small group to speak in private.

“Sure.” You bounce up from your seat to follow him, turning back over your shoulder with a quick glare at your friends in warning to knock it off with the teasing cackles.

You and Arthur walk a few feet away from the girls before you stop and turn to face each other. "Don't mind them,” you say quickly to Arthur, waving at the girls. “They're just..." and you roll your eyes and shake your head, totally at a loss for words.

“Hmmm…yeah I know how they can get,” Arthur acknowledges with a chuckle. He pauses for a moment, looking down at you with a bit of a dopey grin. This is the first time you’ve had a moment alone together again since you’ve gotten back and he’s missed you already.

“Listen, I gotta leave for a bit. Hosea’s got a lead on some work, need to check it out. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His eyebrows raise a bit, waiting to see how you will react to this information.

“Okay”. You nod in understanding, giving him a simple smile. Your response is so easy and accepting. Arthur was expecting a protest or for you to be upset, but he’s pleasantly surprised when you are not.

“Well, after last night, I wasn’t sure if it was proper to leave.” He gives you a sheepish, guilty look as his thumbs tuck into his gunbelt in his usual, comfortable stance.

You place your hands over his arms as you lean in closer. “It’s alright. Go do what you gotta do. I’ll be here.”

Arthur hesitates for a moment as something else is clearly on his mind, and he shifts his weight from one hip to the other before he speaks again. “One more thing. Would you do something for me?” His eyes squint just a bit as he thinks on how to pose his next question.

“Anything.” You smile at him, moving your hands onto his chest now, and your fingers begin to fiddle with the knot of his neckerchief. Arthur hums a little, his eyes following your fingers and trying not to get distracted from his task at hand.

“Stay here in camp ‘til I get back, would ya? Don't be goin' out with the girls or nothin'. I’d feel better knowing you were safe here 'til I got back.” Arthur’s face becomes more serious now. You instantly realize what he’s asking of you and why, and his protectiveness is quite touching. You are relieved to see that Arthur has already taken to the idea of the two of you being “together” and it warms your heart.

“Sure, I can do that,” you agree and your smile grows even bigger like a plant that has been watered and set in the sun. You take Arthur’s chin in your fingers and pull him down as you raise up on your toes to kiss him sweetly. He blushes a bit at the public display of affection that he's not used to. But he loves it just the same.

"Be careful, please." You playfully scold him, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Always am," Arthur smirks.

From somewhere behind him, you can hear Bill yelling for him. “Come on Morgan, let’s go!” Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh as he looks at you, rolling his eyes before he turns to leave and making you giggle.

“Play nice!”, you call after him as Arthur begrudgingly walks away.

"Never do!" he calls back with another smirk and a wink at you over his shoulder.

Your eyes follow Arthur with a contented sigh escaping your lips as he walks towards the awaiting group that is about to head out. His broad shoulders rock slightly with his slow, swaggering walk; his burly arms sway at his sides, hovering above the guns that hang so naturally on his hips.

Yep. No doubt about it. You are just stupid for, and hopelessly in love with, this man.

You shake your head at the wonder of it all and turn to head back to the girls.

Arthur makes his way over to the hitching posts to join the others in getting ready to head out on the scout job. He lifts his chin in acknowledgement to John who is already sitting atop Old Boy, waiting for Arthur to join the group. Then suddenly Arthur is brought out of his reverie by an unwelcome sound.

“So you and (Y/N) have finally done the deed, eh, Morgan?” The sound of Micah’s voice grates on Arthur’s nerves like a knife scraping across metal as the man saunters over to follow Arthur to the horses. (Ugh, of course Dutch wants him for this job, as well.)

“Well, how was she?” the bastard grunts. “I bet she’s real frisky. Like a cat.” Micah shakes his eyebrows suggestively at Arthur, knowing full-well that he’s pressing his luck.

A lightning bolt of anger shoots through Arthur’s very being at the very mention of your name from Micah’s despicable lips. His jaw flexes tightly as he grits his teeth together. He reaches out and shoves his massive hand onto Micah’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. Arthur pulls a deep inhale through his nose in order to collect himself before he speaks. His eyes turn to that hard, icy-blue color as they pierce menacingly into Micah.

“Let’s get something straight right now.” Arthur points his finger at Micah’s chest. “You don’t talk about her. You don’t look at her. In fact, do yourself a favor and don’t even think about her. Or you and I are goin' to go rounds. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Arthur’s voice is low and unyielding. That hardness that the outlaw is known for rears its dangerous head in Micah’s direction and the weasel freezes, instantly knowing where that line in the sand has been drawn.

“Say it,” Arthur slowly grits out between clenched teeth as he menacingly towers over Micah. “Say you understand me, asshole.”

Micah narrows his eyes at Arthur, the argument right there on the tip of his foul tongue, trying to decide just how far he wants to push this right now. But ultimately, he slowly swallows and concedes to back off. For now.

“Sure, cowpoke,” utters Micah, holding his hands up in surrender. “Anything you say.” His scummy, snakelike grin leaves Arthur with an unsettling feeling. If he didn’t like you being around Micah before, Arthur sure as hell doesn't like it now.

—------------------------------

It’s well into the evening when Arthur and the others come back to camp. It’s been a long, yet productive day and Arthur just wants to sit still for one damn moment and relax. Everyone who was left at home is sitting around the fire sharing stories and passing a bottle or two. Your head perks up when you hear the sound of hoofbeats in the distance and you watch Arthur ride in. You notice how he slowly climbs down from Buck’s saddle, almost bone by bone, with exhaustion. As he turns to head into the camp, the outlaw’s tired eyes immediately seek you out amongst the group. And once your eyes meet, your smile draws him in like a moth to a flame.

Arthur stops to grab a bottle of his own out of one of the crates before ambling over to the fire to take a seat next to you on the ground where you are curled up on a blanket. You nudge your shoulder into his side as he gets settled, placing your hand on his knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. The corners of Arthur’s mouth turn up as his eyes slowly blink at you with fatigue. The feeling of your warm body curled up against him instantly calms and centers him. He didn’t realize until now just how nice it is to have someone waiting for him when he comes home.

“Before you two get too cozy over there, you’re on guard duty tonight, Arthur,” announces Javier over the fire pit, interrupting your little private reunion.

Arthur quickly throws an annoyed look in Javier's direction. “What? You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“I covered for you last night, amigo” Javier tips his beer bottle towards Arthur with a knowing smirk.

Arthur groans with disappointment. Feeling his frustrations, you lean into Arthur’s side, your face close to his. “Don’t worry, it’s alright,” you whisper. “We’ll have plenty of time later.” Fortunately, you get at least an hour together to relax at the fire before Arthur has to take his leave to head to the look-out post.

Soon after, after the darkness has snuffed out the sunlight of the day, the camp begins to settle for the evening and the people begin to meander back to their respective places for the night. You stand up from your spot at the fire, stretching your stiff joints before bending over to pick up the blanket you were sitting on. Shaking out the fabric, you neatly fold the blanket over your arm and turn to head to your tent.

You haven’t wandered too far off when you begin to hear the shuffling of footsteps behind you. And before you can say or do anything, the sight of Micah Bell comes into your line of vision. Your eyebrows crease in confusion as you wonder what in the world he could possibly want right now.

“Looks like you and Arthur have finally "consummated", as it were. Tell me, (Y/N),” Micah sweeps his hand out in front of him, “Can anyone take a ride in that saddle?"

You can only glare incredulously at him for such an insinuation. God, he is such a disgusting pig. Apparently, Micah is not only going to antagonize Arthur about it, but he’s going to make an attempt at you as well.

"I mean, if you're gonna spread them pretty legs of yours for the likes of Morgan, can't imagine you got any high standards." Micah arrogantly drags his dirty fingers over his nicotine-stained mustache as if he is about to eat a delectable meal.

You slowly tilt your head at him, your gaze cold. "And that is what burns you up the most, isn't it, Micah?" Your eyes narrow at him, trying to figure out his angle as you play his little game.

Micah licks his lips and nibbles a bit, taking the bait in return. "What's that, Princess?"

"That I would concede to lay with a man like Arthur, yet I won't even give you the time of day.” You cross your arms over your chest as you hold his gaze in defiance. “That must really get to you, hmm?" you purr.

The smugness instantly drops from Micah’s face being replaced with a sneer. You step a few paces closer, right up into his face so that he can smell the lavender oil you wear. His eyes rake over your body, noting how your cleavage gathers under your crossed arms. He can feel your warm breath scattering across his face. Your boldness, your lack of fear of him, is as annoying to Micah as it is arousing. He sucks his teeth in an effort to regain his composure as he stands in front of you.

"Know this, Micah. Arthur Morgan is twice the man that you could ever even dream to be," you say with a chilling dead calm. "And in more ways than one, I might add.”

Micah’s mouth twitches at that last rub. "Well, (Y/N), I guess it's a good thing I ain't ever aspired to be more than I am, then." His tone challenges yours as he leans even closer to you, the tone in the air bordering on threatening.

"That is unfortunate," you say coolly as you confidently hold your ground. "For all of us. Good night, Mr. Bell." And you turn to head into your tent, leaving Micah standing there alone in the cold night air.

—----------------------------------

Arthur leans his shoulder against the large tree, staring out into the darkness of the woods. The moon is full tonight, looming high above the tree tops and cascading its bright silvery light upon the silent world below. He stands guard over the camp as a brooding sentinel as he slowly draws on yet another cigarette. Smoke huffs out of his lungs like that of a locomotive.

This is not the place he wants to be right now, as his thoughts drift and focus on you and your night together. Even now, as he recalls even the smallest detail of last night, it seems like a dream to him. He half expects to wake at any moment alone in his tent, surrounded by nothing but the lonesome night, as it all seems just too good to be true. He still has no explanation as to how you seem to pull him in, but you just do. Like that same silvery moon hanging above that pulls on the ocean tides, you draw Arthur to you; just as unyielding, unchanging, and just as magical.

Suddenly Arthur’s daydream is interrupted by the very person he’s thinking about. He catches a wisp of fabric in his peripheral vision. Turning his chin over his shoulder, Arthur sees you coming down the path. He watches as your breath swirls in the frosty air, preceding you as you approach. Like an ethereal being, the moon’s glimmer casts your hair in a soft backlight, causing your gown to be almost see-through in the luminescence as he can see the outline of your calves as you walk. Your delicate hand clasps your shawl around you in the chill air while you carry something else in your other hand. As you get closer, Arthur can see that you have come to bring him a steaming cup of coffee.

A huge smile instantly erupts across Arthur’s face as he pushes himself up off of the tree. "Hey there, Beautiful. What are you doin’ out here this late?"

The nickname causes your cheeks to burn red more than the chill night air that nips at your tender skin.

“Coming to see you.” You hand him the cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepts and immediately takes a sip. The hot liquid instantly chases the cold from his tired body and offers just the pick-up that he needed. “How’s it going out here?” you ask as you shiver a bit before pulling the knit shawl tighter around yourself.

“Oh, loads of excitement.” Arthur’s dead-pan drawl makes you laugh a bit.

You snuggle up to his bulky frame, putting your hands around his ribs and looking up into his face with your beautiful (y/e/c) eyes. With his free hand, Arthur snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. Despite the cold night air, he is so warm that you just want to curl up into him again like you did at the shelter. He leans in to kiss you, his plump lips finding yours once again. Starting off slowly, your tongue quickly begins to wrestle with his. He tastes like the cigarettes and whiskey he's been consuming while out here.

Dropping his chin, Arthur starts to kiss the tender skin underneath your ear before he proceeds to drag his fingertip along the area. “I love this spot,” he says, his voice a husky murmur in your ear..

“Do you, now?” you sigh with a silky tone of your own.

“MmmHmm. Because when I kiss it, you make that sound.” And he leans in again, placing another kiss in the same spot, only this time sucking a bit harder as his teeth catch your skin. And as if on command, a breathless whimper escapes your lips before you can control it and your eyes flutter closed again. It makes you melt at how playful he’s become just from simply providing him the opportunity and the feeling of being safe to do so.

After a few more moments of delicious kisses and nuzzling, you pull away just a bit, leaving your faces hovering close to one another's.

"I’d better get out of here," you whisper, "before I’m any more of a distraction."

"Too late for that now," Arthur hums, dipping his face down as he rubs his nose to yours, trying to entice you into another kiss.

"Tell you what.” You pull your face back a bit more to get his attention only to be met with a playful scowl of disappointment from him. “I’ll be waiting for you in your tent. When you’re done here, you know where I’ll be." You reach up to set a soft kiss upon Arthur’s stubbled cheek. And with a teasing grin, you turn and saunter back toward the camp, hips swaying exaggeratedly.

Arthur’s eyes follow you, the movement of your hips almost hypnotic, causing him to sigh deeply. And just like that, you are gone just as quickly as you had arrived; almost like a dream.

"Damn..." he says with a slight amazement.

—---------------------------------

It’s shortly before dawn when Bill comes down the path to relieve Arthur from his post. The large man ambles towards Arthur rubbing his bear-paw over his eyes and yawning profusely.

“I swear he’s walkin’ slower by the damn minute”, Arthur grumbles to himself with a huff when he lays his exhausted eyes on the man. He shoots Bill a look of annoyance as he briskly walks past the burly outlaw to head back to his tent. “I got things to do, Bill,” he snaps.

Bill simply chuckles with that deep voice of his as he adjusts his hat on his head against the brisk early-morning air. “Oh, I bet you do, my friend.”

