#ensure your horses are held

[gothicprep]

reasons why america is bad: too many to list

reasons why america is good: you can get really good indo-chinese food even if you don’t live in a major city.

what’s the verdict? impossible to tell :/

[alltheirdamn]

Rotten | cowboy!joel x f!reader

Summary: Sharing land with Joel Miller has always been infuriating, but when your bad attitude finally gets his attention...things get messy. Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Word Count: 5.2k Warnings: No-Outbreak AU, banter and arguing, explicit language, brat taming, semi dark!joel, dubcon elements, degrading, choking, rough spanking, hair pulling, face slapping, throat fucking, touch of dacryphilia, rope/bondage, rough unprotected piv sex, hint of a subspace moment, orgasm denial, squirting, creampie, no aftercare because joel is an old, grumpy asshole A/N: Y'all probably wouldn't believe me if I told you Apple by Charlie XCX inspired this random fic...but anyway, this one goes out to my sweet bb angel @lotusbxtch <3 thank you for always being my partner in crime in the late hours of the evening ilysm

Part II

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

The Texas sun beat down on your skin as you rode through the acres of land—your land— stretching out before you. Passed down from generation to generation, this entire pasture of fields and wild barley was yours. After both of your parents died during a freak accident, you inherited the land and dealt with upkeep and farm animals as if it were your life. And it was your life. Every inch of this farmland was yours, no matter what anyone said. 

You pressed your heels into the side of your horse, Mac, and urged him further down through the tall grass. The summer hadn’t been kind to the fields, the grass yellowing in most places, but what would you do about it? Tell the sun to stop shining? All you could do was take care of the land and ensure nothing went wrong. The animals were taken care of, the wild wheat still grew strong in the outskirts past your tiny farm home, and you had enough money to put dinner on the table for yourself at the end of your night. 

No trouble at all. 

What was trouble, though, was Joel Miller riding his ass right down the edge of your land. The sun cast him in a dark silhouette as he rode closer, his broad body sitting tall on the back of his horse. You held back the reigns, shushing Mac gently as you slowed him to a trot, keeping a healthy distance from the insufferable man trespassing onto your fields. 

“Think y’got yourself a bit lost out here, Miller,” you hollered. 

Joel removed the black cowboy hat from his head; the grey hairs streaking through his curls shimmered in the sunlight as he swiped an arm over his sweaty forehead. Every inch of his skin was sunkissed and tan from hours under the sun, his greying beard patchy and well-kept despite his rugged exterior. If he weren’t such an asshole, maybe you’d even consider him attractive, but your irritation with him ran deeper than any other emotion. 

Staring up at you under thick brows, Joel quirked an amused grin and shrugged. 

“Ain’t lost at all, darlin’. S’my land out here.”

You steered Mac forward, keeping yourself parallel with Joel’s body. You weren’t intimidated by any man, let alone Joel Miller. He may have a few decades on you, but that didn’t matter. The Miller family had always been a problem. For generations, they feuded with your family over acres of land that stretched across the horizon, never agreeing on who owned what. Before Joel, his father had caused an uproar in your family, and now he just had to continue causing problems. Would you ever rid yourself of this man and his family?

“I suggest y’take your ass home ��fore I make you leave,” you warned. 

The wind kicked around you, fanning your hair down around your shoulders. Joel caught how your hair flared under your cowboy hat, and a hint of mischief sparkled inside his dark brown eyes. He was a fucking nuisance and still on your fucking land. 

“Careful now, darlin’. Those are some mighty big fightin’ words.”

You straightened your spine, holding firm on the reigns to keep yourself anchored. Mac huffed impatiently as if he knew how sour your mood was turning. The longer you kept yourself around Joel, the quicker your anger grew. The sun would set soon, and you still had miles to cover before you made it home; you wouldn’t entertain an old cowboy all night, even if he were staring at you like you were a wild horse to be tamed. 

“This is the last time I’m tellin’ you to stay off my land, Joel. I mean it.”

Joel chuckled lightly as if your words meant nothing. He placed his hat back over the matted curls on his head and began riding past you. You glared over your shoulder, watching his body travel further into the horizon and away from the rolling fields of your land. 

**

The summer wasn’t getting any easier. The sun grew brighter each day, and the air thickened with humidity, making it nearly impossible to continue wearing anything restrictive. With no one else around to pester you, you paraded around the stables in a tight top, a pair of daisy dukes, and your usual worn leather boots. The fewer clothes, the better—even if that meant getting bit up by a few mosquitoes here and there. 

You were deep into cleaning Mac’s stall when you heard the sound of hoofs pounding against the dirt ground outside the stables. Your body went rigid; you knew who it was without looking. Who else would it be out here? The horse in the distance bristled as its rider dropped to the ground, his heavy footfall nearing you as you exited the stall with a towel slung over your shoulder. 

Joel stood tall in the entrance, his broad frame sucking in all of the light as he walked closer. He wore an old denim button-up, and the sleeves pushed up his tan forearms, exposing the thickly corded muscles that ran down to his hands. Without a cowboy hat resting over his eyes, you could see how rich and dark they were as they stared you down. Despite hating him, your body reacted on its own accord. You clenched your thighs, trying to quell the ache growing inside your core. Leaning against the stall, you narrowed your eyes, watching Joel stalking closer. His steps were confident—casually, even—as if he owned the damn place. 

“Not sure why y’think it’s okay to come waltzin’ in here,” you scowled, folding your arms over your chest. 

“Ain’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Joel smirked. 

“Fuck off, old man,” you snapped, rolling your eyes. 

“What was that, darlin?” 

Joel stepped forward, and you mimicked his movements, drawing yourself closer to him. Even with his height towering over you, you were unphased. This man wouldn’t get the best of you. 

“Oh, sorry. Should I be speakin’ louder? Ain’t sure if y’got your hearing aids in.”

“No, I heard y’just fine. Just wanna hear you say it again.”

The toe of your boot tapped against his as you glared up at him. With a smug grin stretching across your face, you repeated your retort. 

“Fuck off. Old man.”

Joel’s body tensed, his eyes narrowed as he considered your words. You weren’t backing down; he was on your property and, quite frankly, pissing you off. He could bitch and moan all he wanted about how this land was his birthright, but he was wrong. Your parents settled the matter generations ago and never once faltered against the Millers. That wouldn’t change now. You’d uphold their wishes and continue fighting for what was yours. 

“Y’gotta damn nasty mouth on such a tiny body. Ain’t your parents teach you some manners?” Joel questioned. 

“They taught me enough, but it ain’t gonna stop me from tellin’ you off. So, get the hell off my property,” you demanded. 

You glanced down, noticing Joel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was amusing seeing him all riled up. Who knew he had that kind of spark in him? You wondered just how far you could push him until he snapped. 

“Ain’t you just spoiled rotten. Is that what it is? Y’think everythin’ is yours ‘cause your mommy and daddy said so?”

His voice was taunting, a litany of rhetorical questions to which he didn’t care to know the answer. Whatever you said, it wouldn’t matter because his mind was made up. Stubborn old man.

“I don’t think everythin’ is mine. I know it is,” you objected. “So, move your old ass back to your side of the pasture and get out of my face.”

Joel crowded your body, walking you back towards the stall door until your body pressed into the wood. You lifted your chin defiantly, watching his eyes clouded with rage. 

“Spoiled lil’ brat. Should teach you a lesson for the way you’re speakin’ to me,” Joel growled. 

Let’s see how far we can take this, you thought. 

“Whatcha gonna do? Spank me?” You laughed, gracing him with a rueful smile. 

Placing his hands above you on the door, Joel caged you between his body. You had nowhere to run; truthfully, you didn’t want to run. The incessant ache between your legs was swelling, your underwear practically soaked with the burning anticipation coursing through your veins. 

“Keep runnin’ your mouth, darlin’. S’only gonna make things worse for you.”

“I ain’t scared of you, Joel.”

“You damn well should be,” he warned. 

Joel’s hand shot out to grab the base of your neck, yanking you a breath away from his lips. The rich scent of whiskey wafted off his lips as he held you close, his fingers tightening around your throat. You rolled your tongue across your bottom lip, an invitation for whatever threat he had. You could take it. 

“Y’think it’s cute actin’ this way? Think you’re just tough shit, and no one will put you in your place, hmm?” Joel whispered. 

“You gonna be the one to do it, Joel?” You challenged. 

Joel used his grip on your throat to spin you toward the door, your cheek smashing into the wood as he pinned you against it. The instant sting of his palm radiated through the denim of your shorts, the heat of his hand melting into your skin. You yelped in pain, dragging your nails over the wood that strained against the press of your body. His hand smoothed over the curve of your ass before delivering another jarring smack. 

“Fuck!” You cried, biting back tears. 

“Spoiled.” Smack. “Fuckin’.” Smack. “Brat.” Smack. Smack. 

“Joel, please!” You begged. 

You weren’t sure if you were begging for more or begging for him to stop. Either way, he was unrelenting, his handprint leaving welts on your skin. Joel’s grip on your throat tightened, restricting your breathing as he dug his fingers into the supple skin of your ass. Prodding…smoothing…spanking. A continuous, viscous cycle you were weak against. Every bite of his hand on your body intensified the throbbing between your legs, your clit swelling with need. Repeating slaps against your other cheek forced tears down your face, their path leading down your neck and onto Joel’s warm hand. 

“You cryin’, darlin’?” Joel taunted. “Gonna beg me to stop?”

“Please—” You choked out, your words garbled and strained. 

Joel’s lips touched your ear, his breath fanning over your skin in waves. 

“M’fraid I can’t. Not til’ y’learn your lesson.”

You twisted your head around, your tired eyes connecting with his. There wasn’t a hint of brown in his irises as his pupils swallowed them whole, an unsatisfied look washing over his features. He wasn’t done, and neither were you. 

“Fuck you,” you snarled. 

Joel tilted his head, his graying mustache twitching as his lips curved into a smile. An unmistakable hint of desire masked his expression, keeping you reeled in and wanting more. If he could keep going, then so could you. 

“You just ain’t backin’ down, huh?” Joel questioned. 

You wagged your head back and forth, his fingers squeezing against your windpipes. Joel’s hand coasted up your waist, tugging at the belt loop on your shorts until your body spun to face his. Even with tears streaming down your cheeks, you grinned at him, clearly unbothered by the onslaught of pain he had inflicted. 

“That all y’got, old man?” You lipped off. 

“Call me old man one more time, darlin’,” Joel warned his face inches from yours. 

“Old. Man.” You punctuated each word through gritted teeth.

Joel cupped your sex through your jeans, no doubt feeling the arousal seeping through the denim fabric. A rouge whimper fell off your lips, and you bit back any more sounds to give away the desperation rolling through your veins.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he exhaled, but there was a lightness in his voice.

You were both giving into some carnal need, electrifying the humid air around you. You chased his mouth, wanting to lap up every threat on his whiskey-drenched tongue. Joel pulled back, your lips connecting with nothing as you arched forward. With a slight pout, you huffed in annoyance. 

“Look who’s actin’ all desperate now. Just beggin’ for this old man to fuck you.”

“Betcha can’t even get it up in the first place,” you grumbled. 

Joel’s hand connected with your cheek, a rough slap sending your face to the side. Dammit, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d done. The sting of his palm sent a wave of pleasure rolling through your stomach, a burning need just aching to come undone. Thick fingers gripped your jaw, wagging your face side to side. 

“I’ve heard enough of that bratty mouth,” Joel said decisively. 

His hands brushed over your collarbone, grasping your shoulders and shoving you to your knees. Your legs hit the straw-covered ground with a soft thud, your skin scraping against the dry hay. He wasted no time undoing his large belt buckle, working his cock out of the confines of his jeans, and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. Joel was hung like a fucking horse, his length thick and no short of any girth. Precum dribbled down off the tip, the sticky mess enticing you to move closer. Staring up at him through your lashes, you waited for his next move. He might have you on your knees, but you’d have his cock, and that was power in itself. 

“Make use of that mouth and suck,” he commanded. 

You lapped at the precum, his cock twitching against every flick of your tongue. You explored his length, dragging your tongue along the veins running down the underside of his cock. Joel gripped the hair at the crown of your head, guiding your mouth over the tip and down his length. Your nose brushed against the bushy hair at the base, his musky scent flooding your senses—it was intoxicating. 

“There we go,” Joel hummed, his voice gravely and strained. “So fuckin’ full of me y’can’t talk back.”

His name came out muffled as you tried to speak, your tongue flatted against the base of his cock. He pushed his cock a centimeter further, the tip knocking against the back of your throat. You gagged around him, your hands slapping against his thick thighs. 

“I don’t wanna hear y’say a damn word,” Joel growled. “You’re gonna take my fuckin’ cock down your throat and choke on it.”

You clawed at his thighs as tears sprung along your waterline, threatening to spill over the longer he kept himself inside your mouth. His fingers tightened around tiny strands of your hair, anchoring you to his cock as he thrusted himself deeper. You tried to protest and pull away, but his grip on you was unforgiving. 

“Please,” you garbled, spit rolling down your chin. 

“Still actin’ like a spoiled fuckin’ brat, ain’t you? Think y’can get whatever you want?”

He granted you an inch to breathe, pulling you halfway off his cock. You inhaled sharply through your nose, trying to latch onto any control. Joel used his grip on your hair to slide your mouth up and down his length, the sound of your lips around his the only noise aside from his labored breathing. You tapped on his thigh twice, hoping he’d relent and give you a reprieve. 

“Real fuckin’ cute,” he laughed. “Struggle all y’want, darlin’. I ain’t stoppin’.”

The tears flowed freely now, mixing with the saliva pooling down your jaw as you worked him deeper down your throat. Every strained attempt to beg him to stop fell on deaf ears; his cock only pushed further down until you had no choice but to sit there completely disarmed and helpless. The scratches left on his thighs didn’t phase him at all, nor did your whimpers as you tried to swallow a breath around him. 

“Keep cryin’, darlin’. Just makes you look prettier when I’m ruinin’ you,” Joel muttered. 

As your nose pressed against the hair at his navel, Joel’s hand brushed over your cheek, collecting a rogue tear on his thumb. Through blurred eyes and running mascara, you blinked up at him right as he tasted the tear pooling on the pad of his fingertip. 

“Delicious,” he hummed.

A dangerous grin split across his face, his hips jerking forward one last time before he wrenched you free from his cock. You coughed violently, the air wooshing back into your lungs with each heaving breath. You swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, wiping off the saliva coating your chin and jaw. 

“You fuckin’ asshole,” you choked out. 

Crouching down, Joel met you at eye level, his eyes soulless and dark. You shivered under his heavy gaze and flinched away from his face as he crowded you. 

“How’s that attitude of yours now?” He questioned. 

You reeled back, sending a glob of spit across the bridge of his nose. Joel scrunched his eyes together, jaw clenched as he wiped away your spit. You bared your teeth at him, still refusing to back down. Joel straightened to his full height, working at shoving his cock back in his jeans. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit disappointed; you hated him but wanted more. 

“Guess I ain’t been rough enough,” Joel grumbled, walking down the stable. 

You watched as he picked a bundle of lead rope off the hook near Mac’s stall, weighing it between his hands. A jolt of panic ran through your veins as you saw his eyes light up in mischief. You were so fucked. You half-considered running, but where was the fun in that? Joel would only chase you down, and even that sounded delicious. There was no use in fighting it now; you were in it for the long haul. 

“Now,” he started, his steps slow as he walked back toward your kneeling body. “I’m gonna give you two options. Y’either walk your ass outside like a good girl, or I drag you out by your hair. What’s it gonna be, darlin’?”

“I’ll walk,” you snapped, rising to your feet. 

Your knees ached with each step as you walked into the blinding daylight outside the stables. Gnats swarmed around your face as you stood idle by the entrance, glancing over your shoulder at Joel stalking behind you. The rope swung beside his body as he carried it in his hand, the lingering threat lying within the coarse fibers that wound together. His head jerked over to the tie rack beside the barn, his eyes trained on the vacant stall before the expanse of your land. 

“C’mon, brat.”

He waltzed in front of you, guiding you to the empty platform with a stern look gracing his features. Without a single word, Joel yanked your wrists together, his deft fingers working at knotting the rope around your skin. The fraying pieces bit into your skin, rubbing and burning the longer he twisted it in loops around your hands. He gave the rope a good tug, humming in satisfaction once the binding was tight enough. Guiding your arms upwards, he clipped the lead to the metal loop on one side of the tie rack, keeping your body suspended awkwardly as your wrists ached from the restraint. You refused to say a word, too frustrated even to protest his actions. If you thought you were helpless before, you were utterly powerless now. It was just you, Joel, and the empty stretch of land that went on for miles. 

Joel pressed his body against your back, the warmth of his touch ignited heat within your core all over again. You squirmed as his hands roamed over your curves, his fingers tracing the outline of your breasts under your sweat-covered shirt. He pinched at your nipples, finding their pebbled indentation hidden within your bra. A desperate whine left your lips as you swayed against the pull of the rope, your feet slipping against the ground. 

“See all that land out there,” Joel whispered, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. “That’s all mine, darlin’, and I’m gonna make sure you remember that by the time I’m through with you.”

“Tyin’ me up and fuckin’ me ain’t gonna change my mind,” you scoffed. 

“Guess I’m just gonna have to fuck some sense into you.”

Joel’s hands worked down your body, making quick work of undoing your shorts and shoving them down to your boots. The hot, sticky summer air breezed over your bare skin, hardly helping to soothe the painful ache between your thighs. Thick, calloused fingers massaged the skin of your hips, kneading your supple curves as you writhed against his touch. You could beg him for more, and oh god, did you want to. You wanted to cave and relinquish everything just to quell the burning pleasure inside your body, but you wouldn’t beg. Not for Joel Miller or any other man. 

Joel swiped a finger through your drenched folds, tutting at your pliancy. The brief touch alone was enough to spark stars behind your eyes, your breath growing shallow.

“Well, would ya’ look at that,” Joel tutted. “You’re soakin’ my fingers, darlin’.”

You refused to say a word, too afraid you’d succumb to your own devices. You wouldn’t ask him to fuck you, but Jesus Christ, you fucking needed it. Every fiber of your being cried for release, and if it meant you had to be tied up and fucked in front of the yellow fields in front of you, then that’s what you’d do. 

“I’ll give you one last chance,” Joel offered. “Say this land is mine and I’ll let you go.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, no doubt a mess after being on your knees before him. There was a cruelty in his eyes that alarmed you, but you were too focused on what you needed, even to feel afraid. 

“This is my land,” you stated, your chin held high. “S’my family’s land and it’s gonna stay that way ‘til I’m in my grave.”

“Wrong fuckin’ answer.”

Joel knocked your legs apart, the denim of his jeans dragging against your slick arousal. There was a moment where there was absolutely nothing, a vacancy of sound or touch that deprived your senses. Maybe you were teetering on the edge of delirium, too far gone to know what he was doing behind you, but then you felt everything. The thick head of his cock brushed against your entrance, rubbing between your silken folds in tantalizing strokes. That was the only warning he gave before pushing himself deeper, splitting you open inch by inch. You cried out as your body worked to stretch around his length, and your vision blackened as the sharp pain of the sensation jolted through your veins. 

“Fuck!” You screamed. 

The adjustment to his size was agonizing despite how wet you were. Nothing could have prepared you for the way Joel broke you open, nor was there anything that could have prepared you for how brutal he would become. Thrust after thrust, he assaulted you, completely breaking you and molding you to his cock. The pull of the rope burnt the skin of your wrists as he took you harder, your body lurching against the restraints with each snap of his hips. Joel tugged your body backward, shifting your legs until you were forced to bend at the waist. Words wouldn’t form on your lips, and you dissolved into a heap of wailing cries as he plunged deeper into you. 

“Where’s all that loudmouthin’ now?” Joel grunted, his fingers bruising your hips. “So fuckin’ cock drunk y’can’t even speak?”

Your silence only drove him crazier, his speed quickening mercilessly. The ache inside your core was all-consuming, a burning wildfire inside your stomach. You dropped your head between your shoulders and dug your nails into your palms, keeping yourself grounded. 

“Joel,” you gasped. “Please.”

You failed in your attempts not to beg this man, throwing everything to the wayside as you succumbed to the pulsing ache between your legs. 

“Shut up, brat,” he snapped. 

“Joel!” You sobbed. “I’m gonna—fuck—please. I need to—to…”

The words turned to ash on your tongue as he snaked a hand around your body, his fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit. You yelped at the roughness of his fingers, the sensation alone nearly causing your legs to buckle beneath you. If it weren’t for the ropes holding you firmly in place, you would have fallen to the ground. 

“Poor thing,” he crooned in your ear. “Y’wanna cum? Is that what you want?”

Another drive of his hips. Another draw of his fingers. Tormenting movements that kept you on the edge of ecstasy and suffering. Your arousal pooled down your inner thighs, mixing with the sticky sweat that clung to every inch of your skin. 

“I need it, Joel,” you gasped. “Christ, please!”

“Y’gonna change your mind?”

“N—.”

Joel pinched your clit between his fingers, and your words drowned out under a helpless wail falling from your lips. He pulled you back by your hair, winding it around his fist as he drew his lips down your neck. The sweltering touch of his mouth on your skin and his rough fingers on your sensitive bud were enough to topple you closer to the edge. The furnace igniting inside your stomach wouldn’t stop any time soon, but you still wouldn’t give up. He was always going to be wrong, and you’d rather die than give him the satisfaction. 

“Say it, darlin’. Say the words, and y’can cum all over my cock.”

“Never,” you panted. “Never gonna—.”

He pistoned into you, his cock spearing deeper and deeper, completely paralyzing you. Sobs wracked through your body as you took every thrust, and your mind began to float off into a blissed-out haze that drowned out the noise behind you. 

“Gonna own all this fuckin’ land,” Joel gritted out. “Own it just like I own this fuckin’ pussy.”

Please. Please. You weren’t sure if you repeated the words inside your mind or aloud; either way, Joel only huffed a laugh and continued with his repetitive assaults on your body. Your orgasm began barreling toward you, your core fluttering around him as it sparked beneath your skin. Everything inside you tensed up, and your jaw went slack with an outward cry as you slipped under the rapid release coursing inside your body. 

“Oh fuck!” You sobbed. “Fuck… fuck… fuck!”

Your sex clenched around Joel so hard he choked on a breath, his body rigid against yours as you spasmed beneath his hold. Hot, wet streams of your orgasm drenched his cock as he tore through your orgasm with shallow thrusts. Jole rammed into you over and over again until another wave of pleasure slammed into your body. 

“Fuckin’ brat,” he hissed. “Never said y’could cum, did I?”

His hand vanished from your waist and returned to the welted skin of your ass with a resounding smack. There wasn’t enough air in your lungs to cry out, nor any more tears to shed. You hung against the ropes, limp and pliant, as he took you with abandon. 

With another snap of his hips against yours, Joel spilled into you, his release filling you to the brim as he released a carnal groan. You could barely lift your head to look back at him as he untangled his fingers from your hair and pulled away. 

Every atom inside your body was pulsing with overstimulation, your ass welted and bruised, and your throat raw from screaming. The constant thrum of your heartbeat in your ears smothered the sound of Joel’s belt buckle clanging together, the warmth of his body far removed from yours as you stood on tired legs. Moments passed without a single touch, and you wondered if Joel would leave you there tied to the rack and dripping with cum. 

“Think y’learned your lesson now?” He asked, his voice sounding far away. 

All you could do was wag your head in protest, your eyes pinned down to the floor, fixated on the pool of saliva that had fallen from your lips. Joel appeared beside you, his grey hair disheveled and face red from exertion. He worked at unclasping the rope from the hook, unbinding your wrists until your arms fell limp to your sides. Your body was weightless without the stability of the rope, and you fell forward, anticipating the impact against the cement. Joel was quicker, though, winding a strong arm around your front and holding you up. 

“Easy now, darlin’,” he whispered softly. “Easy.”

Your fingers wrapped around his arm, clinging to anything to escape the impending collapse of your entire body. Your boots scruffed against the cement of the stall, kicking dust into the air around you. With his arm still braced around your chest, he used the other to guide your shorts back up your legs and onto your hips. You hissed as the denim rubbed against your ass, the swell of your skin still prickling with pain no matter how brief the touch was. 

“Can y’stand on your own?” He asked. 

“Mhmm,” you mumbled.

“Attagirl.”

Yet as he released your body, you staggered forward, grasping onto the tie rack for support. Joel waited until you found your balance and offered a hand. You were hesitant but relented silently. He took your wrists in one large hand and began massaging at the reddened skin, working out any tension left from the rope. You stared blankly at him, watching a crease burrow between his eyebrows. You still hated him, right? Right? Something so minimal shouldn’t make your heart pound against your chest, but there you were, speechless as you watched this rough man touch your skin with a tenderness he had yet shown. 

“Suns goin’ down soon,” he muttered, nodding to the sky. 

You peered over your shoulder, surprised to see the sun dipping over the horizon. You hadn’t noticed the pinky hue of the sunset while he fucked you, but now you stared at it in wonderment. 

“Guess it is,” you sighed. “Y’should get your ass off my property ‘fore it gets too late.”

Joel snorted, glancing up at you through thick lashes. In the dwindling sunlight, his eyes had dissolved from onyx back into a glistening amber color, the flecks of rich brown dancing as he looked at you. 

“Stubborn lil’ thing,” he huffed. 

He dropped your hands and straightened to his full height. Perspiration coated his button-up, staining it in dark spots as excess beats of sweat still rolled down his muscular neck. You tamed the flyaways of your hair, trying to minimize the obscenity of your look the longer he stood before you. It was no use after what he had done. 

“Y’ain’t changin’ your mind, huh?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. 

Joel rolled his eyes and shoved a hand into his front pocket. Leaning close, he brought his other hand to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers brush over your cheek before pulling away. 

“Guess I’ll just come back tomorrow and try again.”

“Y’come back here tomorrow, and I’ll shoot you dead, Miller.”

He cracked a grin and began to retreat toward his horse beside the stable. You stood motionless as he mounted the brown mare, slipping the reigns between his hands. Joel gave you a farewell wave before taking off across the flowing fields, his broad figure dissolving into the sunset. You slumped against the wall of the stables, letting your body fall to the ground. A smile slid across your face, taking in the open land before you. 

You didn’t give up. It was all still yours.

[miajooz]

Branded Hearts ❦ Country!Ellie HCS*

Country!Ellie who is kind of a workaholic when it comes to taking care of the farm. she will be out there for hours—picking weeds, ensuring all the crops have water, feeding the livestock, brushing the horses, all of that. but when she eventually comes inside from working all day, she looks for your arms.