Arthur can’t get back to his tent fast enough. He quickly strides across the camp, hurriedly passing by the other snoring and sleeping residents. It's still quiet out and the sun has yet to poke its radiant head above the horizon line. With any luck, Arthur will have a few hours alone with you before the flurry of daily activity kicks up again.

Excitement travels through Arthur’s exhausted body as he reaches his tent. The very sight of his humble little nest that waits for him in the shadows offers him a whole new level of tranquility. He is quick to notice that it is all silent and dark in the space. He half expected a candle to be burning or something.

Arthur hesitates outside the canvas before quietly pulling back the flaps and peers in before entering. And he is elated at the sight of you asleep on his cot, waiting for him just as you said you would be. In the back of his mind, Arthur harbored some doubt that you would be here, thinking maybe you’d change your mind for one reason or another. He cherishes the idea that someone, but especially you, would be waiting for the likes of him.

Arthur quietly creeps in and fixes the flaps back down to ward off the cold autumn breeze before it wakes you. He smiles to himself as he quietly shucks off his jacket and holster, his eyes continuing to rest on your sleeping form as he quietly moves about the tent.

He carefully sits on the edge of the cot, taking a moment to watch you sleeping peacefully. His eyes roam over your body from head to toe, taking in the sight of you and marveling at the treasure he has in front of him.

You're laying comfortably on your back, hair splayed round your face on the pillow. Your one arm rests up by your face, the other lays gracefully across your abdomen. Arthur’s head tilts to the side as he observes how your chest slowly rises and falls with calm breaths. Your eyelids occasionally flutter, making your lashes dance upon your angelic face. Oh, what it must be like to rest so peacefully, he wonders. Maybe now with you by his side, he’ll get to know what that’s like. Maybe.

Arthur places his hand beside your head as he leans over to gently kiss your delicate lips. The action causes you to startle awake, a sharp gasp crossing your lips as your hands shoot to his chest in surprise. But you are quickly relieved to see his handsome face hovering above yours.

"Sorry," Arthur murmurs with an apologetic grin. "Couldn’t resist."

You hum with a sleepy countenance as you slowly sit up, the heel of your hand rubbing your eye in an effort to wake yourself. You reach over to cup Arthur’s face and kiss him back as a welcome. When you pull away, you look him over, noting the sheer exhaustion that coats his whole body.

"You look so tired," you say with a sympathetic smile.

"I am tired." A deep sigh of acknowledgement escapes from Arthur’s chest as he reaches up to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger with his one hand.

You nod in understanding. "Okay, then." You smile sweetly as you take a moment to curl your fingers through his hair, touching your forehead to his, before you swing your legs over the side of the cot and start to stand up.

Confused, Arthur sits up straighter with apprehension. "Where you goin’?"

You turn back around with a fluid and graceful movement as you catch his chin between your fingers in reassurance. "I’m just going back to my tent so you can get some sleep, is all."

"Well…", Arthur huffs in disappointment, his face dropping and his hands flopping into his lap.

"What’s wrong?" you ask, slightly amused at his pouty face.

"I mean…I know we’re not gonna…you know…” Arthur waves his hand at you suggestively. "But I was hoping you’d stay with me while I get some sleep."

"Oh." A big smile erupts on your face. "Okay, then," you gush, biting your lower lip a bit and trying to contain your excitement. You move to settle back down onto the cot, scooching over and fidgeting to make room as Arthur lays down alongside you.

“Boots, please” you say in a soft scold, tapping his shoulder.

"Huh? Oh!" And Arthur quickly sits back up to take off his boots. He’s so used to being on his own that he’s often just falling into bed, not even bothering to take off his jacket let alone his boots. Arthur is not used to having anyone in his space, let alone a woman in his bed. You look down with a soft smile as he pulls at his mud-dried boots with thick, clumsy fingers.

He lays back down and gets settled once more. You both wiggle awkwardly, giggling as you do, so that you can both fit onto his squeaky one-person cot. You face each other as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close. You lift your leg over his, so that you can snuggle in tight, laying almost nose to nose to make room for each other.

Finally finding a comfortable position, Arthur inhales deeply and lets out a long exhale. You smile as you watch the tension drain from his shoulders. (You swear he just lost about 2 inches in height in doing that.) You gently reach up and lay your hand along Arthur’s neck, fingers resting along his jawline, as your thumb sweeps across those scars on his chin. Your eyes scatter across the tired features of his strong and handsome face.

You have no idea how this is going to play out between you two, but right now, you don't care. He is a risk, as you told him before, and your future together is an uncertain mystery. And yet, this is the most certain thing that you have felt in what seems like forever. Here, at this moment, in this precious, precarious little bubble, you are with Arthur, and that is all that matters.

"Hmmmm…that’s better," says Arthur, finally relaxed and content.

“Happy, now?” you affectionately tease.

“Quite.”

"Goodnight, Arthur." Your honeyed voice sings to him in the darkness before you close your eyes again.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)."

See me, feel me, touch me, heal me

-Pete Townshend - The Who

*The line about the storm and the rainbow is based on a quote from the wonderful Dolly Parton, whom I idolize. And the “guardian angel” line is based on a meme that I saw.

***Ahhh! Finally! I've been working on this for over a year, but had to write the events that lead up to this first. But good news, this is not the ending! I have much more taking place after this. Some of it is fluffy, some will be smutty, some will be angsty! For those who are interested in reading a continuing storyline, I can tell you that my plan is to see this through to the end (which I have already written, btw). If anyone is interested in being on a taglist, let me know. (I am really bad at those, so I am trying to figure out how to keep track of that kind of thing.)

Comments and feedback are welcome! As I continue this story, I also want to develop my writing skills. So please let me know what you like and don't like.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader smut #rdr2 fanfic

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felinisnoctis · 4 months ago

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INTERLUDE: LORREN’S STORY

Something a little bit different - the story before Bonded Pairs, of how the space wolf came to the farm.

CW: Death, Cancer

They said it was bad luck on his part to bond with an elderly human like that. Celeste already had grey hair and wrinkled skin when they met. She’d been widowed a decade ago and she lived alone in a big house in the country, all her children grown up and gone. They’d used to work the farm themselves, she told him, and she’d sold extra sewing on the side to help make ends meet, along with the goods from the farm. They didn’t raise animals like her parents had, but they traded for ham and sausage and hunted deer and wild birds.

He’d taken it on himself to see that the freezer stayed well stocked with wild game. He wrestled down a canid that came too close until it accepted him. Celeste said she was a “wolf-dog” and sighed when he brought her home. He chopped wood to keep the house warm and plucked figs from the trees for her to make into preserves. She couldn’t sew anymore, her hands hurt too much, but she still loved to cook.

Then there came a time when the wood he chopped wasn’t enough to warm her. He held her close to his chest, even as he walked the kilometers into town for her to see the apothecary. She didn’t want to, she said. She didn’t want to be a bother. He took her in anyway.

They ran a bunch of tests and said cancer. They said that they could try chemotherapy, see if they could shrink it enough to take it out, but it would be risky and she might die from the treatment. She refused. She was an old woman, she said. Let her die at home.

He heard the whispering about him too, even though he pretended not to.

What happens when she’s not around?

He’s big. Not primaris, but almost the same size.

Could go out of control…might cause a lot of damage.

Boy that size, not easy to take down.

He’d had to restrain feral marines before. The area was isolated. They had strong enough cages, in an emergency, if an astartes was a threat to himself or others or needed care and couldn’t understand what was going on. He ignored the whispers. They didn't understand.

A few days later, her oldest grandchild moved in. A youngster who would have been a techpriest in his era, and shared both their frequent lackadaisical attitude towards gender and their near-universal annoyance at what the mechanicus called “the laity” and Robin called “end users.”

Celeste slept more and more. They’d given her something to ease the pain. He stayed by her side as much as possible. He could at least keep her warm and comfortable. The blankets never seemed to help anymore, but holding her close did.

A few weeks later, he felt her breathing slow as she slept and heard her heart finally stop beating. He knew it was coming. He still howled and snarled as the loss tore at his soul, his own hearts beating rapidly as though they could give her her life back.

The funeral was a few weeks later. He ran wild in the woods until then, ripping through the trees away from people and tearing the corpses of coyotes apart for food. But he made sure he was dressed and groomed properly before he showed up at the little country church, his unarmored bulk barely fitting through the door. He howled a prayer no one understood to the sky as she was lowered into the grave and covered over, even though the others shifted away from him as he did.

Then he went home. She was gone, but he could still stay with her grandchild and keep the farm going. She would have liked that, he thought, as he finished butchering the fresh turkey he'd brought Robin for dinner. Robin was rolling out fresh pastry noodles in the kitchen and would appreciate the meat.

#space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer 40k

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thus-spoke-lo · 2 years ago

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Pain Management // Trafalgar Law x afab!reader // NSFW/18+

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Series Masterlist // AO3 Link // Playlist

Chapter 5: Emergency Visit

Chapter Summary: Much to your surprise and your chagrin, Law's unconventional "treatments" were working to provide you relief--until tonight. Out of pain medication and out of options, you drag yourself to your captain's quarters to beg for help.

Chapter CW: afab reader; no specific pronouns used, but gendered pet names used [ex. "good girl"]; themes of extremely dubious consent [emotional and sexual coercion/manipulation, gaslighting, abuse of authority]; over the clothes stimulation [reader receiving]; reader experiences severe, chronic pelvic pain; Stockholm Syndrome-like behavior in reader

WC: 6.1k

There was a part of you—albeit one that was shrinking smaller and smaller with every passing day—that hated how Law’s treatments legitimately did seem to be working. Degrading yourself on his exam room table every few days, lying awake in bed at night and grinding against the heel of your palm with thoughts of his strong hands running over you until you were breathless—all of it seemed to be working effectively to lessen your pain, to keep you feeling productive and useful again, just like you’d wanted.

Except for tonight.

You held a pillow tightly to your abdomen, body curled in on itself, and pressed your face into your other pillow, a growing pool of tears dampening your cheek. You had barely made it through your shift in the boiler room, holding things together by a thin shred of willpower, before practically crawling back to your room, skipping dinner to lay in darkness and grit your teeth and hope the searing hot spasms in your abdomen and shooting pains running down your legs would go away on their own.

Unsurprisingly, they did not, and your condition deteriorated as the evening progressed; you napped feverishly, alternating between bouts of freezing cold that made your teeth chatter and your body tremble uncontrollably no matter how you buried yourself in blankets, and sweating so profusely that you soaked right through your pajamas.

As the evening trudged on, second by agonizing second, you finally gave in and rummaged through your bedside table, looking for the container of special tablets that Chopper made just for you, those special pills that managed to dull the pain without knocking you on your ass like everything else you had tried before. You grasped the bottle with shaking hands, and you heart sank as you realized there was nothing rattling around in the little glass jar.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You gripped your sheets as another wave of white-hot pain threatened to drown you. You needed sleep. You needed to be able to present yourself for your next work shift without being doubled over, balancing on the precipice of tears.

You needed Law.

The painful throbbing somewhere in the depths of your pelvis was making you sick to your stomach, but the idea of having to stagger down the halls of the submarine, preparing to plead your case to your captain—to beg your doting doctor for relief at this ungodly hour—was making you feel far worse. You crawled out from under your stack of blankets and got to your feet, clinging to every piece of furniture within arm’s length to steady yourself, throwing on whatever clothes you could find that weren’t saturated with sweat, and carefully made your way out of your room.

You padded down the halls, fuzzy socks doing the bulk of the hard work in masking each step; the ship was quiet, only a skeleton crew still active at the moment, but the last thing you needed was anyone questioning what you were doing wandering around doubled over, one arm held tightly over your abdomen as though you were trying to prevent your organs from escaping.

You tried Law’s office first—the cluttered room was mostly dark, illuminated by the soft glow of a small desk light, abundant stacks of papers the only occupants of the space at the moment. You closed the door behind you and considered going to the infirmary next—there had to be pain medication there, you assumed. The idea of clanging around and rummaging through copious cabinets and drawers, however, seemed far too troublesome a task under the circumstance, and the last thing you needed was to end up taking some poorly labeled tablets that would do who-knows-what to you. Sure, you could ask one of your crewmates to point you in the right direction—certainly one of them had to know their way around the medical supplies—but having to admit your illness to anyone but Law was frightening.

The whole point of this farce was to find a way to feel useful again, to not be a burden; the Strawhats never made you feel like one, never made you feel like anything but loved and cared for, but you had yourself thoroughly and completely convinced that they would have gotten sick of it eventually. At least here, you could pretend to be okay, pretend to be normal and productive like everyone else, and save all your weaknesses and imperfections for Law’s exam table, keeping them between you and him and the hum of the fluorescent lights.

You roamed the halls in silent agony, a few sharp twinges making their way down your inner thighs, until you reached the door to Law’s private quarters; this was the only way, you’d decided, that you could get help and still keep your secret to yourself. You breathed in slowly and steeled yourself before softly rapping on the door, ready to throw yourself at his feet if you had to (not that humbling yourself in front of him in the pursuit of relief would be anything new), as long as it meant you could obtain some sort of respite that would let you sleep and feel something adjacent to normal again.

“Captain?” you spoke into the doorframe, your voice hushed. You glanced nervously up and down the hall and waited a beat for any signs of life, but there was only silence. “Captain, are you awake?” This time you knocked a little harder, whispered a little louder, yet there was still nothing. You clenched your eyes shut for a moment, balled-up fist still pressed against the door, and fought back the urge to scream.

It wasn’t his fault—it wasn’t anyone’s fault except your accursed internal organs—that you were stranded yet again in a dark ocean of pain, waving frantically for someone to rescue you and pull you ashore, but you had stupidly held onto the smallest bit of hope that he would be there, condescending smirk and all, waiting to take care of you when you needed him most. You didn’t want to need him—at least you didn’t think you did—but god, did you ever.

Your thoughts were interrupted and you tripped forward as the door moved under you, creaking open just enough for you to glimpse Law’s face, partially masked by shadows.

“What’re you doing here?” he rasped, voice sounding thick with sleep.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered as you started to back away from the door, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“S’okay, I wasn’t sleeping.” The way the words came out mumbled left you unconvinced. “Did you—did you need something?”

“I, um.” You stopped, choking on a thick feeling in the back of your throat and trying to swallow it down, blinking away the tears that were starting to form at the corners of your eyes. “I’m just in a lot of pain, and—dammit—I, um, was wondering if maybe you had anything you could give me?”

His gaze settled on you, and his expression seemed to soften while you trembled, your arms crossed and held tightly to your body, your face fixed in an immovable grimace. He blinked hard, clearing the sleep from his eyes, before sticking his head a little further out the door to peer down the hall past you in each direction. “Alright, come in, before anyone sees.”

Law opened the door wider to let you in, stepping out of the way to make room, and you stifled a gasp as you had the opportunity to take him in fully. He was shirtless, the hardness of his tattooed chest and the corrugated leanness of his stomach accentuated by the shadows in the dim light of his small room. The v-shape carved into his lower torso led your eyes further downward, your deviant glare following a trail of dark hair to the waistband of the sweatpants hanging loosely on his hips. You hastily glanced at the floor, feeling your ears start to burn and your pulse thrumming in your ears, the sudden warm flood of arousal between your legs almost enough to distract from the profound pain that overwhelmed you.

Seeing him like this, his lithe body so casually on display, it was easy to remember why you held onto your silly little crush, the one that bloomed when you’d watched him board the Sunny for the first time. You were reminded of how you had practically vibrated at the sight of the dark-haired captain, his long jacket hanging open, revealing a smooth ripple of muscle beneath tanned skin. It was no wonder you fell under his spell so quickly, you thought—he’d had you in his grasp the moment you laid eyes on him.

“You should sit down,” Law insisted as he grabbed a shirt from a pile on the floor and threw it on, and you watched with indecent fascination as the white fabric stretched over his muscled form. You complied without protest and slumped down onto the ground, your back against the cool metal door, trying to gain some measure of composure.

“So what’s going on?” He knelt down in front of you, and grasped your chin in between his thumb and forefinger; he tilted your head up, then down, then from one side to the other, his eyes moving over you the entire time.

“It’s bad,” you answered shakily. “Really bad.”

He held his palm to your forehead and sucked in air through his teeth. “You’re burning up.”

“For now at least.” You offered him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll be freezing cold in a little bit, guaranteed.”

He sat back on his haunches, cocking his head to one side. “Is it always like this? You mentioned pain when we first discussed things, but nothing quite like what you’re describing right now.”

“Not always.” You chewed on your tongue as a sharp pain rocketed through you. “Just some months. Sometimes I go for a while with just regular pain. And then this”—you gestured at your lower half—“happens.”

“Tell me what you mean by ‘regular pain.’”

“Just—just regular pain. I don’t know what to tell you.” The frustration was building, the familiar exasperation at having to explain this one more time, just like you’d explained to every doctor you’d ever talked to, again and again, until you were worn down to exhaustion. “Most times I’m just in pain, and nights like this I’m in agony. Does that make more sense?”

“Unfortunately, it does.” Law’s eyes scanned your tense body as you pulled your knees up to your chest. “Can you tell me more about how it feels?”

“Right now? Like a hot knife being dragged through me, front and back.”

“You poor thing.” He held a warm palm to the side of your face, gently stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “It’s good you came to me. You know I don’t want you to suffer, right?”

You nodded, wanting to sink into this feeling forever if you could, wanting to drown in the gentle cadence of his voice and the way he tilted his head and looked at you like some pathetic little creature that needed to be saved. And you did need him to save you, to rescue you from the well of blackness that years of pain had kept you in, to fix what was broken inside you—even if you were starting to come undone in the process.

“Let me see what I have that can help.” He turned and reached over to the large black bag that was shoved under his desk, rummaging through it for a few moments. He pulled out a small orange bottle, and tapped two white tablets into his palm. “Give me your hand.”

You extended one arm out and opened your palm; he carefully set the pills in your hand, then gently closed your fingers over them, keeping his hand clasped over your closed fist for a moment.

“These are anti-inflammatories,” he said as he grabbed a canteen from the top of his desk and handed it to you. “They won’t make the pain go away, but they’ll help it to calm down, ideally. If you want to stay here, I can go to the infirmary and find something stronger.”

“That’s okay, I don’t want to be knocked out and just sleep all day. I have to work in”—you glanced at your watch and frowned—“well, not that long from now.”

Without hesitation, you threw the mystery pills in your mouth and washed them down with the room-temperature water, swallowing hard at the acrid taste of the tablets as they started to disintegrate. You made a start to get up and head back to your room and winced, a guttural groan escaping you before you had the chance to stuff it back down.

“Hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?” Law quickly reached out and pulled you back down, large hands settling on your shoulders.

“I—I should go.” Your eyes darted between his steel-grey eyes and his lips. “I should go back to my room now.”

“Not like this you shouldn’t.” He delicately gripped your upper arms, his thumbs massaging you through the thick fabric of your sweatshirt. “You’re too weak to go anywhere right now.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” he tutted in that familiar tone, the one that reminded you that he knew better, that he knew what was best for you, more than you ever would. “You don’t need to try to be brave for me, you’re in too much pain to be wandering around by yourself.

“I mean I—I guess you’re right.” You weren’t sure if that was entirely true—you had managed to get here on your own, though just barely—but you were tired, so very tired, and it couldn’t hurt to sit for just a moment longer, could it?

“Just stay here with me, okay?” He smiled softly, still looking at you like you were a wounded animal that required his undivided attention; you felt sick at how you reveled in it, how it made your brain tingle. “At least until the pills start to work. Then you can go back to bed and get some sleep.”

“Okay, if you think that’s best,” you murmured as you settled back down onto the floor.

“Just try to keep it down,” he said as he sat down across from you, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I’d rather not anyone know you’re here.”

You smiled weakly. “Doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Something like that.”

You nodded in silent agreement, and leaned your head back against the steel door, trying to keep from staring at him any more than you already had, trying not to let the tingle of his palm on your cheek or the weight of his hands gripping your shoulders linger on your body any longer than necessary. There was something that gnawed at you, a warped little something that whispered to you how fortunate you were to have his help—how wonderful it was to feel cared for, to feel special. Wasn’t it just so lucky that he could treat you and give you the relief you’d sought for so long—even if it came at the expense of your dignity? Wasn’t it worth it to finally feel something other than pain for once, all because of his skilled hands and his relentless dedication to your care and well-being?

“Any idea when these meds are gonna kick in?” you asked through the sleeves of your shirt, sudden searing pain interrupting your anxious thoughts.

“Just hang in there for me. Shouldn’t be much longer now.” He stood up and crossed the small space that separated you, and he settled in beside you. “Think you’ll be okay ‘til then?”

“I don’t know.” You continued to stare straight ahead at the empty space where he’d been sitting just a moment ago, trying to pretend he wasn’t so warm, that his strong body wasn’t pressed into yours, that you didn’t want him to consume you.

“Is there anything I can do to help in the meantime?” His long fingers delicately stroked the top of your hand.

“I—I don’t think so,” you stammered, heat growing in your cheeks and an ache growing in your core. You were certain one of his treatments would, at the very least, take your mind off the pulsating pains in your lower half, his skilled hands coaxing pleasure out of you like it was nothing. But you couldn’t make yourself ask, couldn’t find the words to beg him to defile you here in his room, a place where you didn’t belong.

“If you’re sure,” he hummed. “Doesn’t have to be a treatment session, you know.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll show you. Why don’t you go lay down for me? On your stomach, if you can.”

“I think I can, but what are you going to do, captain?”

“It’s ‘doctor,’ remember?” His voice dripped with sweet condescension. “And I’m just going to make you feel a little better while we wait, that’s all. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” you answered, your own voice sounding far away from you.

“That’s my girl,” he smirked as he got to his feet, knowing those damnable words were like a drug to you, and you were eager to chase after your high. He leaned down and grabbed your hands, carefully pulling you to your feet, and held you by the hips as he guided you over to the mattress shoved into the corner on the floor.

“Do I need to, um—”

“Just pull your shirt up a little, you can stay dressed this time.”

This time.

You knelt onto the mattress, random bolts of pain shooting through you as you lowered yourself down onto your stomach, almost certain you could feel your organs twisting with every movement. You shifted cautiously and pulled your sweatshirt up, exposing your back to the cool air of the room, and laid your head on your arms, trying to calm your erratic breaths while you patiently waited for Law. The mattress unexpectedly shifted under you, and Law grunted softly as he positioned himself with one leg on either side of yours, kneeling down and resting some of his weight on your thighs.

“Is this alright?” he asked, placing a wide hand on your hip. “Am I hurting you?”

You shook your head. “No, not at all.”

“Okay, good.” He shifted a little in place. “Now try to relax, take some nice deep breaths for me. Breath in to a count of five, then out to a count of ten.”

You let your eyes drift shut while you timed your respirations, telling yourself over and over again that you could trust Law, that he only had your best interests in mind and wouldn’t bring you any harm. Your muscles tensed as you felt the sudden warmth of his hands on your skin, and he began to apply light pressure with his palms.

“See?” There was a hint of self-satisfaction in his tone. “I told you that you could trust me, didn’t I?”

“I know,” you sighed into your arm. You only want what’s best for me.

“That’s right, I’m only trying to help you. I just want to make you feel better.” He continued to manipulate your anxious body, digging the heels of his hands deep into your flesh. “This won’t fix everything, but it should relieve some of your discomfort. How’s that feeling?”

“S’good,” you mumbled, melting under his expert touch. Pain still wound its way through your abdomen, but it was dampened by his ministrations, each agonizing throb dulled with his every firm touch.

“Helping at all?” Law asked, his knuckles digging into a knot near your ribcage.

“It is, actually. Your hands feel really nice.” You quickly felt your stomach turn, embarrassed by your admittance, your brain too fogged from pain and the unexpected pleasure of his strong hands on your body to keep yourself from blurting out what was running through your mind. His hands—the ones you had fitful dreams about, the ones you brought yourself to climax thinking about—felt perfect molded to your body, as though they’d always belonged on you.

He stopped for a moment, resting his palms on the small of your back. “You think so?”

You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of you if you tried. “Yeah, you’re being so gentle with me, it’s… it’s actually really nice.”

“I told you I’d take good care of you,” he said quietly, a smile hidden in his voice.

Law leaned his weight into the heels of his palms and pressed down, pushing outwards from your spine to your hips over and over, kneading your tender back with precision. You tried to picture how his body must look as he moved over you—how the sleeves of his t-shirt must stretch as his biceps flexed with every movement, how the resilient muscles of his back must ripple under the strained fabric, how his powerful thighs must tense as he leans forward and drags his long fingers across your hips. You drifted and imagined how his body would flex and tense as he hovered over you, positioning his cock at your entrance, holding himself still as he teased you with it, making you beg for him to sink himself inside you. How would the shadows dance over the tensile magnificence of his musculature as he rocked himself against you, trapping you underneath him, claiming you as his?

As you waded out further and further into deep pools of depravity, Law’s elbow dug into a particularly tense spot in your mid-back; you let loose a moan that was far more vulgar than you intended, your brain still fixated on the image of his powerful frame moving in darkness as he took you. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the submarine and the occasional sound of fabric moving as Law re-positioned himself over you, and your amorous sigh resonated in the small space.

Law exaggeratedly cleared his throat and continued to manipulate your body; his breathing became a little more labored as his hands moved down the outsides of your hips, his movements slowing, growing more measured and deliberate with every caress. He slid one hand across the small of your back, then dragged it leisurely over the clothed curve of your ass, letting it come to rest on the back of your thigh. He paused there, his fingers tapping you lightly, before finally asking, “How low would you like me to go?”

Your eyes opened wide and you inhaled deeply, held the air in your lungs until it started to burn. There was no performative request for permission, no declaration of consent that you had no option but to accept—this was a choice he was handing you with outstretched palms, yours to take and use however you desired. Your impatient longing answered for you: “Lower.”

He slid his fingertips down, slotting them in between where the lushest part of your thighs pressed together. “Here?”

“No,” you whispered through shaky breaths. “Up a little more.”

He slowly, teasingly, slid his hand further up, until the edge of his index finger was slotted against the warmth of your clothed cunt. “Here? Is this where you want me to touch?”

You nodded eagerly, the sensation of his hand pressed into you leaving you aching for gratification.

“That’s not good enough.” He held completely still. “Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” you whined into the mattress, your hips starting to move against him of their own accord. “Right there. Please.”

“Such a good girl,” he cooed adoringly as he shifted his weight and made space for you to part your thighs for him. “You even said ‘please’ for me.”

Law’s wide palm nudged against your heat, and you gasped as the tips of two fingers slid down to press against your swollen clit. You heard him chuckle under his breath as he leaned in, one hand propping himself up on the mattress while the other massaged your needy cunt, his face hovering close to yours. “Like this?”

You softly rocked your hips against him, small sighs flowing from your lips like water. “Just like that.”

“Poor thing,” he whispered in your ear as he quickened his motions, fingertips making firm circles over your aching bundle of nerves, your body pulsing and thrumming in response. “You needed this didn’t you? Needed me?”