Country!Ellie who takes some of your chores to keep herself busy. you’re aware of the fact she does that when she gets stressed, it’s her way of trying to work to forget. you always help her or stand behind her with a cold glass of water.

“Babe, ‘innit too hot here for you out here? Go cool off sweetheart.” Ellie would try and coax you, cupping your cheek with her dirt covered hand to make sure you weren’t overheating from the blazing sun.

All you would do was smile and hand her the glass of water, a pulled weed in your other hand. “I’m fine, babe. Let’s just hurry up with it so we can go inside, okay?

Country!Ellie who would force you to wear gloves when you were pulling weeds with her or doing literally any work that wasn’t inside or with the livestock. Meanwhile, her hands were calloused and scarred because she didn’t like gloves.

“Hey, hun. Put these on for me, yeah?” Ellie would say, a pair of her ginormous gloves in her hands. She held them out to you like a piece of gold.

You’d turn around with a confused look, one brow more furrowed than the other, “I don’t need gloves, I’m just pulling crops.”

Of course Ellie was unsatisfied, she’d tut and grab your hands softly—her calloused, rough hands felt so perfect against the skin of your soft ones. “No, you’ gonna tear up those pretty hands of yours.” she’d say, carefully slipping your fingers into the gloves. “I like your soft hands, so..please jus’ cooperate”

Country!Ellie who tries to help you with tasks even if you’re capable of doing them yourself. she’ll be behind you, arms wrapped around you. Her hands would be on yours, helping you correctly pull a crop from the soil, her calloused hands around your gloved ones. Not to mention how much she’d praise you for it.

“Jus’ like that, that’s my girl.”

“No, baby. Lemme help you, yeah?”

“Are ya sure you can do it on your own?

Country!Ellie who practically always has her hands on you. If you’re making something in the kitchen, her hands are on your waist, on your hips, your stomach. She’s such a touchy person, always needing a hand on hers or at least a hand on her back. Small pecks on your neck are her favorite, it doesn’t matter where you are—she’s attached to you like a leech.

Country!Ellie who takes you to all the country bars in town to dance with you. She loves you dance, she just loves to show you off. If there’s one thing Ellie isn’t—it’s ashamed of you. How could she be ashamed of the light of her life?

“I reckon you want me to take the lead?” she’d ask, her hand tightly clasped in yours when the next song started—as if she already hadn’t taken the lead. You were dizzy from how many times she’d spun you, but the love you felt in your heart was much more distracting.

Everytime she’d spin you, you could feel her thick belt pressed against the front of your body when she’d hold you against her. Her arms would be holding you closely, like you were the most delicate thing on earth, the most delicate thing in that bar or maybe just in her life.

You’d just smile at her, “I don’t think you’d let me take control, sweetheart.” you’d say, already halfway through another spin.

“No, probably not. m’too busy spinning you, lemme see it, babe.”

Country!Ellie who doesn’t only take you to bars to dance, the kitchen is just as good. She would rest her hands firmly on your hips as you swayed against her front. The choppy radio would be playing in the background, the music setting the mood perfectly. She’d whisper affectionate words into your ear as she held you close, only letting go to spin you or dip you.

Country!Ellie who adores seeing you in her flannels. Seeing your body in something that belongs to her is a very enamoring sight—she loves it. When you go star gazing, you almost never bring a cover up. Ellie knows you’ll get cold—so she brings one of her flannels every single time. Maybe it’s just an excuse to see you in it.

“‘You cold, baby?” she’d ask, her calloused hands affectionately rubbing your shoulders to warm you up—as if she didn’t have a flannel packed for you.

You’d just frown a bit, feeling bad that you didn’t bring a cover up again. Unbeknown to her—you did it on purpose this time. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I forgot to bring a cover up again.”

Ellie would crawl out of the bed of the trunk and get her flannel from the backseat. She’d bring it back and drape it over your shoulders, hugging you from the side. “That’s alright, sweetheart. Y’know I’ve got somethin’ for you packed.”

Country!Ellie who draws you every single day. Not to mention how each drawing is different. Sometimes you’d be in the garden picking flowers for the kitchen peacefully, while Ellie sat on the porch chair and just drew you. She drew the flowers in your arms—even adding one to your hair. She drew the way your hair perfectly blew in the wind and the big smile you had on your face when you noticed what she was doing. You’re a work of art to her—you’re her work of art.

Country!Ellie who has a tattoo of your name on her neck. She’s been told it’s corny and unnecessary—but she couldn’t disagree more. Even when she does doubt it, the way you kiss the tattoo everytime you give some love her neck validates her.

Country!Ellie who absolutely loves having you on her lap. Even on your porch where there’s two chairs, she’ll have you in her lap. She’ll have you in her lap on her recliner too, any chance she can get. Sometimes you’ll bring her a beverage like water or beer or coffee and just sit with her—well—on her.

“M’so tired, baby—s’hot as hell outside.” she’d complain, a cold bottle of beer in one hand and the other one on your waist. “Such a sweetheart, thanks for bein’ here.”

You’d smile and kiss her forehead, brushing some of her messy hair out of her face. The smell of beer which usually sickened you in bars didn’t when the smell came from Ellie, nothing about her could even sicken you. The thought of something about her repulsing you is what made you nauseous. “Of course, hun. Finish that and let’s head to bed.”

Country!Ellie who liked to cook. Sometimes if you were doing things outside—she’d be inside making you something special, something she knew you liked. While you also liked cooking, baking was more of your thing. If she was working outside, you’d go out there and bring her things. Her favorite was that banana pudding you made or the peach cobbler.

Ellie had been outside gathering crops for a beef stew for dinner that night, her hands, clothes, practically everything was dirty. Her wife pleaser was covered in sweat around the neckline and under her armpits—but she looked so sexy like that.

You made her favorite banana pudding that day, acutely aware of how hard she’d been working. You brought a small square of it out to her, your attire was much cleaner than hers. With a gentle smile, you held the plate out to her, tapping her shoulder. “I made your favorite.”

Ellie would hum and turn her head, her eyes immediately distracted by the dessert in front of her and your contagious smile. Her lips immediately curled into one, a small laugh leaving her. She’d stand up and take the plate from you—her hand still covered in dirt. “Is that right? Thank you, angel.” she’d coo, her smile even wider than yours.

You’d laugh and look down at her dirty hands, shaking your head, “maybe you should wash your hands first, babe.” you’d suggest, knowing she probably wouldn’t listen anyways.

Ellie would raise an eyebrow, clicking her tongue and staring at her non-occupied hand. With that, she’d put it around your waits and hoist you up, slinging you over her shoulder as if you were a feather. Of course, she got dirt all over your white skirt. “Oh, I know, baby. I’m so dirty.”

You’d squeal and laugh, kicking your legs a bit. The dirt on the white cloth made you sigh—but being angry with her was so difficult. “Ellie, seriously?! You’re washing this!” you’d yell, but giggles overwrote that tone quickly.

She’d tut and laugh, carrying you over to the porch steps and plopping you down, putting the plate aside so she could situate you on her lap. You grabbed the discarded plate and handed it back to her—to which she gratefully accepted. “I’ll wash it for you, baby. Ain’t no better thing to do than take a request from my beautiful girl.”

Country!Ellie who proposed to you on your birthday in the most romantic way possible. LET ME JUST DESCRIBE THIS. (this is kind of long for a headcannon, i’m so sorry.)

Ellie had been working on extending the porch for a few months, though she wouldn’t exactly tell you why. She’d often say “I jus’ want a bigger porch,” or “God forbid a woman wants to build.” so—you dismissed it in your mind as some project she had picked up. That was very much like her, after all; she enjoyed projects to keep herself busy.

The porch was done a few days before your birthday, and all you could see was excitement radiating off Ellie. She would sit by the window and stare out at the porch, smiling to herself and avoiding your questions. You tried to brush it off again—maybe she was just incredibly proud of her hard work!

On your birthday, you and Ellie spent the whole day together, she made you food, she gave you a ridiculous amount of love and affection, everything. When she told you she had a surprise planned, you were excited. She led you towards the front porch, one hand on your waist and the other covering your eyes.

When you walked out of that house and took in the scene—you thought it was an entirely different place. There were beautiful, bright fairy lights that strung from the wood pillars that stabilized the porch, also being held up by some of the surrounding trees. The radio was on, playing a mix of your favorite songs, the songs you danced to together in your kitchen. It was gorgeous, the illumination of lights lit up the whole porch in a way that made your eyes reflect an even prettier image, an image that made Ellie watch that view from those eyes she adored so much.

Yet that wasn’t all; folded neatly on the small wooden chair was a dress. It was absolutely stunning, the fabric being your favorite color and the texture a beautiful silk. It looked like something you’d find in your dreams, something you’d find in a royalty T.V show. But no, it was all for you.

You picked up the dress carefully, a smile brightening your face. You couldn’t believe she had done something so thoughtful for you. No doubt about it; that was the love of your life.

Ellie just watched you with a smirk, her hand drumming against your waist softly. “Y’like it, baby?” she asked, her face close to your ear. The way your face lit up made her now empty wallet worth it. The flies flying out of the leather from her brokenness no longer mattered. She didn’t need to be rich, having you made her rich.

You smiled and nodded feverishly, immediately turning your head to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek, “I love it, thank you so much. You wanna spin me in this one?”

“You know me so well, sweetheart.”

The two of you had been dancing on the porch for a while, the only light being the moon and the gorgeous ambiance the fairy lights provided. You were a bit dizzy from being spun so much, but you couldn’t complain.

“Hold on, hun, I’m gonna get a sip of water.” you informed your girlfriend softly, wiggling out of her grip and spinning to the table. Your back was turned to her, giving her an opportunity you were oblivious to. There was audible shuffling in the background, but the urge to quench your thirst was much more important.

“You’re so gorgeous, darlin.’ I love you.” she said tenderly, nothing unusual from Ellie. She was always affectionate, so affectionate your heart would grow in size whenever she spoke.

You giggled, setting your glass of water down and turning to her, “I love you t—“ that’s when you saw it—the sight before you cut off your words like a circuit in your brain being broken.

There was the love of your life, on one knee and holding a ring box before you. The freckles that adorned her face were accompanied by a softer look on her face, something more vulnerable. “Oh my god..”

“Sweetheart, you’re the light of my life. I don’t know where I’d be without you. You’ve morphed my life into somethin’ I never even imagined it would be, in such a perfect, lovin’ way.” she started, pausing a moment to swallow the lump in her throat.

“I wanna grow old with you in this house, I wanna be able to dance with you every damn night on this porch. I knew from the moment you smiled at me that you were the love of my life, that I’m meant to be with you. So..”

It was coming, you knew it. Your breath was caught in your throat, tears already prickling your irises.

“Will you marry me?”

There it was, the sentence you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Somebody to tell you how much you meant to them in a way that meant something, in a way you could feel intertwined in your soul. And there it was, you had never felt so loved in your entire life—not once.

“Oh, Ellie. A thousand times yes!” you practically threw yourself into her arms, the tears falling as soon as you felt the familiar warmth of her body. She was in the same boat, she tried to look up to stop the tears but they wouldn’t stop.

Such intense love for somebody was an overwhelming feeling—but it was one she’d gotten used to.

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

‧₊˚ ⋅ NSFW HC’s ꫂ ၴႅၴ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Country!Ellie who likes having you on her lap for other reasons as well. A lot of the time, you get off on riding the leather of her belt. You don’t put all your weight on the metal part for comfort reasons, just enough to give you that friction on the thick leather part. Ellie would hold your hips and guide them perfectly, watching the way you move against her.

“C’mon, baby. Put some weight into it, yeah?”

“Easy, easy. ‘Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Country!Ellie who has caught you getting off on her belt a few times in private. She’d walk in and you’d be rubbing it on your clit or grinding on it. Though—she’s just as guilty, you’ve seen her get off on your panties. She’d have them stuffed down her pants, biting her lip to silence herself as she rubbed them against her wet heat. It was an arousing sight, mainly because she’d pretend it was your cunt against hers

Country!Ellie who loves reverse cowgirl or just regular cowgirl. She loves seeing your face when you orgasm, or she loves watching your tits. Something about eye contact in that position holds so much more tension. As for reverse cowgirl—Ellie is an ass woman. Size doesn’t matter, she just wants it on her. Seeing your ass plopped down on her is almost just as good.

Country!Ellie who can’t control herself when you’re riding her strap. She will often try and guide your hips, being much rougher than necessary. She doesn’t intend to harm you, but watching the way your body moves when you’re slammed back onto her makes her moan. She’d feel up your ass the whole entire time, unable to control herself.

“Y’won’t feel anything if I’m that careful, baby. Feels good, don’t it?”

“Atta girl, look at you ridin’ me.”

“Shit..’never seen a more perfect woman. That’s my girl.”

Country!Ellie who, once again, is an ass woman. She often begs you to sit on her face, just so she can feel up your ass while getting you off. She doesn’t let you hover, she will grab your hips or thighs and yank you down. That woman wants your whole weight on her, her hands always hold onto the plush of your ass so tightly it’s bruising.

“I said sit, darlin’, y’ain’t gonna suffocate me.”

“Sweet fucking pussy..s’so sweet.”

“You can grind if you want, jus’ want you to feel good. Use my face, baby.”

Country!Ellie who is an absolute fiend for body shots. There’s been times when she’s literally poured alcohol on your body (usually around your tits) just so she can lick it off. She puts shot glasses between your tits and uses only her mouth to pick up the shot glass and gulp it down. She also enjoys taking a shot from the small of your back too. She won’t deny a bellybutton one, though she only does it so she can see your face.

Country!Ellie who loves tying you up. seeing your wrists bound for her is something she could never get sick of. She will usually try and use something soft and loose—but her belt works wonders too. Especially if she’s fucking you from behind, seeing your arms behind your back, bound by her belt—it makes her finish every time.

Country!Ellie who is embarrassed by her moans or orgasm face, so she will try and hide both. Often times she tries to just groan and bite her lip, but if you’re eating her out—being quiet is impossible. Even if she’s just fucking you with a strap, she can’t help but groan as she watches you take her

“Shit..look at you. Suckin’ me in so well, you can take it, babe.”

“Ugh..I jus’ can’t stop fuckin’ you..y’got such a pretty pussy.”

Country!Ellie who has let you get off on her boot. Your thighs were halfway off the ground, looking up at her with a pleading expression as you humped her boot. The way you looked at her made her lose her shit, resulting in her shoving her hands down her jeans.

Country!Ellie who’s actually a huge fan of tribbing. She usually would desperately rut her hips down, trying her best to get all the friction she could. The bed would be shaking from the sheer force, and you’d have to remind her to slow down so it could last longer. Her head would be tipped back, bottom lip caught in between her teeth. When she was close, she’d pant and try and go faster again, her whole face contorting.

“More..give it t’me..”

“Jus’ like that, shit. You’re so wet..gonna cum on you nd’ make it wetter.”

“M’so close. C’mon, babe, ‘need it faster.”

“You feel so good, y’hear how wet you are? Jus’ listen.”

“Good girl, I wanna feel it drool on me.”

Country!Ellie who enjoys slapping your ass for any and all reasons. You bent over to pick something up? She slaps your ass. You’re hugging her tightly and expecting to have a tender moment with your fiancé? Her hand is already speeding towards the flesh of your ass. Even if she’s not slapping it, she’d gently pat the plush of your rear and smile at you. But that wasn’t nearly as fun as slapping it.

“Mm, ‘afternoon, babe.” she’d say, walking through the front door with a leftover whistle caught in her throat. She’d make a b-line towards you immediately, her arms resting on the small of your back or waist. Her hands were covered in dirt, but it was something so usual it couldn’t possibly faze you.

“Hey, Els. I got some stuff at the market for you. Think I’m gonna plant some more tomatoes tomorrow.” you’d say, nodding towards the paper bags on the table.

Ellie would smile at you and hum, the groceries significantly more boring than the love of her life. She’d raise her hand and give your ass a playful swat, whistling and offering you a lopsided grin in response to your gasp.

“Yeah? Good girl, look how smart you are. We can plant em’ tomorrow.”

Country!Ellie who actually mocks your moans when she’s fucking you sometimes. She did love them, but seeing your face when she mocked you was very entertaining. Ellie would apologize afterwards, but she’d do it almost every time. Sometimes she’d speak to you in an overly breathy voice—just like you did.

“Ah, ah, ah—s’it that good, baby?”

“Oh, sweetheart. Fuckk..”

You would just look at her with a mortified expression as she forced more moans out of you. It was incredibly unfair.

Country!Ellie who is quick to tease you for moaning—but when you eat eye her out, she’s a complete disaster. Her hands would be tangled in your hair you were scared she’d tear your strands out. No intense lip bite can silence her when she’s getting head, she just tilts her head back and lets it all spill out. Praises, moans, pleads, all of it.

“F-fuck..jus’ like that.”

“Yeah..right there. That’s a real good spot, babe.”

“Please—don’t stop. M’so close!”

Country!Ellie who has an oral fixation, you could say. She loves being between your legs, lapping at your cunt tenderly. something about being able to hold your legs over her shoulders while she pleases you is addicting to her. A lot of the time, Ellie will spit on your pussy and watch her saliva travel down to your already wet hole.

Country!Ellie who has actually licked whipped cream off your nipples before. You made that banana pudding all the time, her favorite, of course. She always wanted to reward you for being so generous, so she’d take some off the top of her piece and dab it all over your nipples. Then she’d simply lick it off, watching you the entire time. You definitely made that dessert more often for other reasons despite the fact it was her favorite.

tagsss!! <3 @valeisaslut @eriiwaiii2 @usuck @haithone

[entitled-fangirl]

Never Happier.

Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader

Summary: Gwayne returns to the reader and their infant son after the battle of Rook's Rest.

Warnings: breastfeeding, crying, feelings of guilt

Masterlist

...........................................

"My sweet wife is likely awaiting my return. So while I enjoy our conversation, Lord Hand, I must return to her."

Criston Cole tilted his head with a slight annoyance at the reminder of the sweet life that awaited the redhead. "Very well. I thank you again for your service to the Crown."

Gwayne nodded, "Of course." He then handed the reigns of his horse off and began to head inside in Keep.

It was unusual for a wife to not be outdoors to await the sight of their husband, and it worried him.

But as he stepped into the Keep, he was met with the sight of his wife running to him. "Gwayne!"

He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her, one of his gloved hands wrapping around the back of her neck to keep her close. 

"I… I tried to… I tried to be there… but your son was keeping me…"

He only held her tighter, "Shh, it does not bother me." He rested his chin on the top of her head. "You have cared for my son while I was off fighting a battle."

Her fingers gripped desperately at the harsh metal of his armor. "I am still sorry."

"Hush, woman," he teased lightly. He reached up and gently pulled her head away from him to look down at her. 

Only then did he notice the light tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. 

"Why are you crying?" He lightly reprimanded. 

She sniffled as she looked up at him. "I… I am not."

He let out a scoff as a smirk came to his lips. "Be honest with your husband."

"I… I was unable to feed Loras. I tried. I did, I promise."

"I do not doubt you, sweet woman." His grip on her head tightened just barely. "I still do not understand your tears."

"I was late to greet you because I could not feed him. I feel… inadequate in fulfilling my duties." Hot tears began to fall down her cheeks as a light sob wracked her body.

Every teasing inkling that ran through him fell away once the tears trailed down her soft skin. "Oh, dear woman…" He leaned down to her level and pressed an earnest kiss to her lips, trying to ignore the salty taste of the tears mixed in.

She continued to sob as she kissed him back, overcome with every emotion. Her fingers continued to grasp as anything of his that she could, ending with her hands in his hair. She pulled at the strands desperately.

He moved away, wanting to let her catch her breath, but she chased his lips, reconnecting them. He moved again to her, trying to reassure her through his actions.

The two stayed this way for a while, breaking apart only to catch their breath for a second and then continue. Their hands wandered gently over the other.

He pulled away again, and when her lips followed, he pulled away further, "Talk to me."

She let out a small whine, and rested her head on the metal plate on his chest. His hand rubbed up and down her back.

"I've missed you desperately," was all she said.

He hummed, "Forgive me for leaving you when you needed me most."

She pulled away, "You're being so gentle."

His brows furrowed as he smiled, "Are you surprised? I can be gentle when I wish to."

She sniffled and wiped her cheek as she let out a soft chuckle.

"Is our boy still unfed?" He lightly asked and brushed hair behind her ear. 

She nodded, "Alicent offered to bring in a wet nurse, but I did not have the heart to do it. I have managed it for months. I don't know why it troubles me now."

He nodded with her. "So you will try again?"

"After seeing you, yes."

"Let us go together then."

She shook her head, "I couldn't ask you to do that."

He let out a sigh. "You have ten minutes before I am in our child's room with you. I must get out of this armor first."

She stared at him for a while to ensure that he was indeed serious and not just jesting with her. When she found him to be honest, she nodded and headed up the stairs to their child's chamber.

...

Ten minutes almost exactly, Gwayne opened the door with a soft creak and peered inside. 

Loras, their 5 month old son, whined in his mother's arms as she tried to feed him. Her dress was lowered down one shoulder to expose her breast as she held the babe to her nipple. 

She looked up when he entered, the tears in her eyes beginning all over again, "You look better without the armor."

He grinned as he stepped further into the room, "Without the armor or without the blood?"

"Both, I guess." She looked down at the babe, "It means there is no danger lurking in the shadows."

He nodded, "I've scared it all away for now."

She watched him walk to her, bending down to caress his son's cheek, "No luck still?"

"I have tried it all, and so has he. It is growing tiring," she whined.

"Let me hold my son while you gain your bearings again, love."

She shook her head, "If it has not happened yet, it will not happen at all. I will not try a third ti-"

"-Hand me the babe," he demanded without room for debate.

She handed the child to him, trying to keep her emotions in as she watched how carefully he handled him. It was like second nature to the man, coming back bloody from a war and then coddling his infant to his body like a precious jewel.

"What do I do now?" She asked softly.

He shrugged, "Anything that will ease your mind."

"Your company eases my mind," she stated.

He nodded, "Then stay."

She pulled the sleeve of her dress back over herself, fastening the strings at the top of her bodice. "He's a rather easy child usually. I don't know what's come over him."

"He seems content now," Gwayne pointed out as he looked down at the small boy in his arms.

Indeed, the child's fussing had died down.

She frowned in frustration, "I held him the same way and he cried."

"You don't have a father's touch, my dear girl," he teased. "Perhaps he missed me is all."

She stood on shaky legs and walked towards the pair. Gwayne watched intently, careful to reach out with his free hand to steady her if need be. 

Once to them, she rested her head on Gwayne's bicep as she looked down at their son. "If you ever question how Hightower he is, I hope his hair is enough for you."

A humorous laugh left his lips, "I never doubted it, but it brings me joy to have verifiable proof to others that I have indeed claimed you as mine."

"As if anyone would question your love for me," she scoffed.

He smirked, "You may be married, but if you were not being fulfilled, any man would jump at the opportunity. Trust me, my dear. You are a delight to gaze upon. Even with my babe at your breast- especially with my babe at your breast."

It reminded her of the one thing she had failed at today. "Give him back, I wish to try again."

He held the babe away from her just barely out of reach. "You're exhausted. Let me help you in some way."

"How would you do that, Gwayne?"

He smiled, "Let us go back to our chambers with him and get comfortable."

She gave in, walking him to their chambers as their son lightly babbled.

Once there, he motioned his head toward the bed. "Sit."

"Gwayne-"

"- I said sit. Now go on." 

She huffs but does as he says, sitting on the bed. 

Gwayne moved next to her, pushing his back against the headboard, "sit between my legs now."

She starts to see where he's going with this, and does as he asks. He lifts the babe up so she can duck under his arms.

Now with the babe in his arms in front of her, he can support both the babe and his wife. 

She leans back against his chest, "And you're sure about this?"

"I've never been more sure of anything but marrying you, sweet woman." He kissed the top of her head. 

She unties the bodice again, pulling the sleeve down one shoulder.

Before she can even get herself entirely set, the babe latches onto her breast, the very thing she had tried to get him to do for hours before.

She let out a whine, and Gwayne nudges his head against the back of hers, "Something the matter?"

She quickly shook her head, "No. No, everything's perfect."

"Good. Get comfortable. I've got you now."

Leaning against him fully, her entire body can relax, something that's never happened while trying to feed the babe in her husband's absence.

Gwayne's strong arms keep her caged in as he supports his son with his hands, keeping him steady to avoid any further grief from his son's mother. 

"I think you're right." She sighed.

"About what?" He asked.

Her head leans back against his shoulder. "We have both missed you."

With his entire world within his grasp, Gwayne Hightower had never been happier.

........................................................

[kisses4themissus]

Foreign 2 Me || Hwang In-ho X Reader

wc: 2.3k a/n: the long awaited pt 2!! js know i absolutely love reading your guys comments!! warning: not proofread, so beware of spelling errors

pt 1 | masterlist

Lyrics to fly me to the moon filled your ears as you awoken. You glanced around the bedroom, your eyes found your hands had been loosened a bit from the rope. You were now able to move them to your face.

You wiped your eyes before looking around the dark room. “Player 129.” A deep voice spoke from the door.

Your eyes flickered to see the same blacksuited manager from the previous day. You held your breath as he stepped into the room. “Frontman had to step out due to business, he wasn’t expecting you to wake up so early.” They explained. 

“What do you want?” You questioned as they got closer to you. “Frontman had taken a liking to a player, you enter the picture and the player began to loose his element.” they explained simply. They walked closer to the bed, making you scoot further away.

“So he took me?” You scoffed. The manager shook their head at you. With a huff you turned back on your side and faced away from the guard, a plan forming in your mind. You listened as the manager got up and clicked a button on a remote and the sleeping gas filled the room. You just relaxed and let the sleepiness wash over you.

The next time you had woken up, it was pink managers with the black suit one, they had entered the room and helped dress you, getting rid of your player uniform and into a black silk pajamas. You watched as one of them walked to the manager and grabbed the small tray and walked over once you were tied back to the bed.

You opened your mouth as they fed you the food; it was different from what you had ate in the dorm. “Why is he treating me so well?” You questioned, your tongue poking the side of your cheek. “He must have a special interest.” The manager in the black suit responded. 