You whimpered softly in agreement, rutting against his palm in quiet desperation, your body humming with an insatiable need for him.

“Will you say it for me?” Law asked in a low growl, his lips grazing your cheek. “Say you need me?”

“I need you,” you whine into the mattress, his hand pressing into your with more force, your thighs shaking around him, “need you so much.”

“I wanna hear you say it again.” His words vibrated with a hunger you’d never perceived before, an intensity that makes you feverish. It settled in your spine, took hold of your thoughts, whispered in your ear—he needed this, too.

“Oh fuck” —your eyes welled with tears as the tension built inside you, winding around and around until you felt like you could snap—“I need you, I need you.”

He let out a shivering exhale. “That’s my good girl.”

At once, his motions became more urgent, his fingers moving over your pulsing clit with a merciless intensity, your hips bucking and colliding against him with perfect rhythm as a warm sensation started to radiate from your core. He urged you towards your climax, murmuring sweet words of praise through quick and shallow breaths, his relentless resolve to make you spasm on his hand pulling you closer and closer to the edge.

You felt a sudden twinge of something unpleasant in your lower left side, but tried shut it out, focusing your attention on Law’s quick and forceful movements. Without warning, a searing pain ripped through your abdomen, slicing across your hips like a swordsman’s blow, and your thighs clenched around his wrist, your hips twisting as you sucked in a startled breath. You pushed your face into his pillow, trying to silence your pained howl the best you could, tears quickly spilling down your puffy cheeks.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He quickly retracted his hand and placed it on the small of your back, rubbing soft circles over your skin to calm you. “What happened?”

“Hurts,” you strained, holding the sleeve of your sweatshirt between your gritted teeth, an unbearable chill settling in your bones. “Bad pain.”

“Shit, okay.” He moved off of you and knelt next to the bed, scanning you up and down as you trembled and curled up tightly into yourself. “Here, let’s get you warm.”

Law quickly gathered up his blankets and diligently tucked them around you until all that was visible was your face poking out of the cocoon he had constructed. He sat down cross-legged next to the head of the bed and placed his palm on your forehead, applying gentle pressure. “Just try to breathe for me, okay?”

“You don’t have to do this.” You stared at him through cloudy eyes, pulling the blankets tighter around you with every piercing pain that ran through you.

“Of course I do,” he protested. “I have a duty of care for all my patients.”

You smirked at him from your blanket nest. “Are you always this sweet to all your patients, doctor?”

“Not all of them,” he muttered, a rosy flush beginning to settle on his cheeks; his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he tried to hide the subtle upward quirk of his mouth. He gently set his hand on the mattress, palm-up, motioning with his fingers; you reached your hand out from under the blanket and hesitantly placed it in his. He leaned his head back against the wall and held onto you delicately, softly stroking the tops of your fingers with the pad of his thumb.

The low mechanical humming and whirring of the submarine filled the air in the room, as you existed there wordlessly together: doctor and patient, captain and subordinate—and something else. Something else you didn’t understand yet, something you weren’t sure you even wanted to understand. You needed him, that was all that mattered right now—you needed him more than you ever could have imagined, needed his warm hands and his fucked-up ideas of appropriate medical care and his low voice ringing in your ears telling you just how good you were for him. You needed his hand in yours, and needed his warm body next to you, and it vibrated you in the marrow of your bones to think that he could—maybe, possibly—need you too.

You let your eyes start to drift shut, and your temperature began to even out, the warmth from Law’s hand spreading through your body. It had been a long time since you’d felt touch like this, tender and sincere—you wanted to smother yourself with it, even if it came with a heavy price.

“Can I ask you something?” Law’s voice cut through the stillness of the room.

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

“I don’t really know how to say this exactly but, I’ve been wondering”—he paused to scratch at the scruff on his chin, before turning to settle his gaze on you—“you didn’t come here to learn about submarines, did you?”

The blood in your veins quickly turned to ice water, your pulse accelerating instantaneously. “…I’m sorry?”

He stared at you unblinkingly. “I’m just wondering why it is that you’re really here.”

You swallowed hard, the moisture all but evaporated from your mouth. It was abundantly clear that he knew you had lied—Law was not a dupe by any means, and you felt like the world’s greatest fool for thinking you could keep your secret safely held in your grasp forever. You didn’t want to consider how things would proceed from here if you let your lies snowball and tried to maintain your ruse, trapped down here with him, miles away from anyone and anything you’d ever known—but the idea of being transparent and explaining your story to him made you feel ill.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He half-smiled at you, a hint of disappointment in his tone, and carefully interlaced his fingers with yours. “It won’t affect your treatment plan either way.”

“If I told you I wasn’t entirely honest about why I came here, what would you do?” The air around you started to crush you as you waiting for the inevitable collapse of everything you’d constructed, waited to watch it crumble before you and turn to dust in your hand.

A moment passed as he turned his head away and stared at the ceiling. Then another. Then another. It felt like hours had passed before he finally asked in a hushed tone: “Does anyone else know?”

“No, no one knows.”

“Not even Strawhat?”

“No. Not even Luffy.”

“Fucking hell.” He exhaled a long, loud breath through his nose. “Well, I guess that’s that then.”

“That’s what then?” A sob threatened to escape your trembling lips, and you pondered how quickly you could run towards the door, if you could possibly escape him if you had to.

“Then I guess we’re in this together.” He wrapped both of his hands around yours, squeezing you firmly. “We’ll continue your treatment, and I won’t say a thing to Strawhat. Not unless you decide to first.”

“What?” You started to sit up, tried to wrench yourself from his grasp, but his grip only tightened. “I don’t understand.”

“You had your reasons, I’m sure.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I just wish you’d been honest with me from the start. I’m a doctor, I would have helped you.”

“Look, I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you, or anyone, and I should’ve just asked you if you thought you could do something for me before I ever came aboard. I just—I just needed—” I needed you, you finished in your head.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He let go of your hand and sat up, kneeling beside you, settling his large hands on you again, easing you back down to the bed. “You’re getting yourself too wound up. You’re don’t want to make things worse, do you?”

You felt a dull ache in your abdomen, as if on cue. “No, I don’t…”

“Okay. Then just rest for me.”

“Do you suppose I could ask you something now?” You pulled the blanket back over yourself and tried to steady your breathing as Law stroked your side, fingers dancing over your hip.

“Anything you want.”

“Would you have let me aboard if you’d known why I was really here?”

“Of course I would have.” He responded without hesitation, almost cutting you off at the end of your sentence; his gaze settled on your face, and you thought for a moment that you caught the slightest glint of longing in his half-lidded eyes. He cleared his throat and stood up, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his sweatpants. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m probably fine to go back to my room,” you murmured, extending one leg out from under the pile of sheets. “I’m plenty warm now. Pills seem like they worked.”

“I’d rather keep an eye on you, if you don’t mind.” He crossed the room and sat down at his desk, shuffling some papers around aimlessly. “I have work to do, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he smirked. “Doctor’s orders.”

----------

You opened your eyes, surrendering to momentary bewilderment—you were somehow in your own bed again, bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed, wrapped carefully in your covers, but with no memory of ever leaving Law’s room. You slid your hand down to your abdomen—pain no longer threatened to drown you, and you felt only a sporadic dull throb now and again. The mattress felt empty with just you in it—though it was short-lived, you missed the feeling of Law’s weight on you as he pressed his hands into your sore muscles, the way his body shifted and settled, the sound of his breathing filling the room. You half-heartedly wondered if you could have convinced him to climb into that small bed with you—to drop the last pretenses of professionalism that he so desperately seemed to want cling to and wrap his sinewy body around you, holding you until drifted into dreamless sleep.

It was sick.

You were sick, and so was Law—the way he had you conditioned to crave his touch, the way he had trained your body to respond to him in ways you’d experienced with anyone else, the way he had invaded every corner of your mind and replaced your rational thoughts with depraved longing and a deep, insatiable hunger. It was as though he had dug deep into the recesses of your skull and found that little crush you’d had on him, the tiny sprout of affection, and had watered it, fed it, watched it bloom and grow into the feverish obsession that threatened to consume you.

You didn’t have time for this, you forcefully reminded yourself, pushing your depraved thoughts to the back of your mind once again, hoping they would sit quietly in the dark for the time being. You didn’t have look at the clock to know you must have overslept for your shift, and you extracted yourself from the tangle of sheets, looking around the room in a haze for your jumpsuit and boots. In the midst of your panic, you glanced over at your desk and paused, noticing a small pile of items that you were certain weren’t there when you had stumbled out of your room all those hours ago. You ambled towards the desk on unsteady legs, grabbing onto the back of the chair to keep yourself aloft. There, sitting on the corner of your work surface, was the canteen from Law’s room, and orange bottle of pills, and a note:

You’re excused from your work shift today so you can recover (don’t worry, your secret is still safe with me). When you’re feeling better, come to my office—we never finished your treatment.

You sat back down on the bed, the note clutched to your chest, pulse quickening with every breath. The thorny vines of desire had wrapped themselves around you again, tightening with every sinful thought that flitted through your static-filled mind, and you could do nothing but succumb.

#trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law smut #trafalgar waterlaw x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #law x reader #one piece smut #trafalgar d water law x reader #lo writes

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smolandweirdwriter · 4 months ago

Note

Got headcannon(s) for you!

For literally every long trip the Bad Kids go on, Kristen and Adaine are the certified mother hens.

Kristen tries to have cool aunt vibes and she does. Just. She's still an older sibling. But she makes it work

Adaine has the baking down flat, she'll carry a nice Tupperware or 5 of baked goods to last the entire day. Cooking doesn't exactly fit with her, she's tried and although nothing was burnt (*coughfabiancough*) she isn't a big fan of it.

Kristen is a genius at anything corn, and ever since her mission to bulk up, amazing at salads and sandwiches. Her salad game is amazing. Her cooking is fine in general, but her absolutely shit dexterity does not help. If she's preparing food you better be prepared for batter on the ceiling and flour inside the drawers.

The two meet up the night before any long trip and the two grab a huge dufflebag and fill it with Emergency stuff like bandages and Epipens and sick bags etc. Yes Adaine could pull most of those out her jacket. Yes they'll still prepare for things.

If they need to cook food in the middle of a trip, Kristen and Gorgug will team up and make the food. Gorgug has probably the most kitchen skills aside from Kristen, but they do good together.

So the thing is, all of the Bad Kids have a specific set of behaviors that simply DO NOT CHANGE regardless of the nature of the road trip.

Kristen, for one, desperately wants everyone to have a good time and also, she doesn't want to get out of the van. she wants to enjoy her time listening to music, playing punch buggy, eating snacks, talking to people; she wants everyone to have everything they could ever need or want, right there in front of them. this means that she wants to bake allllll the goodies. Unfortunately for Kristen, she has Sookie St. James level clumsiness, especially in the kitchen, where there are far too many things to burn yourself with, trip over, spill, et cetera. She's been banned from cooking in Mordred Manor because she's set off the smoke detector so many times it broke. So she cooks at Seacaster manor with Cathilda's help (Fabian is NOT aware of this). She bakes up a storm of corn bread to take with them on the trip.

Adaine, for her part, is quite good at baking. Recipes are easy to follow, easier than spells. All you have to do is read the instructions and do what it says. She's not very good at cooking because she's not particularly skilled in the kitchen, and doesn't have quite the (albeit messy and chaotic) finesse that Kristen does. Adaine loves sweet things (a byproduct, perhaps, of not being allowed them as a child) and will help Kristen bake corn bread. (She sprinkles in chocolate chips sometimes.) She'll also bake cookies, muffins, brownies--whatever she's in the mood for, it makes it on the trip. (She usually ends up "accidentally" making a double batch of everything. Whoops.)

Kristen makes salads and sandwiches for everyone and has everyone's lunch and snack desires down to pat: Riz takes the extra-spicy chicken with lettuce and pickles, and he's addicted to those sweet and spicy candied nuts (so is Adaine, they usually sit together for a bit so they can share them); Fabian will not eat anything but kippers and the plainest salad known mankind (iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber slices); Adaine takes a steak sandwich, the bread toasted a bit too much but not burnt, with lettuce and cheese, and she also always packs chocolate-covered pretzels and lembas; Fig also loves an extra-spicy chicken sandwich, but she takes hers with tomatoes, salt and pepper, and mustard. Finally, Gorgug has a salad of so much quantity Kristen will pack two separate lunches for him: steak, olives, corn, chicken, arugula, spinach, tomato-- the works. He loves it every time.

Adaine and Kristen 100% end up, every time, unplanned and without fail, in the kitchen together at about 4:30 am the day of a trip going over the itinerary, packing list, making sure they have extra bandaids and blankets and sleeping bags and signal flares and spare tires. (they do. they can pull these things out of adaine's jacket. they don't care. better safe than sorry, right? they spend half an hour trying to fit everything in the trunk every. single. time)

Gorgug, of course, is the designated driver, and every time Adaine makes sure to tell him he gets a good night's rest, and makes sure he's taking breaks, drinking water, keeping his eyes on the road, everyone stop talking you'll distract him, Gorgug are you sure you're alright? She mothers him so hard he almost goes into a Rage just from sheer irritation despite knowing she truly means well.

Fig tries to play music; Riz tries to put on some boring podcast. they spend half the time listening to rock music and half listening to the corruption of the criminal justice system. gorgug hates both no mater what (the rock music because it's always fig and the sig figs and he truly can't stand listening to himself sing/play, and the podcast because, duh.)