“He said if you behave yourself, you’d be allowed to watch your new..friend, in the next game.” A worker explained, getting more food on the spoon before shoving it in your mouth. You had zoned out whatever they talked about; you had your mind set on your way out of this hell.

- - - - - - - -

The next morning, to the strange suited manager you had been well-behaved, therefore they’d allowed you to watch the next game, through the night you had slowly gained freedom, the workers had allowed you to move out of the bed and into the main room, even letting you feed yourself at the small kitchen table. 

You had been lucky enough to slip the fork into your sleeve of your pajamas and hid it, waiting for the right moment to strike your plan in action.

The manager clicked something on the remote, a live showing of a round platform with three small horses on top, it had reminded you of a carousel you’d see in almost empty malls. You watched confused as the manger switched to another camera that showed many colorful doors.

“The next game is mingle, players will gather into groups of whatever number is announced and make it into a room before the time runs out.” 

Your eyes widened as players walked into the room, the soldiers leading them. “How many rooms?” You questioned, looking over at the masked manager. “Fifty, more then half should be wiped in this game.” They said, though their face was hidden you knew they told you the game with a smile on their face.

“Could I get some water, i’m thirsty.” You asked, politely. The manager sighed, tying your feet together to ensure you couldn’t get up to bash the back of his head. 

You waited patiently for your water, you took a deep breath in as you tried soothing your nerves in order for your plan to work. He set down the glass cup beside you, with a grateful nod, he walked over and united your shackles and let you pick the glass up and drank out of it as the game began.

Minutes had passed of watching your fellow players run for their lives. You sighed, it was time.

You reached over and grabbed the cup and took a drink, you noticed the manger’s relaxed posture as he sat on a black chair. You began to cough and fold over. The manager glanced at you and ignored it at first til you began to force yourself to wheeze.

He shot up from his chair; knowing he’d be dead if you had tried to kill yourself while in-ho was away. 

You threw yourself on the floor and coughed hard, thanking whoever above as the manger hunched over you, trying to help you sit up.

On your back you brought up your knee and hit their genitals, hoping it was a man behind the mask. They keeled over and groaned in pain, you quickly popped up and took the fork out from your sleeve and raised it above your shoulder before driving into the masked man’s chest. 

Pulling out the fork, you shove his mask up. He wore another blackout mask underneath. 

He attempted to stop you but stopped as you threw punch to his nose, making his eyes begin to water, blocking his view as you brought the fork to his right eye and stabbed it, he tossed you aside and scrambled to get onto to restrain you once more.

You shakily smiled as he swayed, thanks to his vision being gone in one eye, you pulled the back of his head, making him fall back onto the ground. You got on top of him and managed to punch his jaw, he groaned, the room going dark.

“Goodnight.” You said panting, watching as he passed out on the ground. You glanced up at the screen and stopped as the cameras showed young-il in a room with jung-bae and another man, you gasped as young-il had snapped the man’s neck, his eyes darkened as he stared at jung-bae; you both had killed someone that day out of survival.

Once he was out, you got up from the floor and got to work tying him to the furniture around you. As you tied the man up, you paused as static filled the room’s silence. You searched the name and nodded as his communication device was sat perfectly on the table beside him. 

Quickly stripping him out of his uniform you placed it on, tossing the pajamas on the chair’s back, looking around the room for anything you might need to act as the black suited man.

You got up and took his mask from the floor and grabbed the device before walking to the elevators. You raised the mask, the elevator doors opened, you sighed, stepping in and slipping the mask on.

You had heard the workers talk about the second floor being the solider’s quarters. You quickly press the bottom level and walked out, it had been a purple hallway, you kept walking and sighed in relief as you found the stairway you had all walked through to get to the games, you began opening random doors, you stopped as you opened one, it had a dark hallway. You quickly walked down, having no other plan.

As you walked into the cold, quiet dark room you quickly made out another door and made your way over and opened it to show more stairs, with a deep breath you walked down them, the place had been a labyrinth, you had wondered how the workers didn’t get lost.

As you thought to yourself you finally walked down to a cave of sorts, you noticed oxygen tanks in the corner, you began to tear up, it had all lined up. You were going to get out.

You quickly geared up and thanked your family who had took you on scuba trips as a child for fun. You got ready and began diving and swam around for a underwater exit.

Popping out of the water, you took off the mouth guard, gasping; you had been swimming for awhile after you had left the cave. There had been a small island to your left, you quickly swam over and got out, catching your breath as you sat up against a rock. 

In-ho sighed, tiredly from the latest game, he needed to leave the games soon, you were safe and sound for his keeping up in his penthouse.

As he walked up to grab his food, he was stopped as a worker muttered to him. “She’s escaped.” 

In-ho stopped, staring at the worker as he took the food and drink. “Find her, she has to be somewhere in the building.” He commanded quietly, walking away, back towards his group of players.

- - - - - - - -

You sighed as you tried to form another plan, you didn’t see another island around; who knew how far the actually was from main land. As you blinked, your eyes grew heavy. You groaned trying to fight it off but lost, your body lulled you to a peaceful sleep. 

Jun-ho sighed as he scanned the water once more; nothing.

“Ready to go back yet?” The captain questioned, woo-seok scoffed at the older man and continued looking through his binoculars. “HEY! GET CLOSER TO THAT ISLAND!” Woo-seok yelled as he noticed a figure on the empty island.

The captain sigh and began to get closer, tensing up a bit as everyone noticed a body. “Is she alive?” Jun-ho questioned, grabbing his long coat as they docked at the island, the others began to fly a drone over the island to make sure it wasn’t a cover for an ambush.

“She’s alone.” They confirmed, jun-ho nodded and ran over to help you onto the boat, woo-seok helped carrying you. “Where do we place her?” Woo-seok asked, holding your legs while jun-ho held your back and head.

“Here, place her on the pull out.” Captain park, motioned. The two gently placed you down before finding to see your pulse, jun-ho sighed in relief you were alive.

“Cover her up, captain let’s head back for today. I’ll go signal the others.” Jun-ho commanded, walking away, leaving woo-seok who grabbed blankets and jun-ho’s coat to warm you up. While woo-seok watched over you, the captain’s nerves went up, where did you escape from, clearly you had been through something, he had hoped that night he wouldn't receive a call from in-ho asking for a woman.

- - - - - - - -

You roughly coughed, you sat up. The person beside you quickly jumped up with you. 

“Careful, they just changed your IV’s!” He lightly patted your back, once you stopped coughing you froze as you looked up at the male.

“Who are you, where am I?!” You asked, scooting to the back of the hospital bed. He held up his hands to show he wasn’t up to anything. “You’re at the hospital, i found you passed out on a rock in the middle of nowhere, I’m detective jun-ho!” He explained, slowly reaching for his wallet, you nodded, allowing him to do so.

He sighed and pulled out his badge. You grabbed it and read over the name before sighing and handed it back.

“Thank you, I guess…” You thanked, bowing your head.

“What were you doing on that island?” He questioned, scotting towards you. Throwing your head back you let out a shaky breath and held your head. “You won’t believe me..” You muttered, laughing a bit; you’d look insane if you tried explaining the games.

“I’ve heard some stuff, so again; why where you on that island?” 

You sighed at the detective, his sorrow filled eyes made you spill everything to him. The cruel killing of people, the children's game, the people stuck there on the island; The frontman. Jun-ho’s blood ran cold as you explained you were taken one night by his brother.

“And then the next day he was away for business, i did things on that island that i’m not proud of..” You confessed, looking down at your hands. Jun-ho stood up and placed his hand over yours.

“I believe you, a close friend of mine had a similar story, he went in but we haven’t found him.” Jun-ho sighed, pacing at the end of your hospital bed. “...Was his name seong gi-hun?” you asked quietly, jun-ho turned to you, not hearing what you had said.

“Seong Gi-hun, player 456.” You repeated, making jun-ho stop.

“You saw him?” He asked frantic. You nodded at him. “I joined his team for the second game, last i saw he was still alive.” You explained, jun-ho ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Would you be willing to help us find the island?” He asked, desperation in his voice.

You shook your head. “What if frontman catches me, hell he’s probably kill young-il for my stupid escape!” Your words slowed down as you realized young-il’s fate. You gasped and covered your mouth as tears built up, all of your friends must’ve been paying for your actions.

“I won’t let him harm you.” Jun-ho promised, looking into your watery eyes.

“I won’t go with you,” You informed as you wiped the falling tears, jun-ho sighed looking down at his shoes. “I can tell you everything in detail that happened.” You finished, jun-ho’s head popped up as he frantically nodded. “That’ll work!”

- - - - - - - -

In-ho sighed as he watched gi-hun get dragged back to the dorms after he had shot jung-bae in front of him, as he slipped off his mask, he walked over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out his whiskey.

As he took a drink, his landline phone rang. With a heavy sigh he walked over and picked up, before he opened his mouth a voiced stopped him.

“She’s found your brother.” The captain informed.

“Stop them. I’m on my way.” In-ho hung up, dowing the rest of his whiskey. He roughly slammed the glass down next to the phone.

You had slipped away and fell into jun-ho’s grasp, really it was only a matter of time before his baby brother had met his new sister-in-law.

Hwang In-ho taglist; @snowtargaryen @menabuser16 @azusdump @jspidey5 @annasnape7 @macnbriee @ookybatt @sasha-swftie @moonxnite @ninglovr

[missadangel]

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

XXV. Sorrow

A Fronte Praecipitium, A Tergo Lupi.

A precipice in front, wolves behind.

As you arrived at the villa, you jumped off the horse, with Lucius helping you down with a firm hand. You dashed into the courtyard, your heart pounding with urgency. The moment Tullia and the others spotted you, their faces bore a mix of concern and relief. They then realized you were covered in blood, but their concern melted away when they noticed you were unharmed, not physically at least. Decima approached you, cradling Marcius closely, while Norell held your little girl protectively against her chest.

“We must leave at once, my lady,” Felix urged, his voice urgent. “They will be here soon.”

The carriage was already prepared.

“My lady, your clothes...” Tullia began, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Let me help you change—”

“I'm afraid there's no time,” Lucius interrupted.

“Don't worry, I'll be fine; we'll be fine,” you promised, offering them a reassuring smile despite your own burgeoning fear, noticing the unshed tears glistening in their eyes.

“I wish you could have come with me,” you confessed, a lump forming in your throat.

“We'd only slow you down,” Tullia replied, her voice steady despite the sorrow etched on her features.

“It is only important that you are safe, my lady,” Norell added, her gaze steady and resolute. “We will follow after you reach safety.”

Tullia took your hand in hers, warmth and worry swirling in her grip. “Gods help you; my prayers are with you, Domina,” she said.

You hugged her tightly, tears streamed down your face.

With a heavy heart, you took one last look at their worried faces before climbing into the carriage beside Decima, leaving the safety of your home behind for the uncertain and perilous journey that lay ahead.

During the travel to escort you and your children to a safe location, Felix and Cato were stationed directly behind the carriage, flanked on either side by two additional soldiers. Lucius positioned himself at the back with one soldier accompanying him.

The enormous gate of the yard creaked open, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around your little girl, pulling her tightly against you as the carriage surged forward down the dusty road. The air was thick with the smell of earth and the sounds of hooves thundering against the ground. Marcius, perched joyfully on Decima's lap, radiated innocence and happiness, his joy a stark contrast to the tension surrounding you. His brown eyes sparkled, mirroring the deep warmth of his father's gaze. In that moment, you knew you could face the worst fate imaginable—a fate that could even take your own life—but losing him was inconceivable. You would fight tooth and nail to ensure he and your little girl would survive.

Suddenly, the distant sound of neighing horses pierced the air, sending a shiver down your spine. You exchanged anxious glances with Decima, the worry evident in your furrowed brows.

“Felix! We’re being followed!” Cato's voice sliced through the tension, urgency lacing his words.

“Shit!” Felix’s roared.

Lucius turned swiftly in his saddle, his eyes narrowing as he spotted two imposing horsemen advancing. “You go ahead; I’ll hold them off!” he shouted.

“You go with him!” Felix snapped at the other soldier.

“Yes, sir!” the soldier replied, drawing his sword with a practiced motion, the blade glinting.

Lucius pivoted his horse, ready to confront the impending threat.

Panic surged within you as you peered out the carriage window, your heart racing at the sight of him riding away to face danger alone.

“Lucius!” you cried out, desperation filling your voice.

But your fear deepened as you realized it wasn’t just two horsemen—more were galloping toward you, a dark wave of impending doom closing in.

“Ride faster! Do not stop, no matter what!” Felix commanded the coachman, sword drawn and ready. The soldiers rallied behind him, drawing their weapons and positioning themselves defensively to shield the carriage as more horsemen closed in from all sides. Chaos erupted into a full-fledged battle.

"Cut off the carriage!" a voice pierced through the chaos. A surge of soldiers emerged, and two of them forced the coachman to stop. Overwhelmed with terror, you clutched your little girl tightly as the carriage came to a sudden and forceful halt. In the midst of the turmoil, you felt a sharp pain as your head struck the rough edge of the carriage. The sounds of battle mingled with your daughter’s frightened cries, amplifying the chaos that surrounded you.

“Aurelia! Are you alright?” Decima cried, her fingers brushing the spot where you had struck your head, noticing a trickle of blood oozing down your temple.

“Yes, I believe so. But what about you?”

"Thank Gods, we're alright." She said. You both checked Marcius to see if he's hurt.

Marcius whimpered, crying as tears glistened in his eyes. You leaned down and gently pressed a soothing kiss atop his head.

“What are we going to do now?” Decima murmured.

“I do not know,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, weighed down by uncertainty.

Sitting anxiously in the carriage, you peeked outside through the small window. The cacophony of clashing swords and anguished shouts reached your ears. The oppressive confinement began to suffocate you, and, with a sense of deliberate resolve, you eased the carriage door open. You were feeling trapped, so you sought an opportunity to escape.

The scene outside was a whirlwind of despair. Felix, Cato, and other soldiers fought bravely against others, their swords glinting fiercely and the sound of metal echoing through the woods. Suddenly, a soldier charging to aid you was struck down, an arrow piercing his throat with deadly precision. He crumpled to the ground, the life draining from his eyes, and a cry of horror escaped your lips.

"You fools! Do not harm the princess!"

The words echoed through the chaos like a piercing bell, and their owner was unmistakably Varus. A cold shiver ran down your spine as you saw him stride towards you, determination etched into his features.

Was he here for Marcius?

If he had been scheming alongside Elagabalus all this time, his intentions were as perilous as a hungry wolf’s gaze. Your thoughts raced, and in that frantic moment, instinct kicked in. You lunged for the sword lying abandoned on the ground, the cold steel belonging to a soldier felled by an unseen arrow. It was heavier than you anticipated, a weight that felt foreign in your hands. Memories of Marcus's training flickered in your mind, the lessons with the wooden sword that now seemed a distant memory. You fought against the nervous tremor in your hands and clutched the weapon tighter, forcing yourself to focus.

“It’s dangerous out there; stay inside!” you called to Decima, urgency lacing your voice. Her wide eyes mirrored the turmoil around you, but there was no escape for you or the children. The air was thick with the tension of too many soldiers, their presence forming a formidable wall of steel and intent, sealing off any chance of escape.

Felix jumped in front of Varus, who was approaching you, and made a move to stab him with his sword but failed. Another soldier advanced toward you, and you lifted your sword. It felt heavy in your hands. You tried to lunge but, shaking, fell to your knees. Quickly picking yourself up, you found Varus grabbing you by the arm and lifting you off the ground. “You will hurt yourself with that sword, my lady,” he grinned as he easily took the weapon from you and threw it away.

You glanced at the other soldier who opened the carriage door and forcibly pulled Marcius away from Decima. “No!” you shouted with all your might. You lunged toward him, but Varus's strong arm held you back. “Get your hands off me!”

When Lucius heard your cries, he swung his sword at his opponent before charging at him and plunging his pugio into his back without the other soldier realizing. With a groan of agony, the soldier released Marcius, but Lucius caught him before he could fall to the ground.

“Marcius!” you cried out as you lunged toward him, but once again, your effort fell short. Panicking, you shouted at Varus, “Let go!” as you twisted and turned, struggling against his grip.

Lucius quickly handed Marcius back to Decima and shouted, “Get back in the carriage now!”

He was on his way to save you when a number of arrows suddenly fell onto them; they purposefully pointed them at them rather than at you, which infuriated you. Before she could get to the carriage, Decima was struck, and she and Marcius tumbled to the ground. The shaft of the arrow had become trapped in Marcius' tiny body, precisely in his chest, after piercing Decima's arm around him. In order to avoid crushing him with her own weight, Decima placed her palm on the ground and used her arm for support. You forgot to breathe as Marcius lay there with his eyes closed. "MARCIUS!" you screamed at the top of your lungs. Your entire body shook with pain, shock, and wrath.

Your screams caused Felix Cato Lucius and the others to pause for a moment as they fought their opponents, but only to continue fighting back with more fury and determination.

Varus felt a sense of satisfaction as he saw Marcius lying motionless on the ground. “Kill every last one of them!” he shouted while pulling you closer, away from your family.

You struggled with all your strength, pulling the pugio from its scabbard at Varus' waist and swinging it at his throat with a quick thrust. But he was quicker than you; he caught your hand instantly. However, you could make a cut, just enough for the blood to flow. Groaning, Varus became so furious that he struck you with such force that, before you realized it, you suddenly collapsed onto the dusty ground, and darkness surrounded you like a thick fog, swallowing every trace of light and consciousness.

About thirty-six hours later, Marcus and Octavius finally reached Rome. The streets glistened with rain, reflecting the fading light of the sun as it dipped below the horizon, ceding the sky to the watchful moon. It felt as if the heavens themselves were weeping for the tragedy that had befallen the city below. Peering out from a lofty hill, Marcus inhaled deeply, a sense of homecoming washing over him; yet, he remained blissfully unaware that he had arrived too late.

As they urged their weary horses toward the grand city, an ominous silence enveloped them. Despite their frantic ride, fatigue weighed heavily on their bodies after a relentless day and a half of travel. As they passed under the arch dedicated to Romulus and Remus, a shiver of unease ran through Marcus. The soldiers usually stationed near the gates - silent sentinels of the city - were conspicuously absent.

The streets stretched before them like empty veins, leading ominously toward the Colosseum and the Roman Forum, devoid of the usual life and laughter. It felt as though the city itself had been abandoned, its heart stilled. Dim shadows danced behind the darkened windows of homes and buildings, their inhabitants seemingly swallowed by despair.

The rain continued to fall, each drop echoing softly as the horses’ hooves clattered against the slick stone streets. As they approached a winding path leading to Palatine Hill, Marcus and Octavius exchanged concerned glances, disturbed by the hushed whispers that brushed against their ears like an unsettling breeze. Further along, a massive crowd came into view, their murmurs swelling into a crescendo of grief.

They saw the crowd gathered around Palatine Hill, torches flickering like haunted fireflies in the dusky gloom. A deep sorrow hung in the air, palpable and heavy. Women wept openly, their cries piercing the night, while men and children stood silently, their faces etched with heartache and confusion. The sense of foreboding thickened as Marcus and Octavius realized they had ridden into a storm of misery that had engulfed their beloved city.

Marcus frowned, suspecting more or less what it meant. But soldiers were everywhere, and it was dangerous for him to approach Palatine Hill before he knew for sure what had happened. No one knew he was alive yet, and it was best to keep it that way for a while. You were the only one on his mind, and he needed to make his way to the villa because he was worried about his family. As tired as they were, they had to press on; his concern for his family was overwhelming.

When they soon arrived at the villa, he jumped off his horse. The animal was so exhausted that it did not even move after he dismounted. Marcus's tired legs trembled as they approached the courtyard. There was no sign of life in the villa—no sounds, no lights, nothing. The courtyard, where Marcius had taken his first steps and where the slaves once hurried to do their work, was now eerily quiet.

He glanced at the lectus and the table in the corner and imagined you sitting there when he returned from his evening duties. You would have gotten up immediately to greet him, rushing to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek. He then sighed, and he climbed the stairs to your room. The wind blew through the window, causing the tulle to dance around your once cozy, now abandoned bed. As he looked at the bed, all his memories flashed before his eyes, and his heart ached with the feeling of abandonment.

It was too late…

He spotted a delicate piece of his little girl’s swaddling clothes lying on the bed. He picked it up and brought it to his nose, inhaling the sweet, soothing scent that lingered like a cherished memory. Suddenly, his gaze darted toward the wooden closet across the room. He leaped to his feet, urgency propelling him forward. As he neared the closet, a sinking realization washed over him—the shelves had been emptied. Only yours and children's clothes that were missing; Marcus's own clothes remained undisturbed in their place. A flicker of hope ignited within him, a glimmer of what he had suspected.

With quickened steps, he left the room and descended the stairs, where Octavius was just returning from the stables, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Acacius, all the horses and the carriage have been taken,” he said.

“So have the clothes,” Marcus replied.

“Do you think they could be where we discussed earlier?” Octavius asked.

“Let’s get moving,” Marcus urged. But at that moment, a rustling noise from the courtyard near the kitchen caught their attention, snapping them into alertness. Marcus instinctively drew his sword, the blade glinting in the dim light, and signaled for Octavius to follow him.

With caution, Octavius advanced toward the sound, his footsteps calculated, while Marcus broke away to flank from the other side, every muscle tensed and ready.

As the door connecting the kitchen to the back garden creaked shut, Octavius turned back toward the stables, his instincts sharp. Marcus surged into the courtyard, adrenaline coursing through him as he began to close in on the fleeing figure, who seemed to dart away like a shadow.

The cloaked man froze, panic flashing across his face as Marcus intercepted him with skillful precision. With a swift motion, he lifted the hood with the tip of his sword, revealing the identity hidden beneath. The mix of surprise and joy that washed over Marcus was unmistakable.

“Cato?” he exclaimed, disbelief transforming into relief in an instant.

Cato, who had been tightly squeezing his eyes shut, suddenly heard his general’s voice. He opened his eyes and gasped, his gaze widening in surprise. “General!”

Octavius stepped toward them, and as the realization hit him that it was indeed Cato, he swiftly sheathed his sword, the metal sliding with a reassuring click. Cato looked at him, equally puzzled. “Octavius, sir!” He laughed. “You're alive too! You both alive!” He then lunged towards Marcus and hugged him. Marcus smiled as he patted him on the back. “We're alive, Cato, and we're back.”

“Thank the gods!”

“Cato, what were you doing here? Where is everyone?” Octavius asked.

“I—I came here to get some herbs, then I heard horses and hid. I thought it was the soldiers.”

“Did you say herbs?”

Cato lowered his head, his expression shifting to one of deep sorrow as if the weight of his worries hung heavily upon him.

“What happened, Cato? Aurelia, my children... Are they all right?” Marcus's voice trembled with anxiety as he searched Cato’s eyes for answers.

Cato glanced towards the road. “I'll tell you everything, but... Come with me now; it's not safe here anymore, but everyone is all right, hiding in the place we agreed on before.”

“Let’s head there, Octavius,” Marcus urged, his voice steady yet tinged with urgency. He turned to Cato. "But have you come all this way on foot? What of the horse?"

“I’ve hidden it out of sight, sir,” Cato replied, a hint of anxiety in his tone. “Tied it in the bushes.”

“Then come with me,” Marcus instructed, leaping onto his horse with practiced ease before reaching out to help Cato mount. Together, they rode into the dappled shade of the forest, the air rich with the scent of damp earth and the rustle of leaves. As they approached the location Cato had mentioned, Marcus felt a growing sense of unease; this was not the place they had discussed. Instead, they had arrived at an old villa nestled among the trees, its weathered stone walls barely visible through the ivy that clung to them like a shroud. The villa, belonging to his cousin Agrippa, loomed quietly by the river—a ghost of its former grandeur, now vacant since Agrippa was away commanding the northern legions.

This villa served as a contingency plan - a refuge for the most dire of circumstances, especially if Geta were to be deposed and Marcus did not return. Marcus' real plan, however, was to go elsewhere, as it was the safest option away from Rome.

"Why have you brought us here?" Marcus asked, dismounting and surveying their surroundings. "Or?"

“Sir, the soldiers and General Varus intercepted the carriage...” Cato hesitated, his voice faltering. “We had no other choice…”

As soon as Cato stepped into the courtyard, Felix and Lucius switched into action and drew their swords. They exchanged glances and signaled to each other. The struggle for survival and the mission to protect the general's family had quickly forged a bond between them. These two men, once soldiers on opposing fronts, were now united against a common enemy.

When they saw Cato, both breathed a sigh of relief.

“Cato, what took you so long—”

Their words froze in their throats as they noticed two men following him. Felix's eyes widened and his jaw dropped when he recognized Marcus and Octavian. Lucius stared at them in astonishment.

“G-General...” Felix managed to stammer, a mix of disbelief and joy flooding his chest. “General!” he exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Octavius!” he called out, his voice cracking with exuberance.

Two more soldiers approached, equally surprised to see Marcus.

“General!” one of them called out.

“It's really him!” another exclaimed.

One of those soldiers was Aris, who approached Felix with his mouth agape. “Is it really him?” he asked.

“Unless the god Morpheus has put us in a dream...” Felix muttered.

Cato chuckled at this. Lucius rolled his eyes, while Octavius and Marcus exchanged glances.

“Should we poke him?” Aris asked, still in disbelief. Felix poked Aris's shoulder hard.

"Ah! Not me, you fool!" Aris snapped, pointing at Marcus.

When Felix reached out to poke Marcus in the shoulder, Marcus caught his hand and playfully slapped him in the face. "What kind of bad manners is that?" he asked with mock annoyance.

"Look at these dummies, Acacius," Octavius chuckled, Marcus grinning.

Felix and Aris exchanged embarrassed laughter, filled with relief and joy. “I’d recognize that commanding voice anywhere! It’s really them!”

“They're not dead! They're alive!” the group erupted in cheers, their voices echoing together.

Suddenly, a wave of joy swept through them. Felix and Aris hugged Marcus tightly as Lucius sheathed his sword. Marcus, a little shaken by their enthusiastic embrace and moaning a little, still, couldn’t help but laugh as well. Octavius, aware of the wounds on Marcus’s chest and hand, felt a surge of concern. "Stop it, you fools; you’ll make our General regret being alive!" he chastised.

Felix wiped away his tears as he stepped back to look at his face once more. "General, sir, you are alive! You have returned."

Marcus gently touched his shoulder. "Indeed, Felix. I am alive, brother."

"Thank the gods," Aris said, also wiping away his tears.

They touched each other's shoulders and exchanged joyful glances. Lucius stood a little behind, watching the reunion unfold with a smile. After a breath, Marcus turned his gaze toward him and nodded.

"Lucius."

"Acacius," he greeted in return.

Marcus's heart raced as the sound of a baby’s cry pierced the air. He instinctively glanced over Lucius's shoulder and his breath caught at the sight of Tullia and Norell approaching, their faces painted with shock.

“Master!” Tullia exclaimed, her arms wide open and walked towards him. her hands gently resting on his shoulders. “Thank Jupiter! Thank all the gods, you're alive, you've returned!”

“I have, Tullia,” Marcus replied, a broad smile spreading across his face that lit up his weary eyes. He turned to Norell, who cradled her little girl with great tenderness. With a gentle touch, he took the baby into his arms. Norell’s joy was silent, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she offered him a smile that spoke volumes.

As Marcus breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of his child, he bent down to kiss the top of her head, a wave of longing washing over him. He missed her more than words could express.

Turning to Tullia, he asked, “Where are Marcius and Aurelia?”

Tullia’s brow furrowed as she bowed her head, tears beginning to cascade down her cheeks. Marcus quickly returned the baby to Norell’s arms as he saw Lucius and Cato rush into a room.

Hoping to find his answer there, Marcus followed them into a small, dimly lit room, his heart sinking at the sight before him. Marcius lay on a mattress, his small body still and wrapped in bandages. Lucius hurriedly sifted through the herbs and vials Cato had brought, sniffing them with urgency, trying to decipher their purpose, while Marcus approached the bed with a growing sense of dread.

“What happened to him?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

A heavy silence enveloped the room as everyone exchanged looks, each one reflecting their sorrow and concern, but no one found the courage to speak an answer.

In the corner, Decima and Octavius held each other tightly. But Octavius's brow furrowed deeply when he noticed the bandage wrapped around Decima’s upper arm.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

Decima was unable to respond; her only answer was a tight embrace, tears flowing freely as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"As we headed towards the location we had discussed, we were suddenly caught off guard by an ambush, sir," Felix said, his voice trembling. "Varus and his men pursued us, and they outnumbered us. Please forgive me." He bowed his head in shame, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his failure.

Marcus gazed at his son, the rising tide of tears shimmering in his eyes like fragile glass.

"An arrow struck him in the upper chest," Lucius said, his hands steady as he poured a healing mixture onto a cloth, the scent of herbs filling the room.

Marcus was frozen in disbelief. He sank to his knees, his lips pressing against his little boy's forehead, warm tears streaming down his cheeks as he gently stroked the boy's hair. "Did you say an arrow?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, the arrow struck Decima’s arm before hitting Marcius. If her arm hadn’t slowed its deadly speed…" Lucius's voice trailed off, and a heavy silence enveloped the room, each person acutely aware of the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Marcus turned to Decima, taking in her pale face, then back to his son. Lucius worked meticulously, applying a herbal ointment to the wound, the boy's small form trembling slightly with each touch. "Fortunately, the arrowhead didn’t penetrate deeply; he’s still alive," Lucius continued. "It's a miracle for such a small child to survive such an injury - what I'm witnessing is beyond anything I've ever seen in my life. He has beaten death, just like his father, I believe." He gave Marcus a reassuring smile.

Wiping away his tears, Marcus managed a weak smile in return. "Please, do your utmost. Save my son."

"I’m doing everything I can; don’t worry."

"I'm grateful to you, Lucius."

Then Marcus realized that something was missing. “Aurelia must be devastated. Where is she?” he asked.

Everyone lowered their heads. It was a difficult question to answer, and no one had the courage to say that to Marcus.

However, Marcus's patience had run out. He looked at Felix sharply as he approached him. “Forgive me, sir,” he said again, his voice trembling. “I could not protect her.” He bowed his head, unable to meet Marcus's gaze.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said again, his voice trembling. “I could not protect her.” He bowed his head, unable to meet his gaze.

“What do you mean by that? Did she...” Marcus whispered, feeling his heart shatter into pieces. When he looked around, everyone else averted their eyes.

“They took her, sir,” Cato explained. “They hunted us down and ambushed us. They were going to kill us all, but luckily Aris and the others arrived just in time.”

“Varus had already left with Lady Aurelia when Aris showed up. They probably think we've either died or escaped,” he continued.

“We had to come here and hide in case they came looking for us. Besides, Marcius...” Cato hesitated, realizing Marcus’s growing anger.

“Varus, you filthy dog!” Marcus growled, clenching his fists.

“We couldn’t protect Emperor Geta either,” Aris added. “I couldn’t go to help Darius; there were too many of them. Empress Nerissa, Varus, and Elagabalus must have planned this together, but we don’t know much yet.”

"We must save the Lady Aurelia," Octavius said, looking directly at Marcus. "They may also kill her."

Lucius stood up and faced Marcus. “I don’t think they intend to kill her. If that were their aim, they would have done it during the ambush. They were talking about arresting her.”

Marcus turned his back to them, trembling with rage, making a fist to pound it against the stone wall as the weight of the situation consumed him. Ignoring the blood oozing from his hand.

“I shall rip his lungs out.” He made a promise to himself, gritting his teeth in anger.

You jolted awake, a wave of anguish crashing over you, weaving through both body and soul. The familiar embrace of pain gripped you once again, yet this time felt like a tempest brewing beneath your chin, a painful reminder of yesterday's chaos and the hard knock of a masculine hand against your face. But that was nothing compared to the ache simmering deep within your heart, a gaping wound that throbbed with every beat. Memories surfaced, sharp and intense, and your throat constricted as you struggled to breathe. The image of the arrow striking Marcius' body wouldn't go away, haunting you relentlessly. Suddenly, you gasped for breath as the pain intensified. This pain felt very different from what you felt for Geta and Marcus. You were surprised that you could endure so much suffering, and you truly wondered how you were still alive. A twinge of guilt washed over you when you realized you were angry with the gods for the unbearable tragedies that had befallen you. It was all simply too much—excruciating and overwhelming. Driven by a survival instinct, you felt compelled to find a way to endure this pain, ease it. These feelings ultimately led you to an emotion as powerful as the pain itself: a desire for vengeance.

You slowly opened your eyes. The first thing you noticed was a small window with iron bars set high in a stone wall. Since you were lying against the wall, the sunlight that filtered in didn't reach you. As you began to hear the sounds around you—the clanging of metal as soldiers marched and muttered—you turned your head. You spotted two guards standing with their backs turned behind the iron bars. The cell was larger than the one Macrinus had imprisoned you in before; it contained a mattress, a table, and even food on the table. This must be one of the special cells for an imperial member. That meant you had been brought to Palatine Hill. You pushed back the disheveled hair from your face, which smelled of blood and sweat, and sat up.  Your clothes were in a terrible state, shabby, worn, just like your heart. Geta's blood, still present on you, had a dark red tinge, dried on your light blue stola. Your sobs and cries returned, your heart breaking repeatedly as you thought of Marcus, Geta, and your son Marcius, leaving you feeling as though you were on the verge of losing your grip.

Suddenly, the echo of footsteps broke the silence, sending a rush of anger through your veins as you heard his voice.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Varus said, a sinister grin stretching across his face. He loomed in front of the cold iron bars, his gaze piercing through, studying you with an unsettling intensity.

You clenched the fabric of your dress tightly, the soft texture pressing against your skin, attempting to offer solace. Yet, your body vibrated with an unmistakable fury. Every muscle pulsed with a powerful combination of fear and rage, igniting an intense fire within you that demanded to be unleashed.

"You filthy bastard!" you shouted, lunging at him.

He remained completely still because iron bars stood between him and you, acting as friends to him and enemies to you.

"I'll kill you!" you yelled, gripping the bars. Your pain outweighed your anger. "What did you want from him, a little child? How could you?" Your sobs and cries grew louder.

"Behave yourself, Lady Aurelia," Varus growled threateningly.

"If I don't, what will you do? Will you also murder me? What difference would it make if you killed me as well? You've already killed my son."

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it the moment you attempted to kill me, my lady, but if you ever do anything stupid like that again, I'll make sure you meet your son in Elysium."

"Filthy dog!" You shouted. "I swear your death will be by my hand, I swear it!"

Varus angrily struck the iron bars with his hand. "Enough! Stop it!"

"What did you want from him? Why did you—?” You murmured, your knees gave way, and you collapsed, your sobs echoing in the stone cell. It was a plea that would make anyone with a conscience shudder, but Varus was not a man of conscience.

"If you promise to behave, I will let you out of the cell. His Majesty wants to see you," he said, looking at you coldly.

Out of the cell... Perhaps you could have the chance to kill him.

"My Lady, I don't have all day to wait for your answer." He said mockingly.

What an arsehole.

You focused your attention on the gleaming dagger, the pugio, resting at the waist of one of the guards. A surge of determination washed over you as you began to formulate your plan. With a slow nod, you met Varus’s gaze, and his grin widened. “Good. Open the cell,” he commanded.

As the guard unlocked the cell door, you rose to your feet, your heart racing. Your eyes were locked on the pugio, its hilt inviting and within reach. As you stepped out of the cell, a rush of adrenaline coursed through you. You darted past the guard, swiftly lunging for the handle of the dagger at his side, fingers brushing against the cool metal. In an exhilarating instant, you managed to unhook it. But before you could pivot towards Varus, his grip clamped down on your arm, yanking you back.

With a swift motion, he disarmed you, taking the pugio and slamming you against the stone wall. The impact jolted through your body like a thunderclap, a sharp groan escaping your lips as pain radiated from your back, merging humiliation with fury.

"Did your husband teach you to do this, my lady?" You swallowed as he ran the sharp surface of the pugio against your neck. "But he’s gone now, how sad."

Ignoring his amusement, you narrowed your eyes at him. "I may have failed now, but you can be sure that one day I will stick a knife down your stinking throat."

Laughing wickedly, he leaned in, his breath grazing your earlobe, the kind that makes you feel sick to your stomach. "If you weren't such a beautiful and distinguished woman, I would have killed you already."

He returned the pugio to the guard and grabbed your arm, pulling it roughly as he walked. "Enough of this nonsense. “Move.”

As Varus led you from the cell into the Domus Severiana, you surveyed your surroundings, feeling a deep sense of despair. Memories of Geta and Marcus flooded your mind, while the rich, intricate details of the architecture seemed to taunt you. Those cherished images were overshadowed by visions of others—individuals who had proved themselves unworthy of the titles they held. The warmth of this place, which once felt like home, now felt cold and invasive; its calm atmosphere was dimmed by the weight of your sorrow.

When the doors of the Great Hall opened, you stepped inside to face one of the most upsetting sights imaginable. In the same hall where Geta had once greeted you with a warm smile, Elagabalus now occupied Geta's imperial throne, smiling ominously at you. You couldn't decide whether this vision was painful or simply annoying, but it was evident that you were hurt once again. Elagabalus was slightly younger than Geta and a bit taller than Caracalla, but he was clearly more twisted. He pursed his lips as he scrutinized you from head to toe, yet made no effort to rise. Even Caracalla would have stood upon seeing you, but Elagabalus remained smug and unyielding.

"Oh, our beautiful Princess Aurelia!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, echoing through the hall. "Even in your wretched state, you radiate a certain brilliance; it’s simply extraordinary." His words felt like daggers, cutting deeper as he reveled in your predicament.

Your body moved involuntarily toward him, the urge to lunge and grab him by the throat overwhelming you. However, Varus tightened his grip, indifferent to the pain it caused you. Anyways, no matter what he did, you knew he couldn't hurt you anymore, not after what he did.

"I must say that I am truly sorry for all of this, my dear," he continued. "If only your late husband, Acacius, had responded differently to the message I sent him and followed my request, perhaps we wouldn’t be in this situation. Just look at you; that’s all—"

"Don't you dare speak his name!" you snarled, fierce anger boiling within you as your voice broke through the tension.

"Hmm, I understand that emotions are running high, and you're feeling hurt and frustrated," he replied with an air of condescension, "But I must insist that you do not interrupt me again.”

You gave him a stern look. "Or what? What are you going to do? Torture me? Kill me? Then do it."

He shook his head repeatedly. "No, no, no. You are not an ordinary woman. The citizens of Rome are already experiencing..." he thought of the right words. "...considerable unrest," pursed his lips. "I do not wish to further provoke their discontent. They hold you in high regard. Therefore, I will determine your fate after the funeral.”

"Funeral," you whispered.

“I am not so devoid of compassion as to deny my cousin a proper funeral,” he responded smugly. “That is the purpose of my summons. If you wish to pay your respects, he is located in the other hall; the guards will take you there. Tomorrow, in a grand ceremony, the people of Rome will bid him farewell, and I will officially declare myself emperor.” His tone conveyed a sense of excitement.

“You monster! Traitor! It’s all your fault!” You shouted as you lunged at him. A familiar face stopped you this time. You were so distraught that you didn’t realize Darius was there until he grasped your arm.

“Darius, let me go! I'll kill him!”

Elagabalus tilted his head to the side, his expression a blend of astonishment and amusement. “Well, what General Varus said about you was true, I see,” he remarked, his voice dripping with playful curiosity.

Varus smirked. "I can tell she's got a fighting spirit, your highness."

Elagabalus erupted into laughter, a sound that rang with a mocking cadence, inciting a flame of anger within you.

“My lady, please calm yourself,” Darius urged, his voice gentle yet firm.

You shoved his hands away defensively, the frustration boiling over. “Are you on his side too? My brother Geta cared for you!”

“I’m only doing my duty, my lady,” he replied. “Serving the emperor is my only obligation.” As he spoke, a suggestive glint flickered in his eyes, leaving you uncertain of his intentions.

"I liked you, Commander Darius. You deserve your title," Elagabalus said with a grin. Darius bowed respectfully in response.

As you observed him, you weren't completely sure, but it seemed like Darius was putting on an act. Nevertheless, you felt anger towards him for not being able to protect Geta.

Suddenly, the heavy door swung open, and the guards stormed in, dragging Nerissa by the arm. She struggled against their grip, defiance etched across her face, just as you had.

“Oh, there’s Empress Nerissa. Come closer, dear,” he gestured to her, a wicked glint in his eyes. It was difficult to discern his thoughts.

“Elagabalus! You bastard! You promised I would return to Athens, my home!” she shouted, her voice filled with indignation.

“Oh, about that... Well, circumstances have forced me to change my mind,” he replied, standing up and adjusting his ornate toga. It was hard to look at him in that attire; he reminded you of Geta. “When the Athenians decided to side with Geta and betray me, I had to revise my plans. I hope you understand. After all, it was a matter of mutual interest,” he said with a sneer.

“What about my son? Why did you take him from me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Did you really think I would let you flee with a Roman prince, the heir to the throne? Are you truly that foolish?”

Nerissa's eyes reflected obvious disappointment. He had a point. Had she truly betrayed Geta for a foolish plan? It was frustrating that she trusted Elagabalus more easily than Geta. A surge of anger coursed through you again, as if you could reach out and strangle Nerissa with your bare hands, but worry for your nephew, Publius, held you back.

“If a hair on his head has been harmed, I will ruin you!” You yelled at him.“

"I am certain of that, my lady." He smirked. "Besides, I don't intend to hurt him," he then stood up, continued. "The death of his father and another prince have already angered the people enough; I don't want to give them another reason to revolt. I need the people of Rome to love me and respect me."

“They will never love you! You murdered their emperor and imprisoned his son, his heir! They will hate you!” Nerissa shouted angrily.

“I murdered him?" He said raising his eyebrows, "I didn't do anything, remember? It was you,” he grinned cruelly. "They have always resented you for being Greek, and this incident will only amplify their desire to place blame. They’ve been waiting for a reason, and you’ve just handed it to them.”

“I'll kill you!” She shrieked, jumping forward to him. One of the guards grabbed her by the arm.

“Lock her up, she is to be executed with the other Greeks.”

“No!”

You wanted to smile cruelly at Nerissa's shouts of protest, but you couldn’t. The thought of Publius being completely orphaned overshadowed everything else. Nerissa's desire for revenge led to a huge mistake, which she likely regrets; ultimately, she destroyed her life, her son’s life, and yours.

Elagabalus approached you, you had seen the pure evil in his eyes before, in Caracalla's eyes.

"As for you..."

"Do you intend to execute me as well?"

He chuckled, a mix of hysteria and amusement. "Certainly not. Why would I take such a drastic step? I told you, the people hold you in high regard, much like their disdain for Nerissa. I see a valuable opportunity here and would prefer to have you on my side."

Though seething with anger, you couldn't help but laugh in disbelief. “That will never happen.”

He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in implication. “What about your nephew Publius? You wouldn’t want to lose him too, would you?”

Understanding his implication, you felt too trapped to respond, and the pain returned as tears streamed down your face. He continued.

“Actually, I was planning to get rid of him along with his mother, but when Varus made a mistake and got your son killed, I realized that I have no other choice left. It was the only thing that could persuade you to cooperate. You are a smart woman; I am certain that you understand exactly what I mean."

Your silence gave him confidence; he sensed your defeat, and a satisfied smile spread across his face as he approached you.

"What kind of monster are you to take my son's life, call it a mistake, and threaten me with my nephew?" You muttered, lacking the strength to bark or fight any longer.

“Alright, enough talk,” he said, looking at the guards. “Take her. Have her bathed and changed. Assign two men to guard her. We’ll speak again after the funeral, princess. Remember, your nephew’s life is in your hands, so I suggest you behave yourself.”

Ignoring his disturbing smile, you glanced at Darius as Varus pulled you out of the hall. He looked sad when he met your eyes, but you were too angry with him to care.

Geta's lifeless body lay on a marble slab in the center of the great hall, covered with a white cloth embroidered with gold. It was difficult to look at him; his skin was so pale, and his lips so blue, that you had to grip the edge of the marble slab for support. The lamentations of the vestal priestesses rose around you as you placed coins to pay Charon on Geta's eyelids. Your fingers trembled as you touched his golden hair. Tears streamed down your face, wetting his colorless, lifeless skin as you leaned down to kiss his forehead. You tried to ignore the members of the Senate gathered around you, along with their wives and the murmurs of the Patricians. You could not bear to hear any words of consolation; you were too tired to endure it any longer.

You felt exhausted to attend the solemn funeral ceremony, yet Elagabalus dragged you with him. Varus’ men shadowed you like ominous specters, their presence a constant reminder of your captivity. It was infuriating; you felt as though you were a ghost, wandering through a fog of despair, a living dead among the mourning throng.

Desperation clawed at your chest as your eyes scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone familiar—perhaps Lucius, Cato, or Felix. You yearned for a sign, a whisper of news that Marcius was alive, but all you found were stranger faces. It felt like everyone had turned their backs on you, leaving you in this bleak nightmare of solitude.

As you stood before the blazing pyre, the flames licking greedily at Geta's lifeless form, sorrow overwhelmed you. The crackling fire echoed the sound of your heart breaking. Tears streamed down your face, hot and relentless, as Geta’s final words reverberated in your mind: “In his absence, you will be under my protection.”

You didn't know when this nightmare would end, you just wanted to beg the gods to take your life, but not without revenge. You didn't know when or how, but you would take your revenge, it was the only thing that kept you strong. Varus and Elagabalus may have seen it as surrender, but they were unaware that you were just waiting for the right moment.

Far away in the crowd, hidden from view, Marcus was present. Cloaked in black, he lurked in the shadows, but he was there. His heart surged with life once he caught sight of you in the distance. He yearned to push through the masses and reach you, ready to slaıghter anyone who dare to stand in his way. However, he knew he couldn't do that—not yet. All he could do was watch you helplessly from afar. Patience had never been so difficult for him, and of all the moments of helplessness he had endured, this was the most excruciating.

“Sir, what do we do?” Octavius asked.

“I am the only one among us whose face less recognizable to them. I will approach and retrieve him,” Lucius said.

Marcus touched his shoulder. “Be careful.”

As Lucius moved carefully through the crowd, he, like Marcus, couldn’t help but glance in your direction, worried about you. But he had to find Darius. When you briefly looked over, you recognized Lucius’s face, and your heart began to race. You kept your excitement in check, not wanting Varus to become suspicious; he had seen him before.

Lucius... If he was alive, did that mean the others were too? You were desperate to find out, but all you could do was stand there, and you hated it.

Darius quickly identified Lucius and grasped the meaning behind his signal. He discreetly turned to assess the positions of Varus and Elagabalus, taking the opportunity to position one of his most trusted men in his place. He then began to follow Lucius at a safe distance, relieved to see that Varus was momentarily preoccupied.

Anxiety coiled in your stomach as you imagined the exchange between Darius and Lucius. Would he intend to send you a message? "Marcius, please let him be alive," you prayed to the gods, your heart swelling with a glimmer of hope. It felt almost reassuring to see Lucius again, especially when you felt so alone. At least Lucius was alive; at least you hadn't lost him yet.

While you were waiting for Darius to return, Elagabalus was eager to leave and signaled to the guards, who parted to help him through. The crowd was in a dismal mood—filled with mourning, anger, and sadness—and they definitely weren't ready to accept Elagabalus as emperor. However, you could tell they had a great respect for you. You were certain that he would use that respect to manipulate you into following him from now on, threatening you with Publius if you refused. But you didn't want to leave; you just wanted to see Lucius one more time and find out what he had told Darius. Unfortunately, you now found yourself as Elagabalus' puppet; he wanted you to escort him to Palatine Hill, and you had no choice but to obey.

The next day, as you sat helplessly in your cell, anxiously awaiting news of Lucius and your children, you heard footsteps approaching. You stood up immediately, hoping it could be Darius. One of the guards ordered others  to open the cell door and looked at you with a firm expression.

"My lady, come with me," he said, gently gesturing for you to follow.

You complied and walked in the direction he indicated. Together, you stepped out into the courtyard. As you walked alongside the guard toward the great hall, disappointment settled in your stomach like a stone. You did not wish to see Elagabalus—not now, not ever. Inside the hall, Darius stood with an empty expression that offered no comfort.

"Aurelia! Come, I have good news for you," Elagabalus exclaimed excitedly.

But as you locked eyes with Varus standing ominously beside him, a foreboding sense of dread washed over you. What he deemed "good news" felt like a cruel jest.

"I will be crowned today," he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the hall, "and I have decided to hold a public banquet in the Roman Forum tomorrow to celebrate."

You rolled your eyes. As if you gave a damn. I hope people of Rome stab you to death at that banquet, you thought.

“It's not wise to keep mourning so short, though nothing about you is wise,” you muttered.

“Oh, I like your frankness, it's much better than cowardly lying.” He gestured for you to come closer.

Reluctantly, you obeyed.

“I want you with me at the banquette.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Is that what you consider good news?” you replied, skepticism dripping from your tone.

"Right, the good news is that I can't keep you in a cell any longer, so I've decided that you will stay in the Domus Tiberiana. Even better, your nephew Publius will be there with you. See? I'm not that cruel."

His lighthearted remarks left you feeling unsettled, though the prospect of having Publius by your side provided some relief.

“What? Aren’t you going to express your gratitude? How rude of you,” he taunted.

Was he truly joking?

"I'm sure you placed lots of guards in there. It sounds like a bigger cell to me," you remarked, rolling your eyes.

"For your protection and little Publius, dear," he replied with a grin.

"I think you need more protection," you hinted. "Especially from me."

He chuckled and glanced at Varus. "What a woman! She never gives up, does she?"

"She certainly doesn't," Varus said, smiling at you.

You averted your gaze from both of them.

"What do you say we share our decision with her?"

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Varus replied, his voice tinged with excitement.

“Varus has done so much for me; I owe him my very presence here. Therefore, I wish to reward him with something worthy.”

"I don’t care what kind of reward he receives!" you shouted, your frustration boiling over.

He crossed his arms, a glint of foreboding hidden behind his smile. "You should, because you are the reward."

A shiver ran down your spine. "Excuse me?"

"General Varus is an honorable man who deserves respect. He merits a good marriage, and since you are a widow, you are his best potential match."

You shook your head fervently, disbelief etched on your face. "Never…’" you mumbled, the mere thought twisting your stomach into knots. "I would never marry him! Never!"

Elagabalus frowned, his expression suddenly serious. "I believe you misunderstand me, Aurelia. I'm not seeking your opinion."

Varus cleared his throat, bowing his head slightly. "This marriage would be the greatest honor I could ever receive, Your Majesty. I am truly grateful."

"Good, then let the preparations begin,’" Elagabalus declared, an air of finality tinging his words.

It was all too much. You wanted to scream, to fight against the tide of fate that threatened to engulf you, but you felt paralyzed, trembling with fear and anger. The worst torment imaginable seemed to come for you at every turn, leaving you struggling to find the strength to continue living in such a harrowing reality.

“How is his condition?” Marcus asked, anxiety tightening his voice. Marcius lay still, his eyes closed and face pale, every shallow breath causing his small chest to rise and fall.

“He’s better,” Lucius replied. “He’s fighting with everything he has, I assure you.” He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the swelling around the injury. “Infection is starting to build up, though. I need to prepare some more ointment.”

“When will he open his eyes?” Marcus asked, his voice shaking.

He sighed, “We’ll have to wait a bit longer for that. Rest assured, I’m doing everything I can.”

“I can't thank you enough, Lucius. You’re my brother now,” Marcus said sincerely.

Lucius nodded and smiled at him before leaving the room.

After he left, Marcus sat beside his little boy, thinking of you as he stroked his head. "My son, are you waiting for your mother to open her eyes? I promise I will bring her back," he said. He bent down to kiss the top of his son's head.

As he sat there, his gaze landed on a familiar dress among the items brought from the villa. He picked it up, the fabric delicate in his fingers, and brought it to his nose. The scent—your scent—enveloped him like a cherished memory. He returned to the bed, sinking into the fabric's embrace as he buried his nose in it once more.

"Aurelia, my beloved wife, my radiant sun. How can I find rest in this dark abyss while you are imprisoned in their merciless grasp? How can I remain still, waiting patiently, when I know you are alone in anguish, tears brimming in your eyes? Every moment without you feels like an endless dungeon, suffocating and cold," he said, his voice choked as he wiped the warm tears cascading down his cheeks.

His gaze shifted to Marcius, who murmuring softly in his dreams. “My son, you were born into a world besieged by ruthless tyrants and treacherous souls. They will always covet what you possess and conspire to bring you harm simply because of who you are destined to be. But you must stand resolute; you must never yield to their demands. You will emerge as a valiant and honorable warrior, just like me, and you will place the traitors where they belong—defeated and discredited. An honorable warrior does not take what is not rightfully theirs and does not fall without a fierce struggle.”