Fabian refuses to help in any capacity. He sits in the backseat, kicks his feet up, and tunes out. He wanders out when they have breaks, and if there's a flat tire he's the one for the job, but honestly, he's not big on road trips. he goes because his friends are all going, but if he had to choose, he'd ride the hangman for days on end.

adaine is the one who checks them into hotels if they ever stay in hotels, and kristen scopes out the facilities and points out all the things everyone will like.

kristen takes soooo many pictures and forces everyone to pose for them every time and they all hate it. adaine can't take a good picture to save her life, and she physically doesn't know how to take a selfie and always makes someone else do it despite the fact that she's one of the tallest bad kids. she also has social media but is NEVER on it (she's always the first to respond to the text chain, though).

#oh yes i do have the bad kids heights arranged in my head thank you for asking #adaine abernant #kristen applebees #riz gukgak #fabian seacaster #gorgug thistlespring #fig faeth #fantasy high headcanons #smolwrites #fantasy high #dimension 20

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purpleqilinwrites · 8 months ago

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first step.

a/n: i can't get chilchuck and his wife out of my head!!!

fandom: dungeon meshi

pairing: chilchuck tims / his wife

genre: angst

info: told from the perspective of the wife; she is named (junnimay); takes place pre-canon

warnings: might not be canon-compliant

synopsis: everything in the house had a memory, but memory wasn't enough for her to stay.

word count: 2.2k

Chilchuck Tims / Chilchuck's Wife

It was supposed to be easier than pulling out a tooth. Instead, Junnimay found herself dragging her feet about the house as she took stock of all her belongings one last time before she went to bed.

Tomorrow, she would be leaving this house where she had spent almost half her life and the entirety of her adult years. This house where her daughters grew up and where her youngest was born a week late, coaxed out only by a long and complicated spell cast by a kind gnome living two houses down who happened to be a retired midwife.

This house where she once felt she had made a home.

Fler was the first of the girls to move out, wanting to live closer to the heart of the city where she was only a short walk away from the best clothiers in Kahka Brud and where she had better chances of meeting someone to marry. Mei followed suit half a year after, her hands hidden behind her back as she approached Junnimay one evening to announce the news that she had been given a room at a lodge owned by the Half-foot Union as a perk of the contract she accepted. Puck roomed with Mei for a brief period when she was employed by a wealthy tall-man family as a dog walker, before she decided to hop on a caravan with an elf she had befriended during that time.

With her daughters having places of their own to call home and Chilchuck being away on dungeon expeditions for years on end, there was nothing more than memory that kept her where she was. This house had served its purpose in her life, and she believed that it was a good time to move on from it. Even if she hadn't thought too hard about what to do next, moving out of this house and taking Fler up on her offer to live together seemed to be the right first step.

Most of the shelves in the house were bare even before Junnimay started the process of packing up about a week ago. Mei and Fler took the bulk of their belongings with them when they moved out. Junnimay stored the things they left behind in the basement, where she had marked out one set of shelves for Mei and two for Fler. Puck didn't have the luxury of space that her older sisters had, taking only what could fit in one carrying pouch and one trunk that was comically large in comparison to her then newly ten-year-old self. The rest of Puck's belongings were moved to the set of shelves in the basement that Junnimay had set apart for her.

Besides several wooden chests of lock-picking tools, two cupboards of various bottles of alcohol and the odd item of clothing that cropped up here and there, there wasn't much else in the house that belonged to Chilchuck. It made cleaning up easy when she first did her rounds in preparation to move out, putting anything that belonged to one of her girls onto their respective shelves in the basement. If she found anything that belonged to Chilchuck, she would stuff it into any bare spots in the lowest sections of the cupboards of alcohol where he also left things that he didn't know where else to place.

Before dawn broke, Junnimay was already awake. Despite having tossed and turned persistently before sleep finally came over her, she surprised herself with how easily she emerged from beneath the blankets and rose from the bed.

Having changed out of her nightclothes and gotten herself ready for work, she checked every corner of the house as if she were an inner city guard on night patrol, making sure that everything was as she left it the night before. When she was satisfied, she tied on her cloak and laced up her boots and left for the bakery for a short morning shift.

Mei was already inside the house when she came back, hunched over an open trunk as she loaded in her mother's books that had been removed from the makeshift shelves around the alcove that overlooked the sea.

That was her favourite part of the house for the longest time. Looking at it now and seeing it devoid of the signs that she had just been lounging there with a new novel and a cup of honeyed milk made her feel as though someone had reached into her chest to pinch at her heart.

("You drink more milk than the girls," Chilchuck said, all smiles and good humour as he finally emerged from the girls' bedroom after tucking them in. Junnimay laughed, leaning into his labour-roughened palm when he tucked himself into her side and smoothed his hand over her cheek. "All that milk and you've never been taller than me."

"Well, it'd be a waste if I drank honey straight from the pot, wouldn't it?")

There was a reason that she left the alcove as the last part of the house to gather her belongings from.

"I'm back," Junnimay said, softly so as not to startle her daughter who was currently preoccupied with helping her pack up. "Thank you for your help."

Mei continued her work, not looking up in order to keep her concentration. "I'm about half-done here," Mei said. "Fler's upstairs, and Puck's on her way with the wagon and the horses."

Since her books and her clothes were being taken care of, Junnimay ventured into the basement to bring up a trunk she had brought from her parents' house all those years ago. She was hit with a sudden urge to open it up and poke around inside it when she tugged off the dust cover. Something about the weathered leather encasing trunk made her feel like she was a child waiting to open her birthday present again.

("What are you doing down here?"

Junnimay jumped from her seated position on the basement floor at the sound of Chilchuck's voice. She turned around to see him coming down the stairs and fixing her with a curious look.

"You got a secret pet in here or something?" he asked, scanning the area around her. She let out a sound that was between a scoff and a chuckle, standing up and dusting off her now-wrinkled dress.

"The girls would be here too if we did have a secret dog to hide from you," she said, smiling.)

Junnimay was caressing the time-worn grooves on the latch that spelled out her mother's name when Fler shouted for her from upstairs. It didn't sound as though Fler was hurt, but she still rushed towards where she thought Fler might be when she called just in case something was wrong.

"Mama, do you...?"

Fler was standing in front of one of Chilchuck's cupboards where he kept his alcohol, her back facing her mother as her voice trailed off. Hearing footsteps behind her, Fler turned around to face Junnimay, clutching something to her chest that looked very familiar.

It was a pot of honey from her hometown.

("Jun," came Chilchuck's voice from directly in front of her. "You can open your eyes now."

When she did, she was greeted with the rare sight of her fiancé with his cheeks pink and his ears pinker as he held out a painted pot of something to her. Junnimay reached out, and he all but shoved the pot into her hands. Fumbling a little with the pot that weighed much more than it looked, Chilchuck was quick to latch his hands onto the decorative indents so that neither of them wouldn't drop it.

"Chil, is this what I think it is?" she asked, even if she already knew what was inside the pot from the sweet, sweet aroma wafting through the cloth covering the mouth of the pot, bouncing on her heels.

Chilchuck nodded, his eyes darting about awkwardly before he cleared his throat. "As promised, only the best," he said, his words coming out in an ambiguous string with how he spoke without moving his lips much. "Just for you.")

"You told us Papa got this for you a long time ago! Do you remember?" Fler was trying to gesture excitedly at the same time as she held the large piece of stoneware in her arms, coming close to dropping it more than once. "You told us—"

Junnimay wanted to answer the question, but her ability to speak failed her.

She had long since emptied the contents of the pot, being overly generous with the spoonfuls she took from it when she wanted to sweeten her milk. The girls, too, mimicked her large portions when they took turns scooping out honey for their bread in the mornings.

Chilchuck had once said something about him not being made out of gold coins, after he was drawn into the kitchen by the smell of cured meat made in the style of their shared hometown cooking in rendered lard. He had caught sight of Puck with honey smeared across almost her entire face and walked over to her to wipe it off. Puck's bowl was more honey than bread, which prompted him to remind his family that he was not, in fact, made of gold.

Junnimay could see herself laughing as she flipped over the slices of meat in the pan, knowing that Chilchuck was censoring himself since he was in front of their daughters who were too young to be spitting out expletives.

"... Of course I remember," Junnimay said, putting on a smile and inwardly cursing at herself for doing so. "I asked for a lot of honey, so he bought some for me." There was no point in putting on a smile. There was no point in pretending.

What was she pretending for?

Fler coiled her arms tighter around the pot, squeezing. Junnimay could tell that there was something she wanted to say but she didn't know how to say it. She could see it in the way Fler was staring at her face but not making eye contact, the way Fler was incessantly shifting her weight from one foot to the other and then back again.

"Why did you stop asking Papa for things?"

When Fler finally spoke, Junnimay felt the question batter the breath out of her. She inhaled slowly, finding relief in the stretch of air filling up her lungs, thinking and thinking and wishing she had the answer.

Why did she stop asking Chilchuck for things? For help? For the time of day? Why—

"Asking someone who's not around is hard, isn't it?"

The words were bitter on her lips. She spoke the truth, though oversimplified for the sake of not having this difficult conversation on this day when she needed to be strong for herself. There would be a time for that in the future, but not now.

Fler's eyes misted over with the arrival of tears. Junnimay began to fret over if she had been too harsh, but Fler started nodding to show that she understood, a slow and measured nod at first before she repeatedly bobbed her head.

"... You know, sometimes, I can't remember what Papa looks like," Fler started with a wobble in her upper lip, turning away from Junnimay for a moment to return the empty pot of honey to the place where she found it. Junnimay met her at the open cupboard doors and drew her daughter into her embrace, squeezing. "I understand where you're coming from, Mama. But— I wish— I didn't have to miss Papa so much."

"I know how it hurts, little heart. But we still have each other," Junnimay whispered, starting to choke up from her own tears. She began rubbing circles into Fler's back, swaying and humming a lullaby with Fler in her arms the way she did with all her daughters when they were much younger. "We'll always have each other."

(This neighbourhood that Chilchuck had chosen was predominantly gnomes.

The vicinity was different from their hometown where everyone was a half-foot and everything was sized accordingly. Everything was built a little larger than they were used to. Junnimay supposed it suited her husband, since he was the tallest half-foot she knew.

Gnomes weren't much taller than half-foots, so she supposed that having to reach a little further to place things on the upper shelves was something she could learn to live with. She was more relieved that Mei and Fler could grow up in an area where she need not worry about her comparatively smaller daughters getting trampled by the much larger tall-man or kobold children who didn't know better.

Away from the centre of Kahka Brud which boasted architecture quite heavily in favour of the taller races, this gnome community along a cliff that looked out on the sea was similar enough to the village they grew up in. It was the perfect place to build a home away from home.

Chilchuck stopped at the shortest house in the row of fourteen that lined the edge of the cliff.

"This is it," he said, a grin on his face so wide that his skin threatened to split. "Our new home.")

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dailycharacteroption · 6 months ago

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Living Avalanche (Brawler Archetype)

(art by Rshupe on DeviantArt)

They say the strongest foes hit like a ton of bricks, or a Mack truck, or perhaps, yes, even an avalanche. Name your heavy and swiftly falling/moving object of choice, and you can construct a simile about how hard that big guy in the arena can hit you.

But for some, a mere verbal comparison of physical strength is not nearly enough. Some wish to truly emulate the might of falling snow and rock, to leave their foes utterly overwhelmed by their physicality the same way poor souls are crushed and suffocated under an unstoppable torrent of matter sourced from a higher elevation.

These so-called living avalanches may or may not actually be from a mountainous region, but it doesn’t matter, for their primary strategy remains the same: overwhelm foes with the combination of Newton’s various laws to knock back, trample, and bowl over their foes with their weight and force.

Mass is important here, so it’s very unlikely to see a wiry Living Avalanche. Instead, they may combine raw muscle with a stout frame and a healthy layer of body fat as well. (Think less body builder, more professional wrestler or weight lifter, maybe even sumo wrestler.) and are likely quite proud of their bulk.

No matter what form they take, however, they can truly be an unstoppable force like a wall of ice crashing down the mountain.

Overrunning and rushing foes is the bread and butter of this style, and so not only do they learn the basics for doing so without leaving themselves open, but become especially good at those maneuvers, ignoring training in other combat maneuvers and even cascade multiple foes into each other with their overwhelming force.

They even learn how to drive foes they overrun into the dirt, and push foes much larger than themselves.

They are not entirely offensive though, as they also evoke the immovable object, hardening their bodies to absorb damage from all but the most piercing forces.

Using their foes like stepping stools, more masterful warriors can overrun multiple foes at once, not only also knocking them prone, but driving them down with enough force to injure them, and at the zenith of their ability, such attacks can also potentially deal grievous wounds.

This archetype is perfect for a warrior that wants to be able to further punish foes when they overrun, and control the positioning of multiple foes at once. They can get in and out of the midst of their foes with relative ease, so keep that in mind when your allies have area effect spells.

With their ability to handle multiple attackers at once, I can imagine this martial style might have emerged in regions where travellers can be expected to be accosted by large groups, be they swarming monsters, brigands that use their numbers to their advantage, and the like.

So bulky they resemble the boulders of their mountain home, the Tumbling Stones are a clan of gargoyles that revere highest peak of Graflon Range: Mt. Pabul, as a sacred figure. However, their favored method of worshipping the mountain is very un-neighborly, preferring to come down on foes from above with the force of an avalanche and either crushing them directly or sending them to a plummeting demise.

The Valley of Killing Spirits is perpetually blanketed in fog, but the reason of it’s name comes from the trench mists that long ago wandered in, killing any living creatures they came across. The villages in the mountains above know to avoid it, but they aren’t above using their martial arts to drive interlopers into the valley, hoping that those that survive the fall with placate the evil within.

The Rhino is the current champion of the arena, famed for his ability to overpower other gladiators even when they all attack at once. He bowls over even foes twice his size with little effort, but he says little of his past, trying to avoid the fame that nevertheless follows him around.

#pathfinder #archetype #brawler #living avalanche #gargoyle #trench mist #Ultimate Wilderness

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bambimargera · 2 years ago

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Netflix and Chilling with CKY(fluff)

what you'd do and what you'd watch

Dico:

Some really stupid mystery/thriller movie. He’d definitely voice over every characters lines if he thinks it’s stupid or boring. His favourite would be if a dead body was shown on screen, expect to hear a random voiced freestyle rap on how the person may have died, regardless of the persons gender

When he picked you up would’ve stopped at WaWa or Target and he paid for all of your snacks, he secretly loves watching you behave like a kid in a candy store

He’d make you sit in between his legs while watching the movie, insists on having his arms wrapped around you. Will eat his snacks over your shoulder and lick up the crumbs that fall onto your neck

Raab:

Always insists on making blanket forts with you for movie nights. Loves being able to cuddle in complete privacy, he can strip you down and still watch the movie while being warm and snuggly

Makes sure you’re comfy and have everything you might need before pressing play, he’s an anxious and caring boy

Definitely wants to watch a horror movie so he can hold onto you when he’s scared, but he pretends that he’s protecting you from being scared

Expect to have all the snacks and drinks ready in the fort. This man is lazy and loves candy, I bet he buys in bulk and you’ll never have a shortage. He’d probably order a pizza for you guys too

Bam:

It’s never planned. He will show up at your house (or work) and drag you out saying it’s an emergency. Takes you to WaWa and leads you through each aisle demanding you pick up at least one thing from each

Once he’s dragged you into the castle, you’d notice that the floor is littered with pillows, blankets, and new stuffed animals all for you

Couldn’t care less about what movie you wanna watch, but secretly hopes you’ll pick something romantic so he can put the moves on you

Definitely wants to be held as much as he wants to hold you, so expect a big tantrum if you only wanna be little spoon.

Novak:

Picks you up and takes you to WaWa for snacks, makes you pay for them because “I paid for gas babe.”

Will watch literally anything you want as long as he can have you sitting on his lap, but really loves watching true crime documentaries with you. If it’s related to drugs, he’ll tell you if he thinks the criminal is smart-or if he would’ve been his friend back in the day

90% of the time he falls asleep while you’re on his lap, his head on your shoulder and arms around your waist. When he wakes up he’ll go on about what a great movie it was, and how you guys need to do movie nights more often- what little liar

Dunn:

Calls you from a gas station on the way to your house to ask you what you want. Doesn't like to take you into the store because he thinks you take too long deciding- and will hang up on you if you take too long on the phone

Also doesn't really care what you watch, but will only suggest comedys. He loves sneaking glimpses of you smiling or laughing at the screen

Wants to sit beside you on the couch under a blanket, his version of domestic bliss

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laser-knife · 2 years ago

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The mountain of blankets on the bed shifts for the first time in months as Techno emerges from his hibernation. Sleepily stumbling out of bed, he makes his way towards the kitchen for his first meal since... November? Maybe early December? He's not sure.

He's the (currently) human GPS, not the human timepiece, alright chat?

Techno just woke up so there won't be anything in the fridge or freezer, but his pantry should be well-stocked with canned and dried goods. Gods just thinking about the idea of having food is making him hungry. He buys in bulk every fall, usually with some help from friends, so his cabinets should be stuffed with everything from soup to ramen to canned vegetables to pasta to-

It's empty.

"Heh?!?! Where the did all my food go?" It's gone, all gone, every can and box. They even took the expired box of stuffing starter that had been hiding in the back of the cabinet!

Well.

First order of business: find someone to mooch a meal off of.

Second order of business: figure out who stole his food and get revenge.

#beeverse starter

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checkoutmybookshelf · 2 years ago

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Of Fire and Featheringtons: Chapter 1

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it every week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Penelope jerked awake to the sound of watchmen’s bells and shouts, which were quickly echoed and amplified by the voices of their neighbors and servants. The bed flexed beneath her, and she shivered as the warmth of Colin’s bulk lifted from the mattress. She waited beneath the covers as she listened to the rustles and grumbles of Colin pulling on breeches and a shirt; if their butler didn’t knock to wake them, she wouldn’t need to—

A sudden flurry of polite knocks sounded at their bedroom door.

Penelope sighed and rose, slipping a pelisse over her chemise and collecting an unlit candle from a small table to light from the one their butler would be carrying. She heard the door open and Colin’s voice, still thick with sleep but carrying an undeniable tone of urgency.

“Whose house is it this time?”

“The Earl of Chatteris, sir,” replied the butler.

“Oh no,” gasped Penelope. “Lady Holroyd is with child. I’ll take Anna and collect her immediately.” The butler stepped back to allow Penelope to pass, but Colin caught his wife’s hand as she slid past him.

“Be careful, Pen,” he said quietly, pressing a quick kiss against her temple.

“Don’t worry, Colin,” she replied. “If we are very, very lucky, this has just scuppered next week’s Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale.” Colin’s soft snort of amusement faded behind Penelope as she trotted down the hall to collect Anna and some blankets to keep Honoria Holroyd, née Smythe-Smith, Countess of Chatteris, and her maids warm while the men of the neighborhood tried to save as much of their Mayfair townhouse as possible.

Penelope had little hope of the latter; it was mid-July, and they had seen precious little rain all summer. Things were dry as kindling, and several families’ townhomes had had their burned to the ground. That there hadn’t been any fatalities yet was three-quarters of a miracle, particularly because the Queen, Lady Danbury, and Penelope were beginning to suspect arson.

It was not uncommon for fires to break out in summer; however, the small fire brigades were highly effective, and it was rare to lose entire structures, even in the poorer parts of London. Losing an entire building in Mayfair was typically a once-a-decade occurrence. Five buildings had been lost in three months this season, and there had been increasing numbers of false alarms as people began to panic and mistake flickering but controlled firelight as an imminent emergency.

The ton was beginning to panic.

That more than any particular affection for the Countess was why Penelope had taken to making sure she was on the scene of any ton house fires where women and children were present. Panicked would-be firefighters tended not to notice if they knocked to the ground and trampled small children or women. The Bridgerton carriage that Pen and Colin maintained, while not as substantial or fancy as that of the Viscount’s, was still substantial enough that it would not be casually knocked asunder, and had the space to get any maids, ladies, or children out of the way and keep them safe. They couldn’t plan ahead for hot bricks, but with sufficient blankets and bodies, the carriage ensured that nobody died of exposure while waiting for the fire to go out or while being transported to the homes of family or friends.

The carriage slowed and stopped after a brief ride, and Penelope opened the carriage door on a sadly familiar scene.

The structure was fully ablaze, and the flickering light of the fire at night made things glow and move in an almost unearthly fashion as it completely ruined the night sight of all and sundry. The fire brigade for the neighborhood was already on site. and Penelope caught sight of a shock of Featherington red hair next to a set of shoulders that were intimately familiar to her among a group of other neighborhood young men running buckets back and forth. Colin had fetched her cousin, Felix, who was staying with them that summer as a favor to a branch of country Featheringtons, before heading to the fire. Colin and Felix would have been on horseback, unencumbered by the carriage, and beaten her and Anna to the scene. Penelope spared the second to sigh at the whining she would undoubtedly hear from Felix once all this was over. The young man had a disappointing lack of awareness of community and fellowship, which was made sharper and even less admirable by a disagreeable nature. But Felix would be a problem for Penelope later.

A scent reminiscent of bonfire pervaded the air, but it was somehow bigger and more violent than the friendly scent that accompanied the roasting of marshmallows, a new French confection that had gained instant popularity as a treat at country-house balls. This fire—like the others she had been present for—also had a greasy undertone to the scent. Penelope wouldn’t be at all surprised if an investigation revealed that delicate containers of oil had been planted and lit throughout the house to encourage the conflagration. Once they began looking, each fire that was investigated showed evidence of accelerant use, although Penelope’s sources disagreed on what precisely was used.

She couldn’t immediately see Lady Holroyd, and she didn’t bother calling for her; the roar of the fire nearly drowned out the men’s shouts. Her voice would be lost the moment it left her mouth. Instead, hand locked with Anna’s, Penelope circled the perimeter of the action, eyes sweeping for a stationary figure. Her experience as a wallflower served her alarmingly well, and she picked her way through the chaos quickly and with purpose, avoiding men whose eyes simply slid over her and Anna. Anna was tucked in so close behind Penelope that she barely had to yell for Penelope to hear her.

“There, to your left, Penelope!” Pen’s eyes swiveled as she tucked them briefly against a wall. Just as Anna had said, to Penelope’s left was a point of stillness, where a clump of maids surrounded an extremely pregnant, sooty, shrilly keening Lady Holroyd. Penelope’s stomach sank for a split second as she realized that Lady Holroyd was clutching her violin to her prominent belly.

So much for avoiding the Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale.

Seeing a break in the parade of running men, Penelope made a break for the clump of women, Anna practically glued to her hip to keep them both clear of men carrying buckets and ladders. What looked like three kitchen or house maids were clutching each other’s arms and crying. A lady’s maid, who looked to be made of slightly sterner stuff, had one arm around Lady Holroyd and the other clamped around the upper arm of an absurdly small young woman who was wearing the apron and cap of a cook. They were all sooty and had small burns from embers in their nightgowns and the various shawls and cloaks they were wrapped in. Standing in front of all of them was a woman Penelope recognized as their housekeeper.

“Mrs. Cooper!” yelled Penelope, over the noise. “Bring the maids, follow me.” She quickly took the blanket from Anna’s arms and with the lady’s maid’s help, got it wrapped around Lady Holroyd, who was still keening and whose eyes were darting back and forth, panicked. Anna had taken the maids in hand as soon as Penelope had taken the blanket, and Mrs. Cooper had taken charge of the very young cook. Rather than waste time trying to get through to Lady Holroyd herself, Penelope caught the eye of the lady’s maid as she took Lady Holroyd’s other arm. Once she was sure she had the girl’s attention, Penelope yelled, “Stay close, follow me.” The maid nodded, chivvying her mistress forward and keeping her pressed against Penelope.

A sudden groaning creak sounded behind them, followed by a shuddering, howling crash.

The roof, Penelope realized as she kept moving toward her carriage. A rush of hot air and sparkling embers like demonic fireflies hit their backs and blew past the group of women. Penelope was grateful for the long sleeves on her pelisse; they protected her from hot debris. The maids behind her shrieked and whimpered as embers brushed bare skin, and she briefly heard the sound of fabric slapping fabric, as though someone was putting out a smoldering patch on a shawl.

Some instinct made her stop dead in her tracks; six men in a pack barreled by within scant inches of her nose. Lady Holroyd screeched right in her ear, and Penelope winced, reaffirming her grip on the other woman’s arm. One more push, and they could get to the relative safety of the carriage. Penelope looked back and caught Anna’s eye; the other woman nodded, ready to follow. Taking a deep breath and looking to either side of her, Penelope sprinted the final stretch to the carriage, ripping the door open and bodily shoving Lady Holroyd in. The lady was rapidly followed by her maid, and Penelope packed the other women into the space before Anna planted a hand in her back and shoved, indicating that everyone else was in. Penelope squeezed into the packed space, caught Anna’s hand, and pulled her up. Anna slammed the door behind her.

Penelope pounded on the roof, and the driver pulled the carriage further down the street. They were still in sight of the burning house, but they were clear of debris and the widening circle as the men gave up on the townhouse and focused their efforts on a wider radius to ensure that no other townhouses caught fire. Penelope hoped that Colin stayed at ground level this time and let the more experienced firemen take positions on the roofs of adjacent houses to ensure that no clumps of burning matter landed and sparked a second conflagration. Two fires ago, she had watched him run a roofline with sopping wet sacking in one hand to beat a small patch of flame into submission. Her heart had nearly stopped then and there at the thought that he could slip, fall, and break his neck on the cobblestones before her eyes.

Now, as she had then, she wrenched her thoughts away from her husband and focused on the frightened, sobbing women before her.

“Did everyone get out, Mrs. Cooper? Is anyone hurt?” she asked, as Anna was checking small burns, wiping tears, and gently shushing the maids.

“As far as I can tell, the household made it out,” the housekeeper replied, her voice hoarse and scratchy from yelling and smoke. “My lady and the girls are all right; I can’t speak for the menfolk fighting the fire.” Anna was pressing biscuits into the hands of the maids and the cook now. The lady’s maid took hers and put it in Lady Holroyd’s hands, murmuring softly to her and encouraging her to have a bite. Lady Holroyd herself seemed lost now that she was safe and out of the immediate line of the emergency. The neck of the violin was nearly on a level with Penelope’s chin, and she kept half an eye on it to prevent it from poking her as she asked the next question.

“Once we collect the Earl and the rest of the household, where can we take you?” Taking a breath to answer, Mrs. Cooper was overcome by a fit of coughing, and Lady Holroyd, who’s head had come up when Penelope mentioned the Earl, piped up.

“Where is Marcus? We cannot leave him, I will not!”

“It will be all right, my lady—” began her lady’s maid.

“We will not leave him—” started Penelope, simultaneously. Both women were interrupted by a renewed yelp from Lady Holroyd in a significantly different tone, accompanied by the sound of liquid dripping onto the carriage floor.

“Now is not the time!” declared Lady Holroyd. “I want Mama. She promised she would be here for this!” Pen met the eyes of the lady’s maid and saw her own horror reflected back at her.