There was a soft knock at the door and Marcus got up to open it. It was Cato. "Sir, Commander Darius is here."

"Let's go," he said, closing the door quietly behind him as he left the room. He hoped Darius had news of you.

Everyone had gathered in the courtyard, waiting for Marcus to arrive. When Darius saw Marcus, he pushed back his hood and saluted him. “General.”

“Darius, have you spoken to Lady Aurelia?” Marcus asked, his tone filled with hope.

Darius shook his head. “Unfortunately, sir, I didn’t have a chance." He exhaled nervously. "Lady Aurelia is no longer being held in the cell.”

Marcus frowned. “How so? Where is she?”

“Elagabalus had her sent to the Domus Tiberiana. He also had Publius sent with her, claiming he was not that cruel when he said that, that bastard,” Darius growled.

“At least she won't be stuck in a cell; she'll be more comfortable in the palace,” Marcus muttered, the pain evident in his voice when he says that.

“Perhaps, sir, but he has clearly lost his sanity. Elagabalus is preparing to negotiate a deal with the Carthaginians. He asserts that it is a promise made in exchange for the throne.”

“What specific terms does this deal involve?”

“He intends to relinquish the southern territories to the Carthaginians, which includes the significant cities of Alexandria and Sicily,” he explained.

“He’s truly gone mad!” Octavius bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder in the dimly lit chamber. “We can’t let this happen; we must take action immediately. Sir?”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Marcus, awaiting his response.

"Of course we won't let him, we'll bury him in that throne! We need to be clever about this. Fortunately, he still has Darius by his side, and we should use that to our advantage to devise a smart plan. We will involve the senators who remain loyal to Geta. But until then, we must all conceal the fact that we are alive. This is crucial. Do you all understand?”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Octavius looked uneasy. “Sir, I can accept our situation, but it pains me that all of Rome believes you are dead. It's so unfair.”

“We must be patient, Octavius,” Marcus said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “These are just a few of the obstacles we face, but they will not stop us.”

Darius exhaled. "Acacius, your death is officially recorded, and the law is unforgiving in this matter."

Marcus frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I apologize for saying this, but, according to law, Lady Aurelia is now a widow, and—"

"And? Darius, what are you saying?" Marcus asked.

Taking another deep breath, Darius said while locking his eyes on Marcus', "Elagabalus is setting a marriage arrangement between Lady Aurelia and Varus."

A palpable silence descended upon the room as everyone looked at Marcus wide-eyed.

In a sudden burst of anger, Marcus grabbed Darius by the collar and shouted, "What did you just say? Tell me this isn't true!"

Darius lowered his head and replied, "I'm sorry, Acacius, but I heard it with my own ears. He's already ordered preparations to begin."

"What nonsense!" Aris shouted.

"We must kill him at once!" Felix added.

"We can't allow it!" Cato protested.

"Acacius, let’s move and take him down right now," Octavius said, then he turned Darius. "Darius, gather all the praetorians and together we will kill this cunt tonight!"

Darius shook his head. “I wish I could, but Varus commands too many, having dismissed and suspended several of my men. They are closely observing my every move, and the risk is too great. If we were to fail, it could endanger Lady Aurelia or Publius. And, I am well aware that the Domus Tiberiana is filled with soldiers whom he chose specifically."

Marcus stood in the dim glow of flickering torches, his heart racing as silence surrounded him like a heavy shroud. He had to act, he had to do something. "I have to see her," he burst out, desperation lacing his voice.

"They've already taken her to the Domus Tiberiana," Darius cautioned.. "You can't go in there. If they recognize you..."

"She has been through worse than any of us! It’s a miracle she’s still holding on. She needs to know I’m alive — she needs to know her son Marcius is alive. I can’t bear the thought of her all alone there." His voice grew softer, filled with a deep yearning. "I just need to see her, even if only for a moment."

Darius ran a hand through his hair, contemplating. "Well, we can’t enter through the main gate, but perhaps there’s a way through the river. You know, Emperor Geta once considered imprisoning his mother, Julia Domna, there before sending her into exile." He paused, his eyes brightening with the spark of an idea. "I ordered my men to scout potential escape routes, and there’s one Varus's men are completely unaware of. It leads from the river straight to the west courtyard and then to the baths — it’s a drainage route."

"That’s brilliant!" Marcus said. "If I can navigate to the baths, I might be able to slip past the soldiers guarding the inside."

"We’ll help you," Octavius insisted, his face set with determination.

"No, we can’t draw attention. I have to go alone," Marcus protested. "I don’t intend to spill any blood; I just need to see Aurelia."

Octavius shook his head fiercely. "I refuse to send you in there alone."

"It's a risk we can't take, Octavius."

Darius glanced at him. "It certainly is, but Acacius, I’m curious."

"About what?"

"Are you as skilled at climbing as you are at fighting?"

"You doubt my abilities?" Marcus teased.

"Consider that I never asked," Darius smirked.

"What about the soldiers in the courtyard and around garden sir?" Cato inquired.

"I can handle that," Lucius chimed in, approaching them with a smug smile.

"Without detected? How?" Marcus asked, his curiosity piqued. "

"I'll explain if you allow me to accompany you," Lucius replied with a sly smile. "Besides, I'm much better at climbing than any of you.”

The Domus Tiberiana was a long-abandoned palace located in the northwestern corner of the Palatine Hill. Unlike the Domus Severiana, its entrance was not from the main road but rather further inland. It featured a large gate with iron bars, and one had to pass through an extensive garden to reach the courtyard. By the time you arrived, the slaves and guards meant to serve you were already present. When the soldiers brought you into this modest palace, especially in comparison to others, around noon, it felt as if you were entering into a cell again—only larger. The heavy thud of the door slamming shut made you feel like you were cut off from everything outside. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped like a tiger in a cage, just like one you’d seen in the dim underground passage of the Colosseum. It hit you that, much like that tiger, you were going to be used when the time was right. At least the tiger had it better, you thought; its death would be quick and decisive, and it might take a few of its enemies down with it.

But you?

You felt completely helpless against your foes, stuck with nothing but the weight of your situation. You had yet to avenge the loss of Marcus, your son, your little girl, and your brother Geta. They had all been taken from you one by one, and it felt as if you could barely breathe without them. Damn survival instinct, you thought. It wouldn't be long, though; you had to make sure Varus was dead before you could reunite them in the afterlife. Then it wouldn't be an issue to die.

That evening, as you looked out over the Tiber River from the balcony of what was supposed to be your new room, you realized how lonely you were. You could no longer trust the slaves who assisted you with changing and brought you food, nor could you rely on the guards in the courtyard and at the entrance. As you gazed at the hill ahead, thoughts of Marcus filled your mind. Just beyond that hill lay your villa and meadow, and you would have given anything to return to those days.

“If only I had stopped Marcus that day and somehow prevented him from leaving,” you sighed to yourself. Accepting the reality that he was no longer alive was unbearable; it felt as if it would swallow you whole, leaving nothing behind.

Publius' presence beside you provided a semblance of strength, much like the burning desire for vengeance within you. He was a perfect copy of his father, with the same eyes and hair, and that was all that was left of Geta. Looking at him, memories of Marcius flooded your mind. A part of you wanted to believe he was still alive, but your logic insisted he couldn't have survived the arrow.

And your little girl? You could barely bear to think of her; she was so tiny, the mere thought of anything happening to her made you shudder. Beneath all this pain, it felt as if the temple of Jupiter had collapsed, crushing you beneath its great marble pillars.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and one of the slaves entered with your permission. "My lady, General Varus is here," he said, then left the room.

General... you thought. There was only one general for you.

But this could be an opportunity. If you could be alone with him, maybe you had a chance. You desperately wished you had the knife Marcus gave you on your ankle right now. But it wasn't, and you had to deal with it in another way. Your gaze was fixed on the knife on the tray that the slaves had brought. It had been intended for cutting bread; it was small, but it would do. You picked it up and examined it. It wasn't as sharp as your knife, but if you could aim for the right spot, or stab with it... You recalled everything Marcus had taught you, trying to memorize each lesson. It was extremely difficult to plan this attack against a soldier, especially a commander. You had only one chance, and failure was not an option since you had already attempted to attack him twice before.

You tucked the knife between the fabric of your belt and checked it before leaving the room. Taking a deep breath, you left to meet him.

"You can do this, you can do this," you murmured to yourself as you walked down the corridor to the courtyard. Varus stood in the corner, examining the bust of Emperor Nero. Your confidence grew when you saw he was unarmored, wearing his official toga in shades of purple and blue. He was actually quite vulnerable, as his back was turned. However, he quickly turned around when he heard your footsteps.

“Lady Aurelia,” he said.

You averted your gaze. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I realize you don't like me, but you must respect me.”

“Respect is earned. It’s not something you get from clothes or rank. And I promise you, you'll never earn my respect.”

He grinned as he approached you. “Is that so? I'm a determined man, Aurelia. I always get what I desire; you can see that from my current position.” He continued walking towards you, causing you to instinctively take a step back. “You were something I desired, too, and I’m about to have you. Perhaps I won’t earn your respect, but I will gain something else.”

You felt nauseous as he observed your body with a hungry, wolf-like stare. Instead of slapping him, you decided to provoke him; deliberately, you took another step backward. “What is it?” you asked, playing the fool.

He looked suspicious as he kept walking towards you, and it seemed like he was enjoying it. With nowhere else to go, you leaned against the wall, standing at attention with one hand on your belt as he took another step closer. “You and everything that belongs to you,” he said.

You were taken aback when he cupped your chin in his large hand firmly. His eyes were fixed on your lips, and you knew it was the perfect moment.

You drew the knife from your belt with your right hand, aimed it at his stomach and tried to stab him there. Though not as deep as you would have wished, the knife managed to pierce his abdomen and toga. Seizing the opportunity presented by his astonishment, you lunged at him again, this time aiming for his neck. You resisted with all your strength as he held you tightly by both arms, but eventually your smaller frame was no match for his strength, and you succumbed to the struggle. But not before you cut his bare arm deep enough to draw blood. Groaning in pain, he grabbed your hair and pulled viciously, then slammed you to the ground.

"You stubborn whore!" he shouted as he stared down at his bleeding wound in shock.

The look of bewilderment on his face made you laugh as you slowly pushed yourself up from the stone floor. He came up angrily, grabbing your hair. "I won't do anything to your face to make you appear ugly at the wedding, but I promise that once you become my wife, I will do things to you that will make you wish you had never been born!"

He shouted and shoved you. You fell to the ground once more, and as your cheek pressed against the cold stone floor, tears began to flow—not because you were hurt, but because you had missed your chance.

The slaves had heard the noises, and while Varus was leaving the palace, they came to you and helped lift you from the ground. You ordered them to leave you alone and not to enter the courtyard to disturb you again.

It was so close; you almost killed him, but the opportunity had slipped away. You picked up the knife from the floor and sat on the lectus. You could never marry him—no, you could never be someone else's wife, and you could never let him touch you. Instead, death was a better option. As you looked at the knife, you actually thought it might be a good thing to take your own life right there, right now. Then there would be no princess for Varus to wed, nor for Elagabalus to use her power for his benefit. Moreover, it was the only way to relieve all your pain, you knew it.

Marcus and Lucius were being overly cautious as they sneaked along the banks of the Tiber and into the underground corridors of the Domus Tiberiana. It was a short but troubling path. According to Darius' account, they first had to pass through Velabrum and climb the walls leading from the edge of the Magna Mater temple to the south garden of the palace. Lucius was just as good at climbing as he claimed to be, chuckling while Marcus panted a little.

“If I were your age, I’d climb faster than you, I promise.”

“Or, are you complaining about your age, General?”

“Never! I’m just saying the conditions aren’t equal.”

Lucius jumped into the garden, waiting for him. “Fair enough. Where to now?”

“To Domitian's ramp. That will take us directly to the inner courtyard.” Marcus gestured for Lucius to crouch. “There it is,” he said, pointing ahead.

“This looks like a ramp with a lot of turns, and I see some soldiers.”

“Praetorians,” Marcus hissed. “I count three. No one would dare sneak in here; most of them are guarding the entrance. If we can get past these two, the others will be easier to deal with. Remember, we can’t let them see us. Killing is not an option. Knocking them out is a last resort, though I’m not sure how you’re going to do that.”

“You don’t trust me, General? You’re hurting my feelings.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t trust you, I would have come alone.”

Lucius looked at him earnestly. “I’m here for her. I’ll give you all the time you need, but remember, you’re the one they think is dead. Don't expose yourself to anyone. I won’t let her get hurt again because of you.”

Marcus gave him a stern look. “I’m already here because I can’t bear to see her hurt anymore. So stop getting on my nerves and follow me.”

“After you,” Lucius growled.

They both tried to be very quiet as they climbed up the ramp. When the first guard turned his back, they hurried around the corner, passing him and the second guard. But when they reached the courtyard, they saw two guards standing side by side in a corner. To get behind them, they would have to go around the fountain, but that seemed too risky. Just then, one of the guards moved into the garden, giving them the opportunity to approach the other guard from behind.

It was impossible to reach the other courtyard without passing him, so they had to neutralise him. Lucius poured a small vial of herbal medicine onto a cloth and, reaching from behind, forced the guard to sniff it. The guard struggled, but the overpowering scent made him lose consciousness. They quickly hid him in a nearby bush.

"Impressive, what is this?" Marcus asked while looking around.

"Hyoscyamus niger," Lucius replied. "It has a knockout effect, and this is a concentrated essence I made. He'll come to his senses in the morning."

"Good. Her chambers should be located in the courtyard beyond."

"Very well, I'll wait here for your return."

Marcus nodded, but before he could take a step forward, Lucius called out to him, “Be careful.”

“You too,” Marcus replied.

Once he reached the courtyard, Marcus noticed that it was quiet; no one was around. He cursed under his breath when he spotted two guards near the entrance, close to the stairs leading to your chambers. Although they couldn't hear him from that distance, it was still too dangerous—he needed to find another route.

As he turned toward the courtyard, he caught sight of a woman with her back turned to him. The color of her hair, how it fell over her shoulder, and her posture made his heart skip a beat. It was definitely you.

He glanced around before taking a cautious step closer. The courtyard was deserted; not a slave or anyone else was in sight. The guards wouldn’t be here at this hour, and he wouldn’t have cared if they were. He longed to see your face, to touch your skin, to hear your voice—and now, here was his chance.

As you looked at the knife in your hand, the weight of guilt for what you were about to do filled your mind. “It's just a cut,” you reminded yourself. “You know where to cut; just do it.” Taking a deep breath, you pressed the knife just above the carotid artery. “If you're alive, forgive me, Marcus,” you thought, hearing light footsteps approaching from behind. You didn't turn around; you couldn't let anyone stop you now. Marcus hadn't seen the knife in your hand and was unaware of your intentions. He pushed back his hood and smiled as he took in your appearance from behind.

“My lady...”

This voice... That velvety, deep voice that your ears had longed to hear once more. The voice you never thought you would hear again. You were so surprised that, for a moment, you forgot you were holding a knife. Your hand began to tremble, and the sharp edge of the blade cut your skin, leaving a thin line. But you didn’t care; you didn’t even feel it. Your whole body was numbed by the desire to see the face of the voice’s owner.

When you stood up, turned around, and finally saw his face, your entire body began to shake as if you were about to have a stroke. You even forgot how to breathe. As you stared at him with your mouth agape, he stepped closer and looked at you with that wonderful smile. When he touched your face with his hands, tears began to flood your eyes, followed by uncontrollable sobs. Suddenly he realised the cut on your neck, and the knife in your hand. He immediately picked up the knife.

“Aurelia, what were you doing—”

The concern etched on his handsome face took your breath away. How stunningly beautiful he looked…

“Marcus,” you whispered, still in disbelief at his presence. “Is this really you? Am I dead? Or have you resurrected?”

His warm brown eyes sparkled as they locked onto yours, radiating a sense of comfort and love. “No, my love. You are not dead, and I am not resurrected. I have navigated and dismantled all the enemy's traps and came back to you.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, you leaped into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. As he held you close, the rhythm of his heartbeat felt like a soothing lullaby, and he tenderly stroked your hair, bringing a few strands to his nose to inhale your familiar, heavenly scent. In that moment, his heart soared, relieved to be in this blissful haven once again. It felt so divine to be enveloped by his strong arms that you shut your eyes tight, praying this wasn’t just a dream.

“You never left, anyway,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “You’ve always been with me. Everywhere I turned, there you were. If my soul hasn’t departed from my body, it’s because I hold onto the belief that you are alive, Marcus.”

He ran his lips through your hair and kissed your forehead. "How could I ever leave you and our children? I would rise again, even if I died, just to look into your beautiful eyes one more time and hear your sweet voice again."

His words sent a delicate ache through your heart at the mention of “our children.” As tears streamed down your cheeks, he took your hands—still encircling his neck—and kissed them with an air of reverence. Then, he tenderly examined the cut on your neck, his gaze filled with concern.

“My beautiful princess,” he said softly, “I see the pain you’ve endured and the wounds in your heart. I have come to cleanse you of all your suffering and heal your wounds.” He then kissed your lips with deep longing.

As you reluctantly pulled away from the kiss, your heart ached with the weight of unspoken fears. “Marcus, our son... our daughter... I couldn't protect them,” you confessed, your gaze drooping as despair clouded your vision. But to your astonishment, you watched as a warm smile spread across his lips. He leaned closer, brushing his lips against yours once more, tenderly, almost reverently. “They’re alive, my love,” he reassured you.

He pressed another kiss to your lips, savoring the moment, realizing just how deeply he had missed the look of sweet surprise on your face, every subtle gesture, every intricate detail of your being.

“Is that true?” you asked, hope creeping into your voice.

“It’s true, my love. Believe me, my darling."

Suddenly, a huge smile spread across his face, and your sobs turned into giggles as you hugged him again. It was almost as if all your wounds had healed; you felt alive once more.

“Thank the gods, Marcus. It’s so good to touch you again, to be wrapped in your arms. With you here, I feel complete,” you breathed.

He held you close, pressing you tightly against him, resting his chin atop your head as if anchoring you both in that perfect moment. “So am I, my love, you are my reason for being. Forgive me for being late; I will never let you suffer such pain again,” he promised with a fierce intensity.

“Now that you’re here, touching me, all my pain has vanished,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the warmth of his presence.

A playful grin spread across his face, and he leaned down to claim your lips once more, kissing you deeply, passionately, and with an abundance of love. As he pulled you closer, he lifted you up and spun you around, your delighted giggles ringing out like music in the courtyard.

But the enchantment was abruptly shattered as you heard footsteps approaching, dragging you back to the bittersweet reality of your surroundings.

“I can’t let them see me,” Marcus said anxiously.

“Hide over there,” you said pointing to the space behind the column. He lovingly kissed your hand before finding his hiding spot.

One of the guards stopped when he saw you. “My lady? I heard a noise. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, you can return to your post. I will retire to my room now,” you replied, a calm authority laced in your voice.

He dipped his head in respect, turning on his heel and walking away. Once he was out of sight, you turned to Marcus. “Come with me.” You took his hand, your grip firm as if afraid you might lose him if you didn't hold on tight.

Marcus smiled as he walked beside you, admiring your beautiful face. His heart felt light as he accompanied you to your chambers, a smile dancing on his lips.

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[blindmagdalena]

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell. 

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you. 

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself. 

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out. 

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you. 

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin. 

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls. 

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me! 

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise. 

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies. 

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

 “I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress. 

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight. 

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring. 

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water.  You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips. 

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip. 

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone. 

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. 

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all. 

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement. 

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release. 

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt. 

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits  back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are.  He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly,  shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you.  You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab. 

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation. 

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm. 

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure.  “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

[joelmillerssexyyounggirlfriend]

Dust & Desire

You’re a lonely farm girl, alone and forgotten on your father's land. Though he promised to return, months had passed since you had seen another person. One day, a handsome and quite injured stranger breaks into your home. It doesn’t take long for him to win you over, despite the circumstances.

Disclaimer: Joel isn’t a great person in this story (very intentionally). Unreliable reader, coercion, etc. Word count: 7,874. Part of a three-part story (hopefully).

Warnings: 18+, explicit, coercion if you squint, MDNE!!

The crickets quickly became your closest companions, greeting you when you were alone at night. Just you, a garden, and a couple of cattle your father abandoned. You had counted every single day, etching a mark into the frame of your wooden bed. It had been 243 days - exactly eight months - since you had seen your father or anyone for that matter.

Your parents purposely created a farm hidden away from predators, human or animal alike. Growing up on the ranch had been divine; fields of flowers as far as the eye could see. Cleaning your horse, Daisy, once your father allowed you to ride. It was wonderful until it wasn’t.

Your older brother had gotten wrapped up with a gang of prospectors going to the Old West for gold. After hearing rumors that your brother had caught a ghastly illness, your father ran off on his own horse. He told you to take care of yourself until he returned and ensure you did your best.

It had been lonely, farming for a home that was missing two of its occupants. You regularly sat at the dinner table alone, with nobody except the old barn cat you had allowed to keep you company. You’d named him Boone. His dusty blond cheeks were fat from years of fighting, his ear clipped and whiskers scraggly.

You thought he looked absolutely perfect.

Boone was purring on your chest late one night, with you breathing in the earthy smell of his fur. The crickets kept you up, much louder than normal because of the hot summer air. You were thankful that your crops had grown so well since Spring, making you confident you'd have plenty of food once your brother and father returned.

The white cotton slip you were lying in stuck to the flesh of your body, sticky with sweat. Boone lying on you wasn’t helping with the heat you were feeling, but you felt too bad to move him. Instead, you prayed that a breeze would blow in from the open window. You had picked up a bad habit of leaving open windows since the hot days started. Your dad would’ve had a cow if he knew, claiming that the worst creatures come in at night.

“Ol’ rattlesnakes, scorpions, and much worse, bandits.”

You listened to him for the most part, but sometimes, the reminder slipped your mind. Plus, you'd survived alone for so long. You were safe.

Finally, you were drifting between a place of consciousness and sleep, a breeze rustling the fabric of your curtain. You had grown familiar with the feeling of sleeping alone. Having Boone made things a little easier.

In your sleep, you heard the sound of the floorboards shifting. The squeaking made you jump straight up in the mahogany bed. You sat with your sweaty palms pressed against your thin bed sheets, with Boone jumping off the bed, meowing in displeasure.

Boone's footsteps padded down the hall, the whispering wind harmonizing with his little steps. Maybe you had misheard the sound, the heat from the summer making your head a little bit lighter than usual.

But then you heard it again. What appeared to be the sound of a cabinet opening. You stepped out of the bed, carefully pressing your toes against the floor as you tiptoed over to your father's rifle. It was loaded since he made you promise to always keep it ready to go. You stepped outside of the room with the rifle held close to your chest, aimed forward to knock down any intruders.

You knew about the gunslingers and robbers. You didn’t usually get them around your parts, but you had heard about them. Rapists, murderers. The kind of people who lacked humanity.

When you walked down the hall, you noticed the flickering light of the candle near the bathroom. Could your father possibly be home?

Not dropping your guard until you were sure it was safe, you continued to step down the hall, stopping outside the cracked bathroom door. With the door shut, whoever was in the bathroom had to sit in the bathtub right behind the door.

You could only make out the sight of cowboy boots and blue jeans. A pile of medicinal items—your sewing kit, needles, and gauze—was nearby. The sounds of grunting could be heard, but the voice was deep and unfamiliar.

Standing tall, you pressed the barrel of your rifle to the door to open it, looking down at the man who was stitching his wound shut in your bathroom. The bathroom window was wide open, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself for your ignorance.

The dark-haired man eyed the gun first and you second, the hand that wasn’t piercing a needle into his skin raising in defense. He was shirtless, defenseless, and had no opportunity to take power over the situation.

“Hey now, firecracker. Why don’t you put that down for me?”

His voice was gruff and heavy, and all you could think about was how different he was. He definitely wasn’t from around here; his accent was much too deep, and his skin was much too tan.

His beard was dark and thick. And his chest, lord help you, was covered in dark hair that went all the way down to his happy trail. There was a deep gash on his stomach that he was stitching shut, a wound that matched the many other scars on his chest.

The sight of a shirtless, much older man, a handsome one, sitting in your bathroom made your neck warm. Your gun wavered slightly in fear, still pointed directly at him.

“What’re you doing in here?” you asked, your fingers clenching the trigger. You hadn’t practiced aiming, much more preferring to perfect your lavender tea recipe. You got the gist of it, having grown up watching your father shoot coyotes in the field.

The handsome stranger gave you a non-comforting grin that felt much too fake and mocking. “You even know how to use that thing, sweetheart?”

You raised it up higher. “Wanna find out? And I’m not your sweetheart.”

You were proud that your voice didn’t falter, and your threat was effective from how his face fell. He seemed surprised by your confidence, which probably also scared him.

He had a scar on the bridge of his nose, which seemed old and was caused by a deep gash. It was interesting how a simple scar on his face made him much more handsome.

You had never been around a man before, not since you were a little girl, and you were not entirely educated on what it meant to be a woman.

His very large palm was covered in blood, and you were finally noticing that the blood was running down from his stomach to his jeans. Whatever had happened looked serious.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” you stated simply, gesturing at his injury. He laughed sarcastically, the mocking sound not even angering you. He was much too handsome, and even while losing consciousness, he could make your heart race.

“Yeah, I noticed that. You gonna put that gun down and let me finish, or are you gonna put me out of my misery?”

You both glared at each other, talking yourself through what you needed to do. You could kill him then and there, and you knew that you had it in you. But on the other hand, he was a person. You hadn’t seen a person in ages.

You lowered the gun, slowly. “Make me regret it, and I’ll shoot you dead. I mean it.”

Though your voice was soft and your cheeks were round, you knew that your words held a strong threat. The handsome intruder nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You propped the gun next to the porcelain sink, in arms reach of you and out of the way for him. Taking the typical womanly role of aiding an injured man, you crouched before him. You plucked the needle out of his blood-soaked hand and started to work on cleaning his wound.

“What’d you do to get this?” It wasn’t a bullet wound but it definitely resembled something of a dagger stab. Jagged and small, silent but deadly. He was lucky it didn’t stab any major arteries.

“I’m afraid it’s too harsh for your pretty ears,” he brushed off. Flattery would get him nowhere, despite how much it made your gut twist.