“Right, change of plans,” said Penelope, banging on the carriage roof to bring her driver to the door. Cracking it open, she ordered him to take them to the Smythe-Smith house, which was only a few streets over.

“Wait,” barked Mrs. Cooper. “I should stay to let my lord know where you have gone. Emily has my lady well in hand for now.” With an agility Penelope wished she possessed now, let alone at Mrs. Cooper’s age, the housekeeper extricated herself from the pack of bodies amidst Lady Holroyd’s moans and snapped the door shut behind her. The carriage leaped forward, and the end of the violin hit Penelope in the face as Lady Holroyd crushed her hand.

As they pulled up before the Smythe-Smith house, Penelope was briefly worried about how precisely she was going to explain arriving with a group of singed staff and a laboring Lady Holroyd, but a bellowed curse from the latter as soon as the carriage door opened that would not have sounded out of place in the sketchiest part of London’s dockside district brought Lady Smythe-Smith herself running. Within ten minutes, a footman had been dispatched for the doctor and Lady Holroyd had been bundled off to her childhood bedroom, and Anna had chivvied the female Holroyd staff members down to the Smythe-Smith kitchen for food, tea, and borrowed day dresses.

Penelope was left standing awkwardly in the foyer, clutching the violin until John and Daniel Smythe-Smith were shooed from the family’s rooms and invited Penelope to rest in their sitting room, where she abandoned the violin on a side table. Daniel rang for tea before awkwardly sitting next to his brother across from Penelope, both in rumpled breeches with untucked shirts under haphazardly buttoned waistcoats. Both lacked stockings, having shoved bare feet into shoes to get to their yelling sibling sooner. Lord Smythe-Smith soon wandered in, looking positively poleaxed.

“The doctor is here,” he announced vaguely to the room. A few moments later, a maid and Anna entered the room, both holding laden tea trays. The Smythe-Smith maid put down her tray, curtsied, and scuttled from the room, but Anna put her tray down and then came to stand before Penelope.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Bridgerton,” she murmured, as she plucked charred bits from Penelope’s curls. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“I’m fine, and you?” Penelope asked under her breath.

“Fine, my lady. The Holroyd maids are settled. Will you be needing me for anything?”

“No, go get yourself something to eat.” Anna curtsied again—which, like her formality, was for the sake of the Smythe-Smith men; she and Penelope were on easy first name terms in private—and left for the kitchens, leaving Penelope and the men alone. Periodically, Lady Holroyd’s cries could be heard from upstairs as the four sat silently, occasionally sipping on tea.

Now that everyone was as well taken care of as she could make them, Penelope felt exhaustion creep into her bones. Her role was never as physically strenuous as that of the men who actively fought the fire, and she never felt the emotional strain of staying cool and in command in the moment, but the aftermath never failed to exhaust her. It was as though her competence wrote checks when it counted, and her body paid the bill once everyone was safe. She wanted nothing more than to return to her home and let the sound of Colin’s heartbeat lull her to sleep, but if Mrs. Cooper was going to tell the men that she had brought Lady Holroyd here, then she had best stay put; Colin would collect her here.

The Mayfair fire brigade was extraordinarily competent. They would remain and watch the ruined house until the ashes had cooled, but they would send the gentlemen and neighbors home as soon as the danger of the surrounding houses catching fire had gone. In the meantime, none of the Smythe-Smith gentlemen seemed interested in talking, so Penelope dozed on the settee, pretending to be intensely interested in her half-drunk cup of tea as the windows lightened with the oncoming dawn, and Lady Holroyd’s yelps grew more frequent.

John was gently snoring in a chair when there was hammering on the front door. He jumped so hard that he fell from the chair, and Penelope started so hard that she nearly dropped her teacup. The pounding was punctuated by an exhausted shout: “Honoria!”

“That will be Lord Holroyd, then,” said Penelope, as Lord Smythe-Smith stumbled out of the room, followed closely by his sons. She listened as doors banged and feet pounded across the floor and up the stairs. She was so focused on listening that she didn’t notice anyone else was in the room until a warm hand cupped her cheek, and a kiss was pressed to her forehead, filling her nose with the scents of smoke, burned wood, and singed cotton and wool.

Colin.

He straightened, and she smiled up at him.

“Do you know that you are absurdly tall up there?” she asked. He gave her a lopsided smile, which never failed to make her weak at the knees.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He flopped down next to her in a distinctly ungentlemanly fashion, his body leaning toward hers without transferring any weight to her. As he did so, Felix was revealed, arms crossed and face pouty. He was no more singed or sooty than Colin was—indeed, a less generous eye would have said he was less smutched—but he bore it less well.

“Felix, please sit before you fall over. It’s been a difficult morning,” she said, gesturing to an empty but comfortable-looking chair. Where Colin had flopped comfortably, Felix minced toward the chair, and sat on its very edge. His body language was completely closed off, but Penelope could count on one hand the number of times she had seen his body language open since he had arrived on their doorstep in April. With a smile and a “there now, isn’t that better?” for her cousin, Penelope leaned forward carefully, maintaining as much contact with Colin as she could while still being able to pour both men cups of barely lukewarm tea and fix two plates of biscuits and finger foods for them. Colin downed the entire cup of tea and inhaled three biscuits by the time Penelope poured a second cup for him. His mouth was still full as she handed him the cup, and he spoke through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, you are a queen among women.” Penelope giggled tiredly as Colin drank about a third of the cup and then sat back and really looked at her.

“Are you all right, Pen? You’re pale.”

“I’m just tired, Colin. Well, tired, and mourning the survival of Lady Holroyd’s violin,” she whispered, playfully. “She will teach the baby, and we shall be subject to a second generation of off-key musicales.”

“Dear God, how shall we survive?” Colin asked, through yet another mouthful of biscuit. Penelope was saved from answering by the arrival of Marcus Holroyd and Lord Smythe-Smith.

Lord Holroyd—who, by all rights, should have been thoroughly exhausted—seemed unable to sit still. In the time it took Lord Smythe-Smith to pour three drinks and hand one to Colin, Holroyd had transitioned between four seats and took up pacing before the windows. He was equally as disheveled, smutched, and singed as Colin, if not more so, and he had clearly shoved a nightshirt carelessly into a pair of breeches to fight the fire; only the front quarter was still tucked. The fabric over his arms and shoulders was speckled with tiny burn holes, and a few of them seemed to have burned through to leave angry red weals on his skin.

As she watched Lord Holroyd pace with Lord Smythe-Smith wordlessly following him back and forth, drink extended, Penelope fought giggles. Some combination of the absurdity, the tea, and the relaxed tension in her chest that Colin was here and not splattered across the cobblestones allowed her mind to grind slowly into gear. She wouldn’t get useful information from either Lord or Lady Holroyd; they were justifiably distracted from their house burning down by the birth of their child. She likely wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the lady’s maid, and the other maids and the cook were unlikely to have useful insights. She would visit the fire brigade later in the day with a basket of cakes and ask questions, but for now… Penelope rose, murmured something about finding Anna, and made a beeline for the Smythe-Smith kitchens to find Mrs. Cooper.

The Smythe-Smith house was one of the older ones in Mayfair, and the servant’s halls and kitchens were an old-style warren of narrow, twisting passageways and compact spaces. However, the current Lord Smythe-Smith’s grandfather had wanted to “modernize” his kitchens, so like the minotaur’s chamber at the center of the labyrinth, Penelope turned the final tight corner, and a spacious kitchen opened before her. It was packed with two households’ worth of staff, but they did all fit.

Not wanting to discomfit anyone in what was arguably their territory, Penelope kept her face down as she crept along the wall to where Mrs. Cooper was seated on a bench with a cup in one hand, a handkerchief in the other, and a couple of the Smythe-Smith cook’s famous honey and lemon lozenges in a half-open twist of paper in her lap. Taking advantage of a coughing fit to ensure that Mrs. Cooper wouldn’t have the opportunity to recognize her and try to rise, Penelope slid onto the bench beside her and took the cup so the other woman could use both hands for her handkerchief.

“Are you well, Mrs. Cooper?” asked Penelope, once the woman’s cough subsided. The housekeeper raised an eyebrow at her, which told Penelope that under other circumstances, she might have earned herself an excruciatingly polite scolding for being there and flouting propriety. Slowly, the eyebrow came back down, however, and Mrs. Cooper’s shoulders twitched slightly, as though she wanted to sigh but did not trust her lungs not to rebel if she did.

“I shall be, Mrs. Bridgerton. The fool girls panicked and hid in the kitchen, and I breathed more smoke than I meant to fetching them out.”

“You were very brave to fetch them out once the conflagration was clearly out of control,” said Penelope, passing the cup back. Something that would have been called a growl in a less dignified figure escaped Mrs. Cooper, try as she did to cover it with a sip from the cup. She did not bother to cover the grimace after the sip.

“Lord, that’s bitter,” she muttered.

“I thought it would be tea, but that is not the case?”

“Mrs. Hurst’s concoction, meant to help expel smoke from the lungs,” replied Mrs. Cooper, coughing briefly into her handkerchief again. “But you aren’t here to ask after my welfare, are you, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

“Not entirely,” admitted Penelope. “But I meant it when I said you were brave, and I am truly glad you will recover.” Mrs. Cooper’s evaluative gaze rested on Penelope long enough that, were Penelope any less than she was, she might have wilted. But as formidable as the experienced housekeeper was, her gaze failed to hold a candle to the queen’s fury.

“I understand why your Anna left a royal post for you, Mrs. Bridgerton. If it’s not too much license, ma’am, I trust I don’t need to say that you have a loyal lady’s maid in her, and I am sure you treat her accordingly.” Penelope smiled, nodding as Mrs. Cooper continued. “That conflagration was out of control before our fool chit of a cook tossed water on a cooking oil fire. I haven’t the faintest idea where my lady found her, but anyone with a nose should have been able to smell the spoiled cooking oil underneath that fire, and anyone with a lick of sense would have known not to sling a full bucket of water on it.”

“You believe the fire was an accident?” asked Penelope.

“Hardly. We don’t use cheap vegetable oil, and that’s what the kitchen smelled like. And no matter how much water the girl threw at a kitchen fire, it wouldn’t set the attic on fire. And the attic was on fire before I knew about the kitchen fire.” Mrs. Cooper did sigh then, her breath rasping. She took another deep sip of the bitter liquid before continuing. “The only reason for opposite ends of the house to be on fire at the same time is if someone set it, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

The pair was interrupted by Anna and a footman in Smythe-Smith livery. Anna dropped a curtsey, and if Penelope didn’t know her maid as well as she did, she wouldn’t have seen than Anna was as exhausted as she was.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Bridgerton, but Mr. Bridgerton has asked after you, ma’am. I think he wishes to turn toward home.”

“Of course. Thank you, Anna.” Penelope turned to Mrs. Cooper as she rose, gesturing for the older woman to stay seated. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to send to us. Mr. Bridgerton and I are happy to assist. Thank you for speaking with me.” Mrs. Cooper half smiled and lifted her cup in a ghost of a toast in acknowledgement as Penelope, Anna, and the footman left the kitchen.

Returning to the sitting room, Penelope found a much calmer ambience than she had left. Lord Holroyd was slumped in a chair across from the couch that Colin and Lord Smythe-Smith occupied, and the plush chair Felix still sat in seemed to be slowly swallowing him. Holroyd was staring into a glass of whiskey and chewing mindlessly on a bite of a sandwich that he held loosely in his other hand. Before she could drop the requisite curtsey, however, there were rapid footsteps behind Penelope that did not quite cover soft burbling noises. She stepped rapidly to one side as a doctor bearing a small bundle entered the room.

“My lord,” he announced, “may I present your son?”

All four men rose, and Colin clapped the new father and grandfather on their shoulders in congratulations. Lord Holroyd was awkward as he took his son from the physician, holding him like porcelain and at an awkward distance from his body rather than cuddling him close, as Colin always did with Daphne and Simon’s son, Augie; Kate and Anthony’s boys, Edmund and Miles; and even Benedict and Sophie’s newborn, Charles.

“What shall you name him, my lord?” the doctor asked. His high-handed tone and utter disinterest in Lady Holroyd—who had performed the hard work, in Penelope’s opinion—made her intensely appreciate the Bridgertons’ insistence on doctors speaking to the patient, whoever the patient may be. The rest of the ton looked on that as a peccadillo that was better not mentioned in polite society, but Penelope found she preferred the Bridgerton’s method. It made her feel more human.

Lord Holroyd looked poleaxed by the question. “Honoria and I had not—not made a decision, we expected to have more time…” Lord Smythe-Smith laughed at that, extended his arms for his grandson, and held him far more competently than his son-in-law had.

“The first one always comes sooner than you expect, Marcus,” he boomed, grinning. “Best to be prepared.”

Colin took Penelope’s clenched hand and slipped it through his arm; his other hand went to Felix’s neck in a gesture that he would vehemently disagree that he had picked up from Anthony.

“Our congratulations, Holroyd, Lord Smythe-Smith,” he said. “We wouldn’t dream of intruding on you any further, given the circumstances, so Mrs. Bridgerton and I will take our leave.” Both men nodded, still focused on the baby, as Colin steered Felix and Penelope, flanked by Anna, from the house and into the carriage in full morning light. Colin and Felix’s horses were on long lead reins.

Once safely in the carriage and out of the public eye, Colin held Penelope close, studiously ignoring Felix’s rolling eyes. One of his hands snaked around her waist, coming to rest over the place where Penelope carried a palm-sized mass of scar tissue from an attack that revealed her to the queen as Lady Whistledown. Early in their marriage, Colin had often found his hand there, as though to remind himself that Penelope was with him, had survived. He did not imagine that Pen had not noticed that habit, but neither had she said anything about it. Once he had noticed that he was doing it, he had shortly thereafter noticed that when he did, Pen tended to tuck more closely into his embrace.