You went a little heavier with the pressure of your sewing, making the stranger grunt in pain. “Don’t be a smartass when I’m sticking you with a needle,” you said.

He chuckled again, his dark eyes watching you. Growing up as the only woman around two men, you learned quickly how to assert yourself. They taught you how to be strong, how to bite back.

“Sorry. It’s just a real long story. If you let me rest here for the night, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. Promise.”

You sniffed, frowning at him. You finished stitching his wound, reaching over to grab a cloth to pour alcohol on. “I’m not sure I trust the word of a strange man who snuck into my home.”

He looked over to the open window. “I didn’t break anythin’, not that it makes it better. I’m not a bad man; I just got caught in a mighty awkward situation.”

He waited for you to respond, but your response was pressing the alcohol-soaked cloth into his wound. He hissed and watched you through clenched teeth.

“Name's Joel Miller,” he grunted out. “What’s yours?”

You sat back on your knees, a displeased look on your face. Though you weren’t entirely sure you could trust him, with the way his wound was looking, he didn’t seem to be much of a threat.

Muttering out your name, you finished patching him up, finishing it off with gauze wrapped around his stomach. Being so close to the warmth of his skin, the smell that could only be described as manly was fogging your brain. You wrapped him up as quickly as possible so you could get away from him.

You stood up, grabbing your rifle. “You can spend the night, but my Daddy and brother are returning tomorrow. You gotta be gone by then.”

Yeah, you were lying, but it was putting pressure on Joel. God only knew who this man truly was - he could be one of the ones your dad had warned you about.

But when you looked deep into Joel’s eyes while you tended to his wound, it made your brain a little fuzzy and your guard a little low.

“I’ll be out of here in no time, sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Joel said, trying very hard to keep up his cheeky grin. It was evident that the pain was taking a toll on him, and though you want to warn him that flattery will get him nowhere, you grant him grace.

“Come on. This is as good as it’s gonna get. I can show you the direction of the town in the morning.”

Joel nods, standing up from the tub. His massive size almost made you reconsider letting him stay the night - all muscles and legs. He was practically towering over you, making you fight the urge to shrink into yourself. Despite not being a visible coward and not running away in fear, Joel still looked at you in a way that felt like you were transparent.

His eyes softened in the reflection of the lamp light, and suddenly you could feel the pulse of your core in your throat. He was awfully handsome, a gruff man compared to the men in your life. They were always clean-shaven, well-groomed, but Joel on the other hand was all man. A thick beard and long hair that fell down and around the outline of his face. You wanted to run your fingers through it.

“Follow me,” you managed to say without stuttering, grabbing your gun and the bathroom lantern that Joel had lit to use as a guide. You glanced back at the mess in the bathroom - you’d clean it up in the morning.

Joel followed you and the lamp's light down the hall until you reached your brother's room. You gestured to the bed, showing Joel that he could sleep there. “I’ll change the sheets in the morning after you leave. Don’t worry about getting blood or anything on them. They’re old anyways.”

He nodded, not saying much in response. He was hiding his pain well, but not enough to where you didn’t notice it. You felt bad, but there wasn’t much you could do. Perhaps in the morning you could run out to the garden and make a salve for him to take on his way to town.

“Well. Goodnight then,” you said, moving out of the space. You didn’t feel entirely comfortable sleeping alone with a massive man in your house, so you’d probably hold on tight to your gun tonight. You were almost out of the room when he spoke.

“Thank you,” you heard Joel say, making you stop in your tracks. You turned to him, your body shifting. It was still a little warm in the house, the summer air stuffy and unforgiving. But somehow, under the gaze of Joel’s watchful eyes, you felt your nipples hardening. The thin material left nothing to the imagination, and you quickly could feel Joel’s eyes rest on your chest.

You sucked in a deep breath, unintentionally making your chest rise and fall in one swift motion. He was riling you up with zero effort; god, you were easy.

“You’re welcome,” you squeaked out, running out of the room before you could embarrass yourself any further.

You didn’t stop your rapid movements until you reached your room. Boone was back on your bed, stretched across the spot where the moonlight streamed through your window. You shut your bedroom door behind you, locking it.

How were you supposed to sleep? You had two things making your heart pound - a stranger sleeping in your home and a handsome one. It made you think about the temptations of the devil that your dad mentioned time and time again. Some things were natural, but some things were sinful. You were sure that thinking about the way Joel’s spit would taste in your mouth was a sin.

So, you didn’t sleep. You sat at the chair in the corner of your room, your gun nearby, and read by the lamp's light. After a while, you grew curious about what Joel was up to. If his pain had grown worse or better.

And you wound up standing next to his bedside, watching him sleep like some pervert. You were certainly going straight to hell.

He was sleeping heavily, likely due to the adrenaline from his wound. Joel’s chest would rise and fall rhythmically, only accentuating the stretch of muscles.

Your fingers were reaching out to ghost over his chest before you could stop it. Your fingertips ran through the hair sprinkled across his body, tracing a trail from his stomach to his chest. It was coarse, thick, catching on your fingernails.

They ran up his chest, to his neck, stopping when they hovered over his plush lips. You tried to talk yourself out of it, but you were soon touching the soft skin, using two fingers to run along the shape of his lips. The feeling of his breath fanning against your fingers made a chill rush down your spine.

It was like touching a sleeping beast. You were a strong woman, but he was a man. One who was used to being on his own. If he lunged at you, you were sure he would win.

You wondered what the heavy cock between his legs would feel like if you ran your fingers across it. You never felt like such a woman before, watching this sleeping giant stretched out under your roof.

You had never been intimate with a man, much less one of this stature. You were convinced that you would end up dying alone, thrust into the role of your mother. You were there to support your father and your brother. Your concerns did not matter.

But now, touching Joel proved you could dabble in the finer things. You’d only even orgasmed once, obviously by your own hand. You felt so guilty afterward that you prayed, unaware of the bliss you would reach when you played with yourself for the first time.

Your hand reached out to touch his hair, which was splayed against the pillow under his head. You could see the grays that started blooming from his temples and streaking through the rest of his hair. It was soft despite Joel's roughness. His hair was long and wavy, resting on his broad shoulders.

He had to know how attractive he was. You were sure he had mistresses in the towns he visited - saloon girls bickering on who would sleep with him next.

And then there was you, a shy, farm girl who hadn’t even ever kissed a man. But he was before you, exposed, and you couldn’t help when you reached down and touched the soft skin of his belly. Joel was hot to the touch, your hand snapping back just as quickly as you had touched him.

His eyelids fluttered in his sleep, making you step back quickly. Your wooden floor groaned beneath your bare feet, but luckily, Joel did not wake. You stood silent, watching this mysterious cowboy stretched across your absent brother's bed. It was odd, yet somehow comforting to know that you weren’t all alone.

After you made it back to your own bed, you prayed that God wouldn’t punish you for being somewhat of a pervert. You slept for a handful of hours before returning to Joel’s room once the morning sun had risen. He was awake, thankfully, but he looked intense. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, making his hair stick up in odd places.

Joel noticed you walk in, planting a fake smile on his face as he tried to sit up. He choked back a deep groan of pain, holding the injury to his chest with his large palm. You rushed over, awkwardly standing near him, uncertain as to how to help.

“Good mornin’ to you too, sunshine,” Joel grunted, shooting up a toothy grin full of obvious pain. He appeared to have a fever; his wet hair stuck to his forehead. It was much different from the night before; his pain was a lot more developed.

“Stay here. I’ll go grab a few things from the garden to make a salve. You’re in no shape to walk to town right now,” you explained, your hand ghosting over his bare shoulder. You wanted to comfort him, but the thought of your hand pressed against his sweaty skin made you tremble.

He watched you, seeming as if he wanted to object but decided against it. “Okay. Thank you.”

You nodded simply before leaving him so you could grab everything. After feeding Boone a meal of leftover scraps, you grabbed some rosemary in the garden. You got to work mixing oil, herbs, and a few other materials that you had on hand before heading back to where Joel was lying.

Thanks to his fever, he seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Growing up with men, you were used to nursing them back to health. There were countless times when your father had gotten injured on long supply runs to towns that were further out. It was a skill that you were grateful for.

You sat on the bed beside him, trying not to wake him. Once you began pulling back the fabric wrapped around his waist, he stirred, glancing up at you. You hadn’t seen the look yet - of anger, of power. It made you jump back, scared that maybe you had granted a dangerous person the opportunity to sleep in your home.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You just caught me off guard,” Joel apologized, shifting in the bed. “Met quite a lot of evil people out there. Not used to bein’ ‘round someone like you.”

You paused, eyeing him. He could’ve hurt you plenty of times the night before. You felt like you could trust him.

So you moved forward, pulling off the cloth and preparing it to be cleaned. You tried to avoid acting as concerned about Joel’s injury as you felt inside. It looked bad, but scaring Joel would do nothing. You might as well do all you can to make him feel better.

“And what exactly am I like?” you asked while you cleaned his wound with a wet rag, trying to distract him by talking. Plus, you liked the way he wanted to flatter you. It was cute.

Joel hissed at the feeling of you dabbing him but still spoke. “Someone who would let a stranger in their house. Someone kind.”

You tried not to let his words affect you. Instead, you cleaned his wound and rubbed a thick layer of salve over the injury. Even though he was flinching under your touch, you knew that in a couple of days, the wound would get better. Joel would have to rest, but you were sure he would pull through.

“I haven’t seen much of what’s out there,” you admit to Joel once you finish. “I grew up here with my dad and brother. My mom, she-“ You stopped, unsure if you were ready to share everything with Joel. Just because he was friendly didn’t mean that you could entirely divulge your life story to him.

“Well, anyway. I guess I haven’t had much opportunity to be anything but who I am.”

Joel nodded, reaching out to place his palm over yours. It made your thighs clench and your pulse stop, your eyes moving up to his. He noticed your hesitation, slipping his palm away as quickly as he had touched your hand.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah… maybe that’s a good thing.”

The room was silent for a moment before Joel spoke once more. “So, when is your daddy gettin’ back? Am I gonna have a shotgun pressed against my skull once he sees me in here?”

You blush, realizing that you can’t wiggle your way out of it. “Oh, did I say today? It should be by the end of the week. Enough time for you to heal up and head to town.”

You didn’t allow him to question anything by cleaning up when you finished talking. You were sure Joel saw through your lie but didn’t press into it. Truthfully, you were starting to worry that they weren’t returning. You’d never been left alone for so long…

“I’ll make breakfast. You need to regain your strength,” you said, smiling. The moment you left the room, you swallowed your tears, trying not to break down. Crying over it wasn’t going to make a difference. All you can do is be positive.

While making dinner and bringing it to Joel, you hear a voice from where Joel is lying. You checked to ensure nothing would burn while you quickly stepped away. You glanced through the crack of your brother's bedroom door, seeing what Joel was doing.

Boone was curled up next to Joel’s side, purring so loudly that you could hear him from where you were standing. Boone, the little cheater, meowed up at Joel, begging for affection. Joel took his large index finger and scratched under Boone’s chin, making the kitty meow in bliss.

You were slightly jealous of Joel, easily winning over Boone, but it took you three months to leave out meat and give belly rubs. You were also envious of Boone, receiving affection from a man you quickly grew enamored over.

The three of you fell into a routine. It had been four days since Joel had arrived at your home. You applied the salve every day, and you could already see an improvement in Joel. He wasn’t ready to go off alone and still needed your help.

Which led you to your next predicament. Joel’s sheets were still covered in blood; it was time to change them. And Joel desperately needed a bath - not a sponge bath in the bed, but a bath with soap and hot water. And you, the only one who could stand without falling over, would have to give it to him.

A man. A man who wasn’t your father or your brother. You weren’t going to make it.

But for whatever reason, you still helped him into the bathroom where you had already filled the tub. The room was becoming warm and steamy from the water, which was not helping. Your body was hot to the touch, and you were overly aware of how sweaty your hands probably were on Joel’s bare back.

He was still undressed waist up, but now you were tasked with removing his pants. You had grown familiar with seeing Joel’s upper half, toned, tanned, and covered in dark hair. You were moving into new territory, awkwardly assisting him with removing his pants. His buckle had been removed for a few days so he could be more comfortable in the bed, so it was easy to unzip his jeans.

“Careful there,” Joel said as you worked his jeans and boxers down his long legs. You had pressed into his side slightly, making him jump. You were trying to be careful but being face to face with Joel’s half-hard cock was making it hard to concentrate. He held onto the tub while he stepped out of his dirty clothes.

You stood back up to hold him, helping him into the hot bathtub. He groaned when he sat in the tub, his bones creaking from the lack of movement for days on end.

“You got it, cowboy. Just hold onto me,” you whispered, working him into the tub. Once he settled down, his large body filling up the porcelain tub, you did your best not to look at his naked frame. Instead, you grabbed some of the goat's milk soap you made, placing it into Joel’s palm.

“I’m going to change your sheets while you wash up. I’ll come back in a little bit.” You exited quickly, trying to escape the hell that was Joel Miller’s presence.

You used changing his sheets as a distraction, trying to extend it for as long as possible. You had just finished getting the last wrinkle from the bed sheets when you heard him call your name. Taking a deep breath, you followed his voice to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact when you stepped in.

“I need your help. I can’t really wash myself below the waist. It hurts to move too much,” Joel explained. You were silent, only nodding when you approached him. You were trying to be modest, to not complicate the situation, but to play the role of the caring woman. It’s what you have heard your entire life.

You knelt beside the tub, taking the soap and rag from him. You lathered the cloth before working on Joel’s calves and feet. They were tanned and strong, obviously used to strenuous labor. It reminded you just of how powerful Joel probably is when he’s healthy. All muscles and height, a cowboy that could scare any robber straight.

His legs were hairy and coarse, hard underneath your palm. You were getting the sleeves of your dress wet with how long you were stalling. The idea of moving up his body made you stop breathing, uncertain of how you were going to make it through cleaning all of him.

Joel noticed that you were stalling, easily reading through the shyness that you possessed. It was embarrassing that you could have an orgasm thinking of him, but actually touching him made you freeze up. He was much older than you - you could tell by the crinkles around his eyes and the gray patches in his beard. His age was intimidating, the thought of his experience making your toes curl beneath you.

“You can touch it, y’know. I don’t mind,” Joel whispered when you stalled by cleaning his upper thighs for way too long. You weren’t sure if the sexual innuendo behind his words were legit or completely in your head. You held your breath as you cleaned around the length of his cock and the bottom of his balls. You were doing your absolutely best to look away but were failing miserably.

He looked unbearably hard, red, and leaking at the top. Apparently, the feeling of you bathing him was too much to handle, and he hadn’t noticed how excited he had become. Your fingers trembled against the rag, your jaw becoming slack at the sight.

“You ever seen one, sweetheart?” Joel rasped, his cock flexing against the pressure of the rag. You tried not to jump as you shook your head no, unable to form a coherent sentence. All of your sexual fantasies felt like they were coming true, some filthy man here to ruin you and your body.

“Wrap your hand around it. See if you can fit your fingers all the way around.”

Your head snapped over to look at Joel’s eyes, to see if he was messing with you. You couldn’t imagine that he’d want someone like you - a quiet farm girl, young and inexperienced.

Joel’s eyes were hungry, pleading with you to try it; touch his dick. Find out how good he could make you feel.

You watch Joel, trying to build the courage to touch him. With a deep breath, you try to imagine that you’re dreaming, that there is no way that this is happening. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, not even able to close it entirely, you realize that it is very much real. The heat of his skin and the weight of his cock proves that it’s real. And if that’s not enough, the deep groan Joel exhales says everything. This was very much real.

“J-Joel,” you whisper, the velvety skin of his cock pulling back and forth on his tip. His foreskin swallows up the tip before you pull it back down, watching his pre cum escape his cock. You had never been so turned on in your life, the wet sleeves of your dress matching the wetness between your legs.

“You’re such a good girl, takin’ care of me like this. If you keep bein’ this good, I’m gonna have to make you mine. Make you my wife and then fill you up of me. Let everyone know that you belong to me.”

You were the one moaning now, gasping at his ridiculously filthy words. Your hand was moving up and down rapidly, jerking him off into your palm. His hips were matching the rhythm of your hand, hips stuttering when it got a little too sensitive.

You couldn’t imagine being married, much less pregnant. You always imagined that you’d stay home on the farm, taking care of your family. But then, you’d met Joel, and he’d given you a new sense of meaning. Of protecting.

“You don’t mean that,” you whimpered, running your thumb along the sensitive part of his tip. He grunted at the feeling, his hand that was able to touch you grabbing your back.

“Keep touchin’ me like that and you’ll find out real soon.”

Your mind was buzzing, wondering if maybe you’d gone crazy from being alone for so long. There was no way that you were actually touching a man double your age like this.

And suddenly, that was it. Your hand jerked back, prompting your entire body to move backward. You slammed into the wall behind you, the feeling of coming to your senses much too overwhelming.

Joel shot up in the tub, looking at you in concern. You were quite obviously a mess, sprawled out on the floor, your dress wet from the bath water, and your hand that was jerking him off extended into the air. It was as if you were trying to keep it away from you, in disbelief that it was just wrapped around his cock.

“W-we, we can’t do this. This is inappropriate,” you whined, quickly standing up and running out of the room. You felt like such a child, embarrassed and hiding in the comfort of your bedroom. But, you were also confused. Being left alone for so long, you had created this desire to feel wanted, cherished. Joel didn’t want to give you that, you weren’t stupid. He was trying to take advantage of you, trying to-

“Hey.. you alright?”

You jumped at the sound of Joel’s voice, noticing that he was standing in your doorway. He was wincing in pain, stupidly leaving the tub alone just to talk to you. You breathed in a shaky breath, glancing down anxiously.

“You shouldn’t have gotten out by yourself.”

Joel huffed, grunting as he used the door frame to support himself. “Yeah, well, wasn’t quite sure if you were even comin’ back.”

You crossed your wet sleeves across your chest. “I wouldn’t have left you there.”

The air was thick with tension, and it didn’t help that Joel was standing with only a towel around his hips. Your eyes kept drifting to his toned chest, and even with his injury, the sight of his body made your toes curl.

You wanted to explain yourself - to set clear boundaries. Joel couldn’t just control you, make you bow down to his every whim. But as soon as you opened your mouth to speak, you froze up, uncertain how to stand up to him.

“Do I make you nervous?” Joel asked plainly. The gruffness in his voice made you tremble, and you knew from how he spoke that he liked that he made you nervous. If he wasn’t injured, you’re sure he would’ve held much more intensity in his stance, but he could hardly stand on his own.

“Ask me when you can take a bath alone,” you said. “Let’s go get you dressed.”

Having to let him use you as a makeshift crutch wasn’t the ideal scenario after jerking him off in the tub. The close proximity of his wet chest pressed against the side of your face made things that much worse, but you managed. You helped him into the bed, grabbing some of your father’s clothes for Joel.

You were thankful he was silent when you dressed him, but you could still feel his eyes watching you. Even when the towel dropped and his semi-hard cock was revealed to you, he was silent but watching. Your hands trembled when you worked undergarments up his body, trapping his cock once more.

When he was finally fully clothed and lying back on the bed, it was as if a bomb had been diffused. You dressed his wound, which was healing nicely, thank the Lord. It made you proud to know that you could still provide, even if Joel wasn’t exactly who you anticipated taking care of.

When you stood and tried to quickly exit, Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m sorry ‘bout earlier. You’re right, I took it too far. I just can’t help myself when I’m ‘round you.”

Your back was to Joel, allowing you the opportunity to get control of your emotions. This unknown, strong man practically begged you to make him feel good. You were a virgin, never exposed to this sort of pressure before.

“Why can’t you?”

Unable to resist, you looked back at him. The evening light was streaming through the sheer bedroom curtains, painting Joel like some ancient God. His tan skin, probably due to working hard in the desert, practically looked gold under the sun. He was entrancing, some awful temptation sent by Beelzebub himself to test you.

Joel’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the look in his eyes making your legs feel like jelly. His voice was gruff when he finally spoke. “‘Cause you’re so damn tantalizin’. It’s hard to keep my eyes off of you.”

Good Lord.

“Stop saying stuff like that,” you ordered, tired of Joel’s relentless teasing. His expression darkened, almost as if he was offended that you would talk to him in such a way. The look made your palms shake, feeling like a gazelle being watched by a lion.

“Why? You stand there, actin’ like you’re all high and mighty, but darlin’, I see how you look at me. I can hear your heart beatin’ from all the way over here. All I want you to know is that if you want it, then don’t be scared to take it.”

You suddenly felt like you hated him, hated his heavy words and the way he could see right through you. You had been nice to Joel, helping him and tending to his wounds out of the kindness of your heart, and this is what you got in return? It wasn’t fair that this experienced, gorgeous, temping man was dropped into the palm of your hand.

“Goodnight, Joel. Get some rest. I think the pain is messing with your head.”

It was unnerving to talk back to Joel, but knowing that you could stand up to him felt good. The wooden floor in the hallway was warm against your feet, thanks to the evening sun heating up the house. All you wanted to do was finish the chores and read in the lamplight. You knew, though, that it would be absolutely impossible to focus. Not with Joel lying just down the hall.

After you finished rounding up the chickens into their pen and feeding Boone, you took a bath. Climbing into the tub after filling it with water made your face warm and thighs slick. You remembered how Joel looked in the tub, his long legs stretched out while your hand played with his cock.

“Jesus,” you whispered breathlessly, shifting in the water. It took everything in you not to reach in between your legs because doing so would be just the same as giving in. You wouldn’t let Joel control you, not without putting up a fight.

You were good. You didn’t touch yourself and made it out of the bathroom dressed and dry. And you were proud until you walked past Joel’s room. He was sitting in the bed, petting Boone with a small smile on his face. You knew he wasn’t a sweet, kind man who could be sweet to your cat. He had a dark and manipulative side, and even though it should have bothered you, it made your pulse quicken.

It was stupid, but you found yourself walking back into the room, this time in a nightgown and a book in your hand. You sat in the old rocker adjacent to the bed, reaching over to turn up the flame in the lantern. The book, L'Education Sentimentale, was heavy in your hands as you opened it, flipping to the first page.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader,” Joel said, looking over at you. He didn’t seem as unhinged as before; instead, he appeared worn out.

“Good thing I’m the one reading.”

You didn’t allow him to complain, immediately reading aloud. Even Boone’s ears twitched, his chunky face turning to look at you.

“On the 15th of September, 1840, about six o'clock in the morning, the Ville de Montereau, just on the point of starting, was sending forth great whirlwinds of smoke, in front of the Quai St. Bernard.” You paused, waiting to see if Joel would stop you. He didn’t.

“People came rushing on board in breathless haste. The traffic was obstructed by casks, cables, and baskets of linen. The sailors answered nobody. People jostled one another. Between the two paddle boxes was piled-”

Joel suddenly cleared his throat, making you stop reading to look up at him.

“What?” you asked, waiting for Joel to speak since he clearly had something on his mind. His lips were spread into a grin, and his sleepy eyes were full of amusement.

“Is this that book about the kid who tried to sleep with a woman twice his age?”

Your face was warm, and you did not notice your horrible choice in your book selection. You didn’t even know what it was about - your father collected most of the books you owned. The boredom of being alone motivated you to go through them individually.

“I thought you weren’t a reader?”

All Joel did was shrug, continuing to smile. You considered getting up and walking out, but Joel suddenly shifted on the bed, lying down with a groan. He moved to his side, saving plenty of space for Boone, and looked up at you.

“I wasn’t complainin’. Keep on, I like listenin’ to that pretty voice of yours.”

Your voice trembled when you started again, Joel’s compliment shaking you. He was just so smooth, full of confidence and ease.

“A-alright,” you stumbled. “At last, the vessel set out; and the two banks of the river, stocked with warehouses, timber-yards, and manufactories, opened out like two huge ribbons being unrolled.”

Reading to Joel was relaxing you, the once tense air dissipating the longer time passed. You had almost made it to chapter two once you noticed that he was snoring softly. You were reminded of the previous night when you watched him sleeping, so peaceful and seemingly harmless.

Standing quietly, you placed the book on the nightstand next to Joel. How beautiful he looked made no sense, his long lashes casting a shadow over his face. You wanted to reach out and touch him, touch this dangerous creature who could easily tear you apart.

Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, pulling it to you slowly. Boone glanced over at you, jumping off the bed and leaving the room thanks to your movement. Joel didn’t stir, worn out with the day's exertion, which motivated you to continue to raise his arm. Your palm wrapped around the back of his large hand, lacing through Joel’s fingers.

You hissed as you placed his hand against your breast, his hand flexing instinctively. Even in his sleep, he was a horny bastard, not helping your situation in the slightest.

Your nipple peaked against the inside of his palm, pressing on his skin when you dragged his hand down your breast. His fingers brushed against your chest, down further to your stomach, slipping across your bladder. It felt like a hole was being burned through the cotton of your nightgown, a trail of heat following his ascension.

You swallowed, watching Joel’s hand press against the top of your pubic area. You pressed his palm down, applying pressure that made you whimper in pleasure. What you were doing was wrong; you knew that, but you felt like you couldn’t control yourself around Joel either.

You turned his palm in your hand, slowly inching his fingers to the heat of your opening. The tips of his fingers brushed against the cotton of the underwear you had stitched together yourself.

“F-fuck,” you whispered, feeling his fingers move against your clit. Your hips bucked into his limp hand, pushing against his fingers. This was simply sinful, using a sleeping man to reach a climax you didn’t even earn.

But it felt so good. And when you looked up at Joel’s face, watching him sleep so peacefully, it made you feel a little less guilty. He wouldn’t know. You’d let yourself orgasm, get it all out of your system, and be on your way.

You could feel his fingers against the wet spot that was growing in your panties, a deep groan leaving your lips at the feeling. You glanced back up at Joel, knowing that seeing his handsome face would bring you to the edge. You didn’t expect to see Joel looking back at you, an expression of disbelief on his face.

“What a bad, bad little girl. Could take one look at you and know that you’re a whore.”

Now that he was conscious, he didn’t let you use him like a toy. Instead, he played with your clit himself, his two fingers brushing against your pussy relentlessly. He still had a tired look on his face, but he was very much awake.

“I’m not a whore,” you tried to explain, but Joel huffed, sitting up slightly.

“Is that so? Wanna explain why you got my fingers pressed against your wet cunt, or you got some sort of alibi there too?”

You didn’t even try explaining yourself; you couldn’t. Obviously, you were using Joel to get yourself off, and you just wished he’d shut up and do it.