“I am grateful Mrs. Cooper remained behind to tell us where you ladies had disappeared to. My heart nearly stopped beating altogether when we couldn’t find you, and I think Holroyd would have burned the rest of Mayfair down to find his wife. Not that I would have blamed him,” said Colin.

“You don’t trust Anna to look after me?” teased Penelope.

Anna, voice and expression perfectly schooled to textbook lady’s maid’s politeness, deadpanned, “Mrs. Bridgerton makes keeping her safe and within the bounds of propriety an eminently simple task.” Colin laughed outright.

Underneath Colin’s laughter, Felix grumbled, “I see no reason I had to be dragged from my bed tonight. I am no firefighter, and I have no acquaintance with these people.”

Penelope’s momentary flash of hope that Colin wouldn’t hear Felix was dashed, and her own ire rose as Colin’s shoulders tensed, subtly squeezing her. Generally affable, extroverted, and far-too-willing-to-see-the-good-in-people Colin Bridgerton had, for some inexplicable reason, taken an immediate dislike to Felix. For Penelope’s sake, Colin had spent the first month going well out of his way to be cordial and to include Felix in his trips to White’s, daily activities, and even an early hunting trip. Unfortunately, that hunting trip had revealed Felix as a bluestocking; he had fallen from his horse to the general laughter of all the gentlemen present.

Colin’s attempt to make up for it by introducing Felix to Lumley and his extensive personal library ended in catastrophe—Felix somehow managed to drop an entire pot of tea over Lumley’s first-edition printing of Byron’s The Corsair and showed poor grace in his apology. Penelope had gone so far as to appeal to Lady Danbury for help in tracking down a replacement tome once Colin had washed his hands of the matter and would have simply covered the cost of the original. The two men seemed at odds, no matter the circumstances. And yet, through that initial period, Colin and Penelope had worked together to try to make Felix a welcome, comfortable part of their lives.

That had changed after the first fire of the season. Fife had nearly suffocated in his bed in his bachelor lodgings; only the presence of mind of his valet had saved the young lord’s life. Fife had taken over Colin’s bachelor lodgings after Colin and Penelope married, so once the alarm was raised, Colin had collected Felix and the men of the household to help contain the fire. Felix had—unintentionally, he protested—managed to constantly be in the way of the fire brigade, tripped Colin several times, and had so badly fouled the bucket chain that a second structure ignited. The second building was singed, but structurally sound. Fife’s lodgings had burned to the ground, and Fife himself had been ill from smoke inhalation for a month. To top it all off, Felix had gone on a tirade as Colin watched his gasping friend be rushed to a doctor about how inconvenient the entire affair had been for him personally.

Colin had hauled off and punched Felix when the younger man had groused, “men let each other go hang all the time; why should we bother to ignore that simply because of an inconvenience?” In the end, Colin had returned home alone, waked the household with shouting, and Penelope had collected Felix and seen to it that he had a steak for his black eye.

In the light of the morning, Colin had calmed himself enough to explain that a house fire was a threat to the community, which meant that everyone had a duty to pitch in. It was truly more than Penelope had expected of Colin; he had been raised with that Bridgerton ethos, and it had been solidified during his travels, particularly the ill-advised trips through unstable regions where not pulling together would have killed the entire party. He had little patience for selfish scheming—as had been amply demonstrated by his handling of Cousin Jack’s would-be ruby scheme—and he tended to feel that the Bridgerton perspective was self-evident and required no explanation. She had attributed his willingness to explain his reasoning to Felix as a combination of relief that Fife would recover and a desire to make this arrangement work for her sake.

Felix possessed sufficient self-preservation instincts not to argue with Colin during the impressive lecture he was read. He had also learned to stay out from underfoot at subsequent fires. None of that stopped him from privately grousing to Penelope about all the reasons he should not be required to perform menial labor that the fire brigade was paid to perform for people who sniggered at him behind their hands in public.

Penelope felt herself caught in an untenable situation. She knew all too well the feeling of being ridiculed, how it ate at a heart and soul. And yet, there was a feeling of poison in Felix that was unfamiliar to her, and it seriously concerned her. Lord knew that Penelope had her insecurities and things she did not like about herself, even the odd thing that she had thought her detractors were perhaps not wrong in identifying as deficient. And yet, she had always had Whistledown, the one thing she could hold on to when she thought she might simply fly apart into dust at the cruel laughter or her mother’s careless barbs. Felix seemed not only to lack such a certainty, but he was also transplanted. Penelope had always had familiar surroundings and refuges, but Felix had been sent from his home. Despite her best efforts to make her home Felix’s, he never seemed truly comfortable. None of that was any excuse for acting the scrub, but Penelope thought she could perhaps understand, if not excuse, his behavior.

That sense of understanding had steadily dissolved with each fire and each incident in which Felix had the option to respond with grace and simply did not.

The vibrations of a growl deep in Colin’s chest pulled Penelope from her reverie. The growl was low enough that even she did not hear it over the clatter of wheels and hooves on cobblestone streets, but it left her in little doubt of her husband’s temper.

“I am not having this conversation again,” he snapped. “You will keep your tongue behind your teeth, Felix. Have I made myself clear?”

Felix rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and sighed, slumping back into his corner of the carriage. “Eminently, Mr. Bridgerton. Would you care to punch me again?”

Colin’s face went scarlet. Without a word, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, and bolted from it once it slowed enough not to break his legs. Moments later, Penelope watched him canter away on his horse toward their home. Colin had not apologized for the initial slap, and Penelope had not asked him to. He had privately confided in her that he was ashamed of the slap; he had allowed his temper and the situation to overcome him, and he felt he had behaved in an ungentlemanly fashion. How Felix had sussed that out, she could not imagine. She had initially thought that Felix had the same unfortunate tendency as Portia—to wound with words through a lack of sensitivity—but that barb had felt aimed and deliberate. Had she misread him? It had happened before, rarely. Penelope did not realize she had lifted an eyebrow to study her cousin until he glanced at her face, and an abashed look flitted across his countenance.

“I suppose you shall want me to apologize, Cousin?” he asked.

“Not if you’re going to enjoy it.” As she heard herself say the words, Penelope’s brain caught up with her gut memory of the same expressions in Prudence and Philippa’s faces when they felt proud of a clumsy, backhanded apology. Had she not been exhausted, she might have raised her voice to her cousin for aiming such petty cruelty at Colin of all people. “It has been a trying night for everyone, and we are none of us at our best. Once we have slept, we should talk about this, you and I.”

“Cousin,” he protested, a whine creeping into his voice. “There is nothing to discuss. I simply feel no obligation to help a community I am so clearly not a part of.”

“Then we must work harder to bring you into the fold,” Penelope said, with what she hoped was enough finality to end the conversation there. As the carriage rounded the final corner, a familiar carriage parked before their home caught Penelope’s eye.

It seemed her rest would have to wait until after she and Lady Danbury had discussed the latest possible case of arson in Mayfair.

By the time Anna had gotten Penelope into a dress that was on the comfortable side of respectable for daywear, Lady Danbury had been settled in the front room with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. As Penelope walked in, she and her guest shared a smile.

“I could almost thank our arsonist twice over,” Lady Danbury remarked, without preamble. “Not only has he spared the ton a Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale, but he has spared you and I her Majesty’s displeasure about the amount of fuss Lords Holroyd and Smythe-Smith would have put up were they not distracted by the baby.”

“Lady Holroyd managed to save her violin, so I fear the musicale is less a reprieve than a stay of execution,” said Penelope, pouring herself a cup of tea and settling into her favorite chair, a battered, low-backed thing that had originally been overstuffed but softened with use to gently cradle anyone who sat there. It did nothing for proper posture, but after a sleepless night, Penelope could not have cared less.

“Ah.” Lady Danbury no longer tried to hide eye rolls from Penelope, who giggled.

“Surely you’re not here only to thank our arsonist,” she said. “Has something been found?”

Lady Danbury set down her teacup and reached into her pocket, pulling forth a bulky package wrapped in oilcloth. As she unwrapped it, Penelope’s sensitive nose wrinkled. Smoke, charred wood, burned paint, and—as Mrs. Cooper had mentioned—cheap vegetable oil that had turned and burned. In the package were a twisted hunk of charred metal and a slimy looking chunk of wood.

“I had my man in the Mayfair fire brigade on alert, and he delivered these to me early this morning,” said Lady Danbury. “He hasn’t any idea how the maids and that absurdly incompetent cook survived; that bit of metal is from a cast-iron frying pan. He thinks one of them flung a bucket of water on it, and the temperature shock shattered the metal.”

“I’ll have to drop a word in Lady Holroyd’s ear about her cook,” muttered Penelope.

“I’ve already spoken to her mother,” said Lady Danbury. “The girl is a menace. The wood, however, is somewhat interesting. I am told it is from a roof support beam of the kind commonly used in attics. It was found in a puddle of grease in a corner of the attic that fell away from the main house so it did not burn completely.”

“I spoke to Lady Holroyd’s housekeeper; she thinks the fire was set using cheap vegetable oil,” said Penelope, using a corner of the oilcloth to protect her hands as she turned the chunk of wood over. “This is the third incident we know of in which two fires were set at opposite ends of the house.”

“Have you found anything that can tell us how these fires are set?” asked Lady Danbury. “No one I have cajoled, bribed, or terrified into talking has had any theories; even the fire brigade is unsure how this is occurring. There are never any suspicious visitors or break-ins, and as far as anyone can tell, the fires begin simultaneously. I’m beginning to fear a pair of arsonists. One couldn’t set both fires and escape without notice, not with how quickly the fires spread.”

Penelope continued to turn over the shards for a moment before answering. “I see no way for a single person to achieve these results, but you know what they say, Lady Danbury. Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead. I cannot imagine we should have lost six homes in Mayfair and not heard some rumor, some whisper of arson in the city. The problem with fire is that it consumes evidence, and it does so quickly. I have no alternative theory, but I also have not visited the Mayfair fire brigade today.” Lady Danbury’s lip curled at that.

“Yes, I am aware of your unique way of currying favor with them.”

“I’m sure you have also found that appreciation of a job well done can elicit information,” said Penelope.

“Yes, and without leaving a financial or paper trail,” said Lady Danbury. “Well, I shall not need to update the queen immediately, but she will not be happy to be without information for more than a day or two, Penelope. We must have a working theory for her soon. The ton are beginning to clamor to her for protection, and we still do not know who or what they need protecting from.”

Penelope sighed. “Yes, it seems that we have nothing but problems with no solutions.”

Lady Danbury raised an eyebrow. “That sigh seems to have more behind it than even the weight of an unknown number of arsonists. Is everything all right, Penelope?”

Penelope didn’t try to hide the small, ever-so-slightly sardonic smile that crossed her face at the question. It had not taken Lady Danbury long to be able to read her nearly as well as Colin and Eloise did. “Colin and Felix are firmly at loggerheads, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Ah. Is this the hunting incident or the Byron incident?”

“Either. Both. And Felix has been somewhat reluctant to come around to Colin’s way of seeing things when it comes to helping with the fires. I admit, I find myself at something of a loss.” Penelope picked at some invisible lint on her skirt. “I’m afraid I’ve read the entire situation wrong, Lady Danbury.”

Leaning across the small tea table, Lady Danbury took Penelope’s hand, interrupting her fussing. “Penelope Bridgerton, you listen to me. For all your remarkable gifts, you are still young, you are still newly married, and—forgive me for saying so—your mama’s family is still a thicket of brambles and nettles. I know you have heard the same rumors and gossip as I have. You and your Mr. Bridgerton have done everything—more—than could be reasonably expected to help Mr. Featherington acclimate to the ton and London society. I’ve never liked Cassius, but he is correct in his assessment that, for some men, the fault is truly in themselves rather than their stars. My second son was like that, and I suspect your cousin is as well. He will simply have to find his own way through the world. You may support him if you wish, Penelope, but he is not likely to thank you for it. I don’t believe you have read the situation wrong, my dear. Your instincts and your mind are top-notch; trust them.”

“I would trust myself, except… Colin mistrusts him. The only other person I’d ever seen Colin mistrust was Cousin Jack, and you know how that ended up.” Penelope’s gratification at Lady Danbury’s affirmation left a warm feeling in Penelope’s chest, but she still could not shake the feeling that she had misread something. Lady Danbury sat back, picking up her teacup.

“It could simply be frustration. Your Mr. Bridgerton is the rare generous soul in the ton, and your cousin is the antithesis of that. I shouldn’t worry too much, Penelope. After all, we have an arsonist to find.”

“Yes, I suppose we do,” said Penelope. The women spent another quarter hour chatting before Lady Danbury excused herself to meet with Queen Charlotte.

Despite her plans to visit the fire brigade with treats after Lady Danbury’s call, when Penelope put her teacup down, she found sitting in her comfortable chair in a sunbeam immensely appealing. When Colin entered the sitting room, Penelope’s head was pillowed on her arms, which were supported by one arm of the comfortable chair, fast asleep. He took a moment to admire how soft her expression was, and how the sunbeam she was sleeping in reflected off the fire that was her hair. He couldn’t remember a moment when she had looked more beautiful than she did just then. She did not so much as stir as he gently kissed her temple, scooped her up in his arms, and took her into their room. She murmured something incomprehensible when he put her down on their bed.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, climbing into bed beside her and pulling a light blanket over them. She burrowed into his side and settled once again.

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