“Be quiet,” you growled, rutting your hips against his hand. He chuckled but listened to your command, letting you use his fingers to pleasure yourself. You continued to roll your hips, even when he pulled your underwear to the side.

His index finger traced the outline of your opening, spreading the collected wetness around. You’d never had anything inside of you, much less a man’s fingers. You weren’t sure if you were ready, mouth about to open to explain to Joel that you were nervous.

It was too late, and soon Joel’s index finger was pressing into the wet heat of your pussy. You stretched around him, feeling his finger probing around inside of you. It was a distinct experience that made your jaw slack and eyes widen. You couldn’t pull your eyes away from the sight of Joel actually fingering you.

His finger curled slowly, going easy on you. The deep pressure inside you was already becoming too much, your toes curling against the wooden floor beneath you. You could feel the electric warmth spreading from your pussy, blooming throughout your entire body. You were buzzing from head to toe, ragged breaths leaving your mouth before you could even realize it.

“Just takes one finger to shut you up, huh? Why didn’t you tell me, pretty girl?”

And as much as you wanted to beg him to shut his mouth, you couldn’t. The pleasure was building, and your jaw was permanently slack. Your eyes were locked on the scene of Joel fingering you, obscene squelching noises coming from where you both connected. The moment that Joel slipped in another finger, you were finished.

“J-Joel,” you cried, reaching over to support yourself with the nightstand. Your body shook, threatening to collapse as lightning struck your entire being. You felt like you were on fire, unable to breathe or form logical thoughts. Joel didn’t stop, his fingers going in and out, in and out, until you had to pull his hand away from you physically.

Your hair hung around your face, much closer to Joel than you anticipated. Fuck, you wanted to kiss him so severely, taste the man that was Joel Miller.

But you were a coward. So instead, you breathed out a measly ‘sorry’ before running out of the room.

Joel was ruining you. You lay in bed, unable to sleep or think without his face flooding your thoughts. Everything about him was like a sickness, infecting you, rendering your body and mind useless.

Even though he hadn’t hurt you, you knew everything was bound to escalate.

Things had to stop.

[only-lonely-star]

hi! Can you do ponyboy x reader who is his girlfriend and when they are at his house they go to his room and make out with the door shut and Darry told them to never close the door then he gets up to check on them and bursts in and gets soo mad and the gang tease them so bad and think its hilarious

⁠♡ Caught ⁠♡

~ Ponyboy Curtis ~

Warnings - Nothing explicit !! This is a lighthearted story with cute and funny moments. Mention of slight drinking from the older greasers, nothing more. Puppy love-type kisses are mentioned.

Summary - You and Ponyboy have been dating for a good while when he decides to sneak you around and bend the rules for a kiss. That master plan gets shut down awfully quick.

Author’s Note - This is such a cute request, thank you!! I had so much fun writing this. Enjoy!! 🫶🏼

Word Count - 1.8k.

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You were Ponyboy’s girl. While his brothers, Darry, and Sodapop, along with the rest of the gang - felt that this was nothing but puppy love, it sure wasn’t. Ponyboy had established his feelings for you a couple of months back, leading to a sweet and romantic relationship. He would walk you to class, write small poems about you, and brush his fingers through your hair the few times you were granted privacy. It wasn't common for you two to be granted this privilege…his oldest brother, Darry was rather protective. He set up strict rules to never shut the door, and to keep in public areas. He would be fuming if he walked in one day and caught sight of you two kissing. That was for grown folks.

“Come on,” Ponyboy grinned cheekily, holding your arm and gently tugging you to his room.

The rest of the boys were scattered around the Curtis house, smoking, cracking jokes, and baking their notorious chocolate cake, admired by all of the boys. Ponyboy was positive not a single person would notice you two slipping away.

You giggled, hiding the obvious blush on your cheeks by covering your smile with your free hand. “Pony, this is so risky!”

He was smiling from ear to ear, simply just eager to have his first kiss. He'd been plotting and planning this exact moment for a while. Kissing you was his dream.

“Is not,” He retorted playfully, quietly stepping past the kitchen with you behind him.

This was perfect - Darry, Steve, and Sodapop were all occupied with that cake. Mixing the batter, pouring it into the glass pan, and then waiting for it to finish before adding icing would be more than enough time for you two to kiss.

You stepped inside his room, your eyes wandering around before spotting a photo of a horse pinned to a small bulletin board over his desk. You gasped, heading towards the photo for a better look.

“Ponyboy, I didn’t know you-!” You began to gush, Ponyboy shooting you a glare, his eyes wide. The simple hand gesture of his index finger being brought up to his lips to silence you was enough of a warning.

You stood there quiet as a mouse, glancing at the door once more to see if you’d been caught. Ponyboy took his sweet ole time trying to close it- ensuring no creaks or sudden loud noises were made. He shut it and let out a deep sigh of relief that he didn’t hear Darry’s insensitive and irritating holler going, “Keep it open, come on Ponyboy!”

He stepped to where you had ventured off towards his desk. The look on his face said it all, excitement, passion, and love. He awkwardly placed the palm of his hand onto your hip, the soft fabric of your skirt sending his heart into overdrive. He smiled at you, clearly giddy from this exciting moment.

“Are you ready?” He asked, glancing down to the bed to end the awkward stance you two were in.

You nodded eagerly, ready to have your lips on his, a way to seal yourself in this relationship with him - puppy love or not. Ponyboy gently ushered you to sit on his side of the bed, following after you. He picked up one of your hands and held it firmly between his. The touch was warm and protective.

“I’ve always wanted to do this…” Ponyboy admits with a smirk, his green eyes focused on yours intently.

“Me too,” You said in response, the butterflies in your stomach winning you over.

Ponyboy smiled, feeling his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. He leaned his head forward, your face mirroring his expression of parted lips. You felt his hand cup your jaw in an instant, the other still gently holding your hand in your lap. He didn't seem too experienced, but neither did you. You went along with his actions, pressing your lips onto his. The kiss sent a wave of yearning for more through the both of you. Ponyboy pulled his face away momentarily, his eyes sparkling as he peered into yours. His smile only seemed to grow, knowing he’d shared such a sweet moment with you.

All you managed to get out to him was a small exhale before you leaned back in to close the distance. Your eyes shot closed, the only sound being your lips grazing against Ponyboy’s. He grinned against your lips, deepening the kiss further. The kiss ended every couple of seconds just before your lips connected again. The feeling was both addicting and alluring. In this moment, Ponyboy was too caught up in the moment to put a stop to his actions. He kept leaning closer and closer until you’d been pushed so far back that you rested on the mattress beneath you. Ponyboy didn’t stop yet. The kiss only intensified from there, his hands holding him up above you as they rested on both sides of your head.

That door which Ponyboy swore would stay closed flung open, Darry standing in utter surprise. The wave of complete shock quickly turned to anger, Darry’s hand on the doorknob squeezing the life out of it. “What in the hell are you doing?!” He cried out, the immense anger he felt starting to take over.

Ponyboy instantly pulled away from you, leaving you lying on your back, the tender feeling of his kisses remaining on your lips. You sat up as well - feeling scared, guilty, but most of all - embarrassed. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d get caught the first time you'd tried kissing Ponyboy.

Ponyboy scrambled to his feet and helped you off the bed. His eyes were wide with fear. The stern glare Darry shot your way was enough to remind you to keep quiet.

“Don’t you knock?” He asked with irritation laced in his voice. Ponyboy let out a deep sigh of annoyance and paced around the area.

Dallas and Two-Bit, the self-proclaimed ‘jokesters’ of the group came running up behind Darry, peeking their heads over his shoulder to find out what had happened. The grins on their faces said it all.

Darry was too occupied trying to holler at his little brother to even care. “This door stays open. I don’t know what you were thinkin’ trying to sneak off in here!”

You sat there, scared out of your mind. Ponyboy retrieved a cigarette from his hand and quickly lit it up to help alleviate his own fear and anger.

Dallas was first to speak up, his lips forming an O-like shape as he whistled lowly. “Caught kissin’ already?” He chuckled dryly, finding genuine amusement in this humbling experience for both you and Ponyboy.

Two-Bit pushed past Darry, stepping inside the dimly lit bedroom. It was obvious he'd been laughing his ass off this entire time. His reddened cheeks gave it away. “I’ll be damned, kid, never thought you’d get a girl this early on.”

Ponyboy shot a glare his way, letting his more aggressive side slip right in front of you. He brought the cigarette from his lips and exhaled the smoke out in a huff of agitation. “Early on? You’re eighteen and still don’t got~“

“Ponyboy~” Darry’s cold voice spoke up again, some of the anger subsiding within him, “I think you best let me drive her home.”

He grumbled, cursing lightly under his breath. He noticed your frightened expression, placing a hand to the small of your back before letting out a deep exhale of frustration. “She can stay for cake.”

Darry couldn't argue on that, he came in to notify the two the cake was almost finished anyway. He stepped outside of the bedroom, Two- Bit following along, giving you and Ponyboy a bit of space after the tense moment. Everyone else was buzzing around in either the kitchen or sofa.

“Hey,” he spoke gently, his hand rested on your shoulder.

You looked up to him with a faint smile, your eyes wide and doe-like.

“Ignore ‘em,” he said with a small peck to your cheek, a bold move but an affectionate one. He gently applied pressure to your body, gesturing to step out of the room.

Once the two of you made an appearance in front of the others, they all grinned and nudged each other with a teasing smirk.

“Heard all about that little ‘kiss’ you two had,” Sodapop smiled softly, finding the situation both amusing and endearing.

This time, Ponyboy held back his smartass remarks, keeping them in his head to protect the peace. You felt small tug on your arm, turning your head to stand face to face with Two-Bit crouched down to your level. “So when’s the next little get together, hm?”

Before you could utter a real reply, he burst into laughter, finding himself to be the most hilarious guy known to mankind. “Lay off,” you snorted, your gaze shifting downwards.

Dallas returned with a few beers in hand, the bottles cold and slightly dampened from the condensation that had formed. He made his ways around the living room, handing one out to each of the guys, Darry, Sodapop, and Johnny declining.

“After seeing that, Darry, I think you might need one,” Dallas nudged him with the cold beer bottle to his bicep.

Dallas shot a glare at him, sighing before reluctantly taking the beer from his hand. “Maybe I do,” He chuckled dryly, cracking it open to take a his first swig.

Ponyboy took your hand in his, sitting on the sofa feeling a bit ashamed. He’d been told before to keep to himself and have that damn door wide open if you were alongside him. You didn’t mind the scandalous adrenaline rush of the kissed you’d shared earlier - you still craved more of his lips. The only part you disliked of this eventful night was the constant teasing. Sure, it was a little funny, but you’d never admit that… not to Ponyboy anyway. You snickered to yourself quietly, glancing to Dallas. “Got one for me?”

Dallas’s expression only seems to turn more amused than before as if this night couldn’t have gotten more entertaining for him. The others chuckled, Steve and Sodapop nudging each other like a bunch of drunkards with the occasional giggle escaping their lips. Darry shook his head and downed another sip of the beer just to add onto the teasing. The smirk on Dallas’s lips didn’t go unseen. “Sure I do,” Dallas joked, causing even Ponyboy to crack a smile.

“Come on, you can’t stay embarrassed about this forever,” You coaxed, half teasing and halfway with genuine affection. Your hand gave him three small squeezes, indicating the words ‘I love you’. He mimicked your gesture, his eyes meeting yours briefly.

“I guess…but next time we ain’t sneaking around at home,” He replied with a long and deep sigh. “We’ll go somewhere else,” He whispered lowly, that same cheeky grin on his face telling you exactly what would go down.

[protagaster]

Part 1 of the Warrior!Penelope Swap AU

Just a heads up, some of the vignettes in this AU will be structured around the songs in the musical, and some will be short stories detailing the events of the Odyssey (like the prequel did)

Credit to Tumblr users @vioofc and @too-much-flynnolium, for their own ideas surrounding their warrior!penelope AUs led to inspiration for mine!

(Cross-Posted on Ao3)

The Horse and the Infant

After 10 years of war, of battle and bloodshed, the Greek army has finally gained the upper hand against the Trojans. 

From within her Wooden Horse, Penelope vows to do whatever it takes to end this war once and for all. Whether she is truly up to the task, the Gods will see… 

Growing up in Greece, children were taught to beware of Pandora’s Box: though something may appear to be enchanting on the outside, what it hides within could bring devastating consequences. 

Penelope was thankful the Trojans did not heed the warnings behind this tale. 

The people of Troy underestimated her and her armies, for no greater reason other than the fact the majority of them happened to be women. The Trojns assumed Greece to be in a dire state, for why else would the Greeks have to resort to sending their women to fight in their men’s stead. 

As expected, most of her feminine comrades were offended by this notion. Penelope, however, ever so brilliant in all her schemes and plots, saw an opportunity to finally turn the tides of war in their favor. 

Everything went according to plan, just as she knew it would. 

The Trojans didn’t even think twice when they saw the Greek warships sail away from their land. They assumed Greece’s women soldiers’ to have surrendered. An inevitably, really, seeing as the resilient Patroclus and indestructible Achilles fell only days ago. This left the Trojans cocky, feeling invincible, to the point they did not question the mysterious “gift” left at their gates. 

They brought the beautiful wooden horse into the heart of their palace, not knowing their very own “Pandora’s Box” was about to be unleashed upon their formidable city… 

Penelope let out a deep, steady breath.

Inside that very same wooden horse, her comrades sat patiently by her side. They squirmed anxiously, their clenched fingers fidgeting on the hilt of their weapons. The eyes of her sisters-in-arms were hungry with scorn, their red and gold armor eager to be stained with Trojan blood.

Penelope looked at each and every woman who had chosen to place their trust in her in a time when morale was exceedingly low. The Queen of Ithaca’s confidence had never been higher.

The night was silent and the atmosphere calm. There would be no perfect moment rather than now. 

Penelope stood. In her posture she managed to portray the grace of a queen, the intelligence of an Ithacan, the strength of a Spartan, and the anger of a mother. 

Her comrades, women who fought both willingly and not against their society’s expectations to stand by her side, mothers and daughters who were forced to part with their families and futures over the course of 9 years, they gazed up at their Captain with only the highest of respect and admiration in their eyes. 

After all, it was only with her leadership that they had all managed to survive up to this point. 

Penelope held her head high, addressing her comrades, her friends, her sisters. 

“Alright my sisters, listen closely.” She spoke to them in a hush but commanding voice. “Tonight, we make the Trojans pay.”

Penelope gestured to the war map on the wooden floor, one that was first created by the King of Ithaca himself, of which his queen had spent years carefully and painstakingly adding onto to ensure its complete accuracy of the enemy grounds. .

“These years of war have killed us slowly, but now we'll be the ones who slay!”

Penelope’s eyes dulled in the middle of her speech, her mind momentarily retreating into its most sacred place: home. An olive tree bed. 

“Think of your husbands and your children!” 

Almost all the women grew angry, recalling with vivid memory how many of their spouses were now permanently maimed and broken because of the Trojans, how their children were forced to grow and mature without their mothers, all because of this damn war. 

“Your families wonder where you've been! They're growing old and yet you're still here,” 

Penelope couldn’t help but look at her hair, not as dark or vibrant as it once was 9 years ago. She couldn’t allow this war to go on for another decade. Not after so much time has been lost already. 

“Do what I say and you'll see them again!”

“Yes ma’am!”

The women snuck out of the wooden horse, moving with as much quiet and stealth as they were physically able. Each soldier remembered her role, of what Penelope had ordered of them.

“Aegiale will lead the charge!” 

“Clytemnestra will flank the guards!”

“Helen of Sparta will let our mates through the gates to take the whole city at large!”

“Eune will shoot any ambush attack,”

“And little Glauca will stay back!”

“Eury, free Menelaus and the others!”

“Hermy, avenge your father, kill Hector's home and brothers!”

“Yes ma’am!”

Penelope watched from the shadows, beaming with pride at the success of her army. 

Her plan was coming to a monumental success. The Trojan warriors, men trained in the art of combat from the moment they could walk, were being hunted from the shadows, one by one, as if they were nothing more but lambs for the slaughter. 

Slowly but surely, less and less guards roamed the stone halls, their bodies now lying against each other in a hidden corner of the palace. The palace walls, once an elegant and expensive marble white, were now stained with the vibrant stains of war-front red. 

Troy was now vulnerable. 

“Find that inner strength now, use that well of pride!” Penelope reminded her sisters. “Fight through every pain now, ask yourself inside: What do you live for? What do you try for? What do you wish for? What do you fight for?”

Every woman reminded herself of why it was she fought, their answers different but ranging deep within themselves. 

“What do you live for? What do you try for? What do you wish for? What do you fight for?”

Penelope crouched near the horse's hidden exit, one hand positioned strategically over the hilt of her signature spear. She prepared herself to jump out, ready to join the others in their assault, but paused at the last second. 

Penelope’s mind rang from her own question, though her own answer was quick to fill her thoughts.

Penelope took a moment to stare down at the helmet she held in her other hand. It was made special, just for her, with a metal said to be difficult to procure but inherently indestructible. She remembered when it was given to her, only a day before she was forced to leave her home. 

She could never forget the tearful gaze, apologetic and filled with love, of the man who gifted her this helmet. 

Oh how she missed him. 

“Odysseus…”

How she longed to see those intelligent brown and silver eyes once again. 

“Odysseus…” 

She couldn’t help but recall one of her most favorite memories of him, the time those eyes beamed with pride as they fondly looked down at the very symbol of their love. 

“And Telemachas…” 

Her baby girl, whom she had only known for a single year. What did her baby look like now, 9 years later?

“I fight for us…” 

This was for them. 

“I fight for us!” 

Fighting in this war, aiding her cousin, empowering her fellow woman, following the whim of the Heavens themselves. All of it was for them!

Not for Greece. Not for the Gods. Not even for her. 

For them.

What do you live for?

“Odysseus.” Penelope whispered to herself. 

What do you try for?

“Telemachas.” Penelope stared at her reflection from the helmet’s surface. 

What do you wish for?

“I'm on my way,” Penelope placed the helmet over her head, finally taking hold of the very spear that started her down this path. 

What do you fight for?

She was going to end this. 

Now. 

“Attack!”

The Greek army made themselves known when they jumped out for the shadows, startling the Trojan warriors unlucky enough to be missed during their secret infiltration of the palace. 

Penelope and the others wasted no time inflicting their carnage upon the once untouchable Kingdom. The Trojans were startled at first, raking their desperate minds to try and figure out how their indomitable palace could have been so easily infiltrated. 

Despite their frenzy of thoughts, it did not take long for the guards to ready themselves. They were determined to keep their Kingdom from being painted with even more of that familiar battlefield red. 

But it was all for naught. 

It did not matter that the Trojan warriors were male. It did not matter that they were bigger, stronger, and therefore more durable than their female counterparts.

For the Trojan soldiers fought to maim, whilst the Greek soldiers fought to kill.

Every night for the past nine years, so many of these women recalled through nightmares how they were forced to watch their husbands leave, only to return one year later with their bodies shattered and spirits broken. They recalled that feeling of loathing and helplessness, unable to even think about avenging their men until permitted by the desperate Gods. 

They remembered the shame on their husbands’ faces for not being able to protect them from fighting in their stead, remembered how their children cried and pleaded for them to stay, for the younglings were unable to bear the thought of both parents being destroyed by the war. 

No. Troy had every chance to end this war. Now they suffer just as Greece has, for even the Gods have sealed the kingdom’s fate. 

Tonight, Troy will die.  

Penelope, having snuck inside the main court of the palace, speared the throat of one of the Trojan guards attempting to slice the back of one of her girls. 

There was only a small army of them within that finite space, both Trojan and Greek alike. The majority of the Greeks fought at the gates of the palace, keeping their adversaries from storming the vicinity.

The warriors fighting by Penelope’s side, only her most trusted sisters-in-arms, worked together to keep themselves and each other alive. Using their many hours of intense training, innate battle prowess, and the blessings bestowed upon them by Ares and Artemis, the women had achieved what was previously thought to be impossible: gaining the upper hand against the Trojan men. 

Bodies littered the dance floor of battle, all of them of Troy. Through Penelope’s strategy, not a single Greek had fallen.

However, as she speared and cut down her enemies, Penelope couldn’t help but notice the Trojan soldiers began fighting sporadically. Something about their movements seemed…off. It was as if they were desperate to keep her and her comrades from infiltrating the palace any further. 

But why? 

Suddenly and out of nowhere, Penelope felt a sharp sting to the back of her head. 

“Ahh!” She collapsed to her knees, rubbing her head to try and find some relief from the dimming pain. “Who was that?!”

Quick to recover from her bound of shock, Penelope threw herself back to her feet and gripped the hilt of her spear. She was prepared to defend herself against the Trojan foolish enough to strike her. 

What her eyes fell upon, however, was not one of the large and daunting men of Troy. 

It was a peahen. 

However, Penelope knew right away this was no ordinary peahen.

She was not a modest brown like the rest of her peahen kin. No, this one’s feathers were bursting with the vibrant blue and green shades so often seen and associated with her male equivalents. The feathers atop her head had the appearance of a crown, her eyes glowing an eerie white and gold hue. 

Somehow, against all logical sense, Penelope found herself more fearful of this fowl than she had ever felt against the Trojan armies. 

“A vision…” A voice suddenly echoed in Peneleope’s mind, one that was feminine, deep, and so full of overwhelming power. 

Right away, Penelope knew instantly that the voice was coming from the Peahen. She spoke the same way Penelope herself would when sitting upon her throne, addressing her loyal subjects. 

“Of what is to come, cannot be outrun. Can only be dealt with right here and now…” 

At that moment, Penelope realized the true identity of the mysterious peahen. 

Hera. 

Queen of the Gods. 

Mother of the Heavens. 

“Tell me how.” Penelope asked of the great queen.

“I don't think you're ready…” 

The peahen was honest with the mortal queen, yet continued with her divine declaration.

“A mission. To kill someone's son, a foe who won't run, unlike anyone you have faced before…” 

The peahen walked with grace in every step as she spoke, silently beckoning the mortal to follow. The disguised Goddess led the Greek to a secret staircase, the very thing the Trojan were trying to hide. 

Penelope instantly understood what the God-Queen was commanding of her.

“Say no more!” Penelope ran up the stairs, confidently holding her spear in anticipation. “I know that I'm ready!”

“I don't think you're ready…” 

Penelope pushed the double doors at the end of the stairs open, eager for her spear-point to make contact with Trojan flesh and to finally end this damn war once and for all. 

She would not have been surprised to see a bulking man waiting for her behind those doors. After everything she’s gone through in the past 9 years, Penelope genuinely thought herself to be immune to the kind of surprises the Gods could think to throw at her. 

Unfortunately, the Gods never did follow the whims of the mortals they ruled over. 

There was no man standing behind those doors. In fact, no one stood behind them at all. 

There was only a cradle. 

Penelope’s eyes widened. 

‘What…?’

Unconsciously dropping her spear, she walked over to look inside the beautiful blue bassinet. 

There he was. Not a cruel man filled with the sin that came with living a conscious life, but a babe. Innocent, pure, sleeping with not a worry in the world. 

“It's just an infant…” Penelope couldn’t help but hold her hand out, stroking the child’s untainted cheek. “It's just a boy…”

The baby leaned into the warm hand caressing his cheek. He recognized the hand of a mother. 

“What sort of imminent threat does he pose that I cannot avoid?”

The peahen, perched on the ledge of the window in front of the babe’s cradle, spread her wings and flew into the sky. 

“This is the son of none other than Troy's very own Prince Hector!”

Clouds began to surround the flying peahen. They wrapped themselves around her, slowly covering the beautiful bird in foggy, white mist. Within seconds the peahen disappeared. In place of where she once hovered now stood a perfectly shaped mass of clouds formed into the appearance of a tall, beautiful, regal woman.

Commanding the clouds around her with a flick of her wrist, the woman shaped one of them into a tiny baby. The cloud-baby morphed, transforming into the figure of a large and daunting adult man. 

“Know that he will grow from a boy to an avenger! One fueled with rage as you're consumed by age…“ 

The cloud-man brandished a large and misty sword, slicing at smaller clouds shaped into a crowd of defenseless people. 

“If you don't end him now, you'll have no one left to save!” 

Hera commanded her clouds to begin filling the room, surrounding Penelope and the cradle at every viewpoint. She modeled the clouds into the form of a very beautiful, very comforting, very familiar man. 

“You can say goodbye to-”

Penelope’s eyes widened, staring at the face of the man she’d long to see for the past nine years. The man whose life she cherished far more than her own. 

Odysseus… 

This cloud-Odysseus, more detailed than any of the other cloud creations Hera had created, stared longingly at the Greek woman reeking of blood. He smiled, that oh-so familiar and beautiful smile she had wanted nothing more than to see for over a decade.  

“You can say goodbye to-”

Odysseus…

The cloud-Odysseus gazed down at the baby in the cradle. There was this look in his eyes, this immediate fondness, coupled with a desire to cherish and protect. 

Penelope knew this look well, for it could only be known by a fellow parent... 

No! 

Penelope couldn’t do this. She is a mother! Her role in life was to treasure and protect children, not discard and kill them! 

“I could raise him as my own!”

“He will burn your house and throne.” 

No… 

No! 

Penelope can  find a way!

“Or send him far away from home!” 

“He'll find you wherever you go.”

There has to be another way!

“Make sure his past is never known!” 

“The gods will make him know.”

Why is Hera doing this? Why can’t she understand!? Penelope she–she just can’t do this!

The mortal threw herself down, bowing before Hera in a desperate final plea. 

“I'd rather bleed for ya, Down on my knees for ya-”

“He's bringing you down on your knees…”

The Queen of Ithaca couldn’t hear herself, the Queen of the Gods overpowering everything inside her. Thoughts, voice, spirit, it did not matter. 

“I'm begging please-”

“Oh, this is the will of the gods!”

Hera’s voice boomed. Commanding. Declaring. Inevitable. 

Penelope could only shake her head, slowly and in disbelief. Her chest felt heavy and constricting, making every breath a difficult and pained one.  

…how…

“Please don't make me do this…”

How could she be expected to do this? Something so evil, so cruel? 

Something so–so…

Monstrous?

“Don't make me do this…”

Penelope didn't know when she began to weep, only coming to the realization when her tears splattered on the cold, hard ground. 

Without warning, Penelope felt a hand being placed atop her bowed head. She expected the hand to be heavy with pressure, a force that reminded Penelope of her place and who it was that stood before her. It would make the most sense, given the Goddess reputation among the mortals she oversaw. 

But, to Penelope’s surprise, she quickly realized this hand was not a stern one. It was gentle, with the fingers even lightly stroking Penelope’s curls in an almost…sympathetic manner. This hand, once commanding and brimming with devastating power, now offered an ironic sense of comfort. 

From one who was also a queen.

A soldier.

A wife. 

A mother. 

“The blood on your hands is something you won't lose…” 

The sensation of the hand’s presence on her head slowly began to disappear, along with the many clouds surrounding Penelope’s person. 

The cloud-Odysseus, whose eyes Penelope couldn’t bear to meet, took hold of her chin. This hand, as large, calloused, and scarred as she remembered it, held her with a firm gentleness she knew was reserved only for her. He tilted her head up, compelling her to meet his gaze. 

Again, Penelope recognized the look he was giving her. It was the same one he always gave her: eyes filled with a warm and comforting love, filled to the brim with pure adoration. Some may even call it worship. 

“All you can choose is whose…”

The cloud-Odysseus faded away, still gazing at her with those eyes until he was fully gone with the wind. 

Would the real Odysseus continue to look at her that way, knowing what she was about to do? 

.

.

.

Penelope waited. 

…

Nothing. 

Hera’s presence was no more. 

All that was left was Penelope, blood-soaked and guilt-ridden, and the baby, still sleeping with not a worry in the world. 

Penelope said nothing. She could only stare at the boy, the very symbol of innocence before it was tarnished. 

.

.

.

Slowly, soundlessly, Penelope picked the boy up. She cradled him gently in her arms, similar to the way she held her own baby after bringing her into the world. She wanted to make sure he was comfortable. 

Then, without a word, Penelope made her way to the roof of the palace. 

[gracieheartspedro]

Cool About It

joel miller x fem! reader

Description: you've only patrolled with him a couple times, which made you kind of hate him. but after a night of subtle flirting at the tipsy bison, tons of alcohol, shooting pool, and making fun of some guy's tattoos, you realize you're really into joel. after you get him, you realize maybe you shouldn't want him.

Part 1/3

PART TWO IS HERE

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: MINORS DNI! this is 18+, post!outbreak joel, drinking, playing pool(?), possible age gap (not specified really), very smutty, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, joel is a menace a bit, ellie is also a little shit haha

hi lovers, how's it going? this is going to be a three-parter, inspired by Boygenius' song "Cool About It". it's gonna be smutty in all three parts so be ready (: please reach out if you have any requests or just wanna talk! I'm friendly I promise lmao

Met you at the dive bar to go shoot some pool

And make fun of the cowboys with the neck tattoos

Ask you easy questions about work and school

I'm trying to be cool about it

Feelin' like an absolute fool about it

Wishin' you were kind enough to be cruel about it

Tellin' myself I can always do without it

Knowin' that it probably isn't true

You keep your head held high while you walk into the Tipsy Bison, the only bar in Jackson. You were not familiar with the walls of the establishment, but the plan was to get out of your comfort zone. You were good at being a social outcast, and Maria, the only friend you had here, told you to try to break out of your shell. 

So here you are, at a bar. 

Immediately you recognize a couple of familiar faces, including the Millers. 

Tommy and Joel were the patrol leaders for Jackson. You always felt comfortable around Tommy. He was more laid back and funny. On the couple of patrols you did with him, he always made sure the time went by quicker. While serious in times that are pressing, he brought light to darker situations. Maria, his wife, was the first person to introduce you to life in Jackson. She got you set up in a house by yourself and had you start patrolling when she realized you were an excellent shot. She was kind, always making sure you were looking out for yourself and invited you to family dinners sometimes.

Joel was different. 

Very quiet and deadly serious when he was speaking. He made you feel insecure about your abilities, always double and triple checking things behind you. You couldn’t bring your own horse out of the stable without him checking your pack and ensuring you packed extra bullets. 

“You never know what’s out there, girl,” He would tell you. 

You find an empty seat at the bar. Only one seat away from Joel. 

The bartender approaches you, asking what you’d like. You gesture towards Maria.

“Whatever she’s havin’.” 

Maria finally takes notice from beside Tommy and waves at you with a huge smile plastered on her face. It warmed your cold little heart. 

“Hey pretty lady,” She hops out of her chair to give you a half hug, “Glad you are doing this.”

Tommy was looking at you from beside Joel, a smirk playing on his face.

Joel stared forward with no emotion, not even daring to glance your direction.

“How’s it goin’?” Tommy asks, scooting his chair back to begin his way over to you, taking a spot next to Maria. 

You nod, “It’s going.”

“You were on that patrol with the raiders a couple days ago, right?”

He was referring to two days ago when a couple of shitty raiders took down your partner’s horse and almost shot you through the back. You guys got the upper hand, of course. You never went without packing two guns, so you had quickly slid off your horse to find cover behind a downed tree and used a hunting rifle to take two headshots. Your partner wasn’t so lucky. He was an older man and he fell hard when his horse went down. You had to race back to Jackson getting him into the infirmary as quickly as you could. Turns out he broke his arm and a couple of ribs. He would be off patrols for awhile. 

“Sure was,” You reply, “Luckily Eugene got out with just a broken arm. I was happy to be there for him.”

Before Tommy could reply to you, Joel quips up. 

“He told me you got both of the guys between the eyes,” He mumbles, “That true?”

You shake my head positively. You didn’t even want to speak to him in fear that you’d say the wrong thing. He would overanalyze you at the drop of a hat. 

“That’s impressive,” Tommy remarks, “Glad you got out of it unscathed.”

“My girl here is a badass,” Maria pats your shoulder, “Glad you are doing better. I know you were a rattled a bit.”

You take a sip of my drink, noting the intense burn, “Yeah, me too.”

You guys make more small talk, mainly about some recent patrols and what you found. You try to act interested, but the truth was you wanted to go home and read. Your mind was better occupied with made up stories than the stories that were playing out before you in real life. 

“I think we should get home to Ian,” Maria says to Tommy, referring to their newer son. He was about five months now, very cute, and chunky. He resembled your nephew before the world stole him and his mother from you. So you always refused to hold Ian, knowing it would send you into a spiral as soon as his little fingers found yours. Maria understood, telling you she knew exactly how you felt. She’s felt loss like that before, too.

“Ellie probably wants to be relieved of her cousin duties,” Joel grumbles from beside Tommy, “Poor girl doesn’t know what she agreed to.”

“Ian’s sleepin’,” Maria says putting on her coat, “She is probably bored.”

“Tell her to head home when you see her,” Joel comments. 

You have met Joel’s girl more than once. She was kind of stand-offish, intially. Now that you’ve met her a couple times, she was more chatty and goofy. She was a spitfire towards Tommy, which always made you laugh. 

From what you understood, Joel had a daughter before the outbreak. Tommy and Maria keep her name on a little memorial above their fireplace, with Maria’s son’s name scribbled beside hers. You didn’t know the backstory behind Ellie, but you realized the last time you were around all of them, she doesn’t call him dad. Just Joel or old man. Maybe she adopted?

Maria pulls you out of your thoughts, nudging you a bit. 

“Stay awhile, have another drink.”

You nod giving her a gentle smile, “I will. Get home safe.”

“See you around, girl,” Tommy says, giving you a half hug. You turn back to face the bar, noticing Joel’s still sipping on his whiskey. 

You two sit in awkward silence when they leave, not saying much to one another. You drink your second round quickly, calling over the bartender for another one. Joel says he wants the same. Once you get your pours, he finally decides to talk again.

“You still with that one guy?”

You look at him curiously, not sure who he’s talking about. You rack your brain trying to figure out who he’s referring to and then it hits you. 

“Kendrick? Oh no, he’s not anything,” You respond. 

Kendrick was one of your patrol partners. You two hooked up once and realized it was too weird. He was younger than you, which didn’t mean much. But that was a huge factor in his performance. He wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t know what foreplay was, which meant the sex was dry and not pleasurable in the slightest. 

“It seemed like something the other day,” Joel notes, “Wouldn’t stop staring at you at the town meeting.”

You could not help but notice the slight venom in his tone. 

“Interesting you’re taking notice to other guys who look at me. You jealous, Miller?”

He turns to you finally, his eyes a bit glassy. The whiskey was making him bold, you could tell. 

“Just observant,” He remarks, “He doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Oh, now you know my type?”

He shakes his head at your response, “I imagine you like them a bit older than him.”

Maybe you were overanalyzing the situation, but it seemed to you that Joel Miller was flirting with you. You felt like he was suggesting you were into him. 

Truth be told, you did like them older. You liked a rugged man who was a bit of a mystery. You also liked assholes. All things Joel Miller was. So maybe you were into him.

You lean in to speak to him quietly, “Are you trying to suggest something?”

“Not at all,” He murmurs, “Just answering your question. Am I wrong?”

You purse your lips, “Not wrong.”

Another awkward silence. 

“Wanna play some pool?”

You furrow your eyebrows, not knowing how to respond. You think his goal was to change the subject and avoid more silence. So you just nod, hopping off your barstool. The two of you make your way through some occupied tables to the one empty pool tables. You grab a stick while Joel starts to corral all the balls and set them in place.

You’ve played pool before, but you were never good. Your ex found a pool table once while you two were traveling and he spent hours teaching you how to play. It led to a screaming match. You decided after that, it just wasn’t for you. 

Joel was patient, watching you line up the white ball and hit it with hardly any force, not breaking up any of the balls. You just shake your head in disappointment. 

“You ever play?”

“Yeah, I just suck.”

“Fair enough,” He replies, taking his shot. You guys go back and forth. You getting no balls in the pockets, him getting all the balls in the pockets. 

You ask him about patrols he’s been on recently, trying to make light conversation. You really just wanted to see if your conversation would lead back to where it started. 

It didn’t. 

Instead you two got more rounds of drinks and played more pool. He became more chatty, standing behind you every time you tried to take a shot, giving you advice here and there. Once you stood straight up after finally getting a ball in a pocket, he leaned in a bit. 

“You see that guy over there?”

He gestured towards an older gentleman at one of the far tables. He seemed like the type to have a Confederate flag hanging outside his house. He also seemed like the type to call a woman a slur if they turned down his advances. Maybe you are just a bitch and assuming all of this. Or your assumptions about a man were right, per usual. 

You turn to Joel, glancing up at him. He was close, his face centimeters away. 

“Mhm?”

“He’s got all those tattoos,” He looks towards the man again, “The one on his neck is a skull with one of those Native headdresses. Looks fuckin’ dumb.”

The way he says it sends you into a fit of giggles. He starts to laugh, too. It was the first time you saw him genuinely smile and damn did it look beautiful on him. His eyes crinkled a bit, his shoulders falling in a very relaxed way. 

You finish up your round of pool and decide it’s time for the both of you to retire back to your houses. Conveniently, your house was right off Rancher Street just like his. You grab your coat off the one barstool, watching Joel put on his. 

“We are going the same way, do you mind walkin’ with me?”

“No problem.”

-

You two walked side by side, your steps almost in sync. It was much darker now, the sun set hours ago. You felt like you went through a time jump. You didn’t feel like you spent tons of time at the Tipsy Bison. 

Joel’s house is before yours on the street, so when you arrive in front of his steps, he stops completely.

“Here’s me,” Joel mutters, “You comin’ in?”

“Should I?” You question, stupidly.

“Well I invited you, so yeah,” He suggests, “You should.”

He walks in front of you, reaching for his front door. His house was comfy and warm. Looking around, you could tell he kept it well maintained. It was clean, only a couple dust bunnies lined the hallway baseboards. He had pictures on the walls and blankets littering the couch.

“I ain’t done this in awhile,” He says, sliding his boots off at the front door. You follow suit, not really taking in the words he said. He stares at you carefully, waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry, what exactly?”

He approaches you slowly, his demeanor shifting. He looks down at you, his stature a lot bigger than most of the men you’ve been with, you note. He was broad and brilliantly tanned. His dark chocolate hair was speckled with grays. He had some fine lines on his face, especially where he furrowed his eyebrows 24/7. 

“Brought a girl home.”

His brown eyes grow ever darker, his arm enveloping you for a moment. You don’t pull away, letting him bring your body closer to his. You feel butterflies in the pit of your stomach, something you’ve not felt with a man in years.

“Feelin’ a bit rusty?” You suggest, your hands resting on his chest.

“Don’t know about that,” He mutters, “Do know I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while.”

His comment takes you back, completely sobering you up. The warmth from the alcohol subsides and you blink at him for a minute.

“What do you mean, a while?”

His face centimeters away from yours, again. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, having to get on your tiptoes to do so. 

“Meanin’ every time ’m around you, I think of how amazing your ass looks in those jeans.”

Your heart skips a beat. 

“You’re only now telling me this, Joel?” You ask, playing up that you were annoyed. You were kind of, because what the fuck, you could’ve had him sooner?

“Didn’t think a pretty young thing like you would want me,” He says, “Now I know better.”

He leans down, his lips hardly touching yours. You assume he’s waiting for your move, so you give in first, capturing his lips against yours. It was gentle at first, until he takes notice to how you’re pulling him down further.

He deepens the kiss, pressing your back against one of the walls nearby. His lips were soft, his mustache tickling you a bit. He adds tongue seamlessly, feverishly grabbing you everywhere. Your hips, lower back, your butt. 

I can’t believe I’m making out with Joel right now. 

Your brain stops for a moment when you realize one thing you never thought about before. Where’s Ellie?

It brings you out of the kiss. You pull away slowly, trying not to alarm him too much.

“Is Ellie home?” You mutter, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. 

He looks to the side, glancing out the back window. 

“Probably, but she stays in the garage out back. She has uhm,” He gestures towards the backyard, “Has a whole set up in there. She never comes in here, don’t worry.”

It reassures you enough to bring him back into the kiss. His hands return to your waist, pulling you closer. You couldn’t help but grip his arms, feeling his muscles through his long sleeve. 

“Bring me to bed, Miller,” You moan between kisses, “Need you now.”

He doesn’t say anything before he leans down, hiking your legs up around his waist. He carries you like you’re a light little feather. You use this time to attach your lips to his neck, giving him soft kisses up to his earlobe. 

Joel may be a bit older than you, but he carried you up the stairs like no other 50-something-guy could. He didn’t even fumble, his steps heavy and calculated. Once you two get to the landing, he readjusts you, his hands now holding you up by your ass. 

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” He murmurs in your ear, walking you into his bedroom. It smells like fresh air, which throws you off a bit. You notice the one window in the corner is cracked slightly, letting in the springtime air. 

He tosses you on his made up bed, making you a bounce a bit. He’s standing over you looking a bit dishelved, his eyes dark with desire. 

He unbuttons his shirt, shaking it off his shoulders. You watch the piece of fabric fall away from him. His upper body is toned, some areas of his stomach and shoulders are littered with scars. The moonlight highlights them, but honestly, they made him hotter. He looked more dangerous, more unattainable for a girl like you. 

“You just gonna gawk?” He teases, leaning down to let his lips meet yours again. In between kisses, he tugs down your pants, leaving you just in your underwear and top. He throws your pants across the room, his hands trailing up your bare thighs. 

“Let me get my top off,” You say pulling away from his eager lips. He sits back on his knees, watching you slowly peel off your top and undershirt. The undershirt has a built in bra that hardly keeps your boobs supported, but it was easier than wearing the uncomfortable bras you usually wore. You throw both shirts across the room before you lean back on your elbows again. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He says, his hands reaching out to touch you. He finds your collarbones first, before letting one hand trace the swell of your breasts. He was taking his time with you. 

“You just gonna gawk?”

He smiles. 

“I am gonna ruin you, girl,” He spits. You stare at him with your best doe eyes, trying to see what kind of rise you could get out of him. 

He grabs one of your boobs, before pushing you all the way on your back. His lips trace all over your body before ghosting right above where your underwear sit on your lower tummy. 

“Joel-” You begin, until he starts tracing your slit with his fingers, right over your panties. 

“Hm?” He chuckles, his soft touches making you writhe under him, “What, sweetheart?”

“Need you-” You choke out, “Please.”

He chuckles darkly, “Love to see you beg.”

You knew he was going to be dominant, but you didn’t expect him to be so candid. He seemed so quiet and steadfast in day to day life, so when you see him like this, you knew you were fucked. He was the type to talk you through the whole experience, something you’d never had with another man. Everyone you had slept with was so vanilla. No one was like the guys in the novels you read. Dominant, hungry for more, and vocal. 

“Let’s take these off,” He says wrapping his finger around the band of your underwear. You were so giddy now, you lift your ass a bit so he could get them off you. When you do that, your bare pussy gets so close him that you could feel his breath on your mound slightly. 

“You ever been eaten out before, girl?”

You shake your head, “Yes, but I didn’t really enjoy it.”

“Just let me know when you’re about to cum, baby,” Baby, “I know you will.”

You loved how cocky he was. It made the anticipation almost too overwhelming.

He leans down, his tongue flattening over your slit. You watch him close his eyes and instantly get into devouring you. He flicks his tongue up and down, eventually pressing his lips around your mound. You lose all ability to speak, so when he pulls away, you groan in displeasure. 

He says nothing, just put his middle finger and ring finger into his mouth, covering them in his saliva. He looks up at you, those fingers beginning to trace you up and down. 

“You-” Is all you can say before he’s sinking his fingers inside. He reattaches his lips to your clit, sucking as he fucks you with his digits. The wet squelching from the action sends your head into orbit. You cannot believe how good it feels because every other sexual encounter you had the guy would go in dry, maybe giving you kitten licks, and call it eating you out. But not Joel. Joel knew a woman’s anatomy. He knew exactly how to treat it. 

You just moan out his name, letting his actions take you to that familiar heat build up in your tummy. Usually you had to get there yourself. You throw your head back into his pillows, your eyes crushing shut as you take in the feeling. 

“Hey,” You hear Joel growl, “Eyes on me, or I stop.”

Your eyes fly open, watching him return to sucking your clit. As you stare down, you notice him adding another finger into the mix. The pressure felt so good, your walls feeling everything he was giving you. 

“Can I please,” You are about to let go, but you remember you were supposed to tell him, “Cum?”

You can’t even form sentences. 

He pulls away.

“Since you asked nicely,” His lips are wet with your slick, “Cum.”

The magic word that sends you into pure bliss. Your body quakes while he still fucks you with his fingers. You can only chant his name, begging him not to stop. 

He removes his fingers, smiling at your post orgasm face. You blush, suddenly becoming extremely self aware. You had no reason to be timid or shy now, being splayed out like you are in front of Joel. 

He stands tall over you, making you feel so small in his big bed.

“That was so good baby, but I ain’t done with you,” He pulls you by your legs to the edge of the bed, “Need that perfect pussy wrapped around my cock.”

“Jesus fuck,” You moan, still sensitive from what he just did to you. 

He groans, “Name is Joel. No Jesus here.”

He just had to give into the dad jokes. You slap your forehead in disappointment, making him grin a bit. 

“Got you all nice and stretched, now.”

You realize he hasn’t even taken off his pants in that moment, because he pulls down his tented pants to reveal himself to you. He was bigger than you’ve ever had, which sent you gawking again. He pumps himself, watching your widened eyes. 

“You’re too easy to read, girl,” He mutters, “I’ll inch it in, let you get adjusted nicely.”

You lean forward a bit, back onto your elbows, “You’re gonna fucking split me in half.”

He runs his dick between your wet core, which sends shockwaves up your body. 

“Like I said,” He licks his lips, “I got you nice and stretched.”

Him repeating it made you smirk devilishly. He continued to run his cock up and down your wetness, getting ready to plunge into you. 

When he stops right in front of your hole, he stares into your eyes like he’s trying to read your mind. 

“Fuck me, Joel Miller.”

He sinks into you, inch by inch. You groan in pleasure. The stretch is nothing like his fingers, it’s even better. 

He’s taking his time, pulling back a bit before pushing back into you. It’s slow, gradual. After three pumps, he leans down to catch your lips. He continues to grind into you, the mixture so intoxicating. You moan into the kiss, your mouth opening up for his tongue to slip in. He tasted like you, which was something you never really tasted before. 

“Your pussy was made for me,” He moans, “Fuckin’ hell.”

He sits back, bringing the pace up a bit, his balls slapping into you now. The sounds were borderline pornographic. The panting, the wetness, the slapping. 

“You’re takin’ me so well,” He grunts, “I want to hear you.”

You cry out as he speeds up, “Please, d-don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He keeps the pace the same as he fondles your boobs. He pinches your perked up nipples, clenching his teeth. You can tell he’s getting close, but instead of chasing that high, he stops. 

He manhandles you, pulling you up like he did when he carried you up the stairs. He somehow keeps his dick inside you as he finds a seat on the bed. He’s holding you above him, completely switching positions. 

“Want you to ride me,” He says, “Need to see those beautiful tits bouncin’.”

You take up the challenge. You rest on your knees first. You circle your hips, dragging your clit across his lower tummy. You never knew you could feel so full before, especially in this position. 

He just stared at you in awe, playing with your tits as you grind down on him. 

You take one of his hands in your own, placing it right below your belly button. 

“I feel you right here, Joel,” You moan, “Fillin’ me up so good.”

You knew he wanted to cum right there because his dicks twitches inside you. 

“You are one dirty girl,” He growls, “You’re lucky I’m even letting you cum again, talkin’ like that.”

You plant your feet on the bed, finding all your strength to start bouncing on him. He steadies you, bringing his hips up to meet yours. This angle hits different, especially when Joel’s thumb finds your clit again. You couldn’t help yourself, chasing that same high you felt before when his face was between your thighs. 

You look down at him with hooded lids, “I’m gonna cum again.”

“Yes you are,” He smirks, “Cum all over me baby, I feel you.”

Your release hits you, making you fall to your knees again. Your hips girate, the spasming around Joel’s cock sending him into a moaning mess. He lets your settle for a moment before lifting you back up. His dicks slides out, which causes him to hiss and you to groan. Instead of laying you face up, he throws you face down into the pillows. 

“My turn,” He says, dipping his cock back into you. As soon as it happens, you realize you weren’t done. That same sensitivity was back, but this time you felt the burning pick back up even quicker. He’s settling into a brutal pace, grabbing both your ass cheeks and spreading them apart. You turn your head, trying to get a view of him. 

He was watching himself plunge into you, over and over again. It had to be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s dripping in sweat, his body glistening, clenching his teeth at the sight of your bodies meeting. 

“‘m bout to cum,” He moans, “Where do you want it?”

“Fuck it into me, Joel.”

The words slips out so quickly. The tipping point hit you both at the same time, the spasming hitting you all over again. You scream into the pillows, biting into them trying not to be too loud. He releases himself into you, stilling his movements. 

He doesn’t say anything when he pulls out, you both just breathe out loudly. You felt so empty without him. 

You had never cum so much in one night before. 

Joel Miller made you cum three times. 

Without any help. 

You hear his footsteps trail to his attached bathroom, hearing some water run from the faucet. You return to laying on your back, unsure if you could trust your legs to stand. Joel’s figure returns to the room, a damp rag in his hands. He smirks at you all the while nudging your legs apart. He slowly drags the rag around your sensitive area, making sure to get any cum that was leaking out of you. After he cleans you up, he wipes off his dick a bit. 

He tosses the rag into a basket of clothes nearby. 

“You want any water?”

You take note to how gentle and sweet he was being after being so aggressive towards you before. It was a side of Joel you really appreciated. He wasn’t talking down to you, he genuinely took your needs into account.

“I think I’ll be okay,” You respond, your eyes finally shutting, “Don’t think I’ll be able to walk home.”

“You can stay,” He grumbles, walking to the side of the bed, “We both have patrol in the morning anyway.”

Your eyes fly open, “Shit, I do! Wait-”

“Yeah I’m on with you. For the rest of the week.”

You could scream. This man just gave you the best dick of your life and now you had to patrol with him? You didn’t know how you’d be able to contain yourself.

“Fuck,” You place your hands over your face. You settle in the thought that you needed to sleep if you were going to be alive for morning patrol and you’d worry about your horny desires for Joel.

“C’mere,” He says, pulling you further up the bed. He positions you next to him in the bed, pulling some covers over you, leaving your boobs still out for his viewing pleasure. He wrapped one arm under you, letting it rest around your neck. 

His sheets were flannel and so warm. His scent overtook you as soon as you relaxed into the pillows. One of them is the one you bite into earlier. 

You felt at peace, wanting to stay in this spot for as long as possible. 

“I’ll wake you a bit earlier so you can go home and get dressed,” He grumbles, “And…”

You don’t even realize how tired you are. Before Joel can finish his sentence, you fall into a deep slumber, praying sunrise doesn’t come too quickly. 

-

You wake up when it’s still dark outside. Joel woke you up with a gentle nudge. You shoot up, scared for a moment before you take in your environment. You realize he’s fully dressed already. You groan, rubbing your eyes. 

When you start to slip out of bed, you start realizing you’re still completely naked. 

And in Joel’s bed. 

You plant your feet on the wooden floorboards, using the light from the one lamp in the corner of the room to find your clothes. You could not find your panties for the life of you, so you give up and just shove your legs into your jeans and throw your shirt over your head. Joel lets you wake up in silence, not asking you questions until you make it downstairs. 

“I’ll see you at the stables,” He mutters, pouring warm water into a mug that has a tea bag hanging off of it, “You go get changed.”

He was being short, you could tell. You feel a sinking feeling, like he probably regretted what happened last night. Before you could respond, the back door swings open and a smaller frame enters the dark house. 

“Ellie,” Joel hisses, “What are you doing up?”

Her tired eyes are on you. You freeze in your spot, not knowing how to react or what to say. Your head just races with shitshitshitshit.

“I knew I heard your voice last night!” She laughs, “Y’all have fun?”

Your cheeks heat up instantly, not able to think of a response. 

“Ellie!” His voice is stern and borderline scary, “Go back to your room, now.”

It was a demand. 

She just chuckles, grabbing the door handle and pulling it close. 

“See you around, Joel’s lady friend.”

You stand there completely dumbfounded and embarrassed. Joel sips on his hot tea, not really paying attention to your response to Ellie calling you his lady friend. 

“Go get dressed.”

It was another demand. It sent shockwaves through your body. Maybe your sinking feeling was correct. 

Joel only did what he did last night because of the alcohol. It didn’t change how he’d treat or talk to you in real life. You kind of wished he’d just be cruel about it. Like he would just read your mind and tell you how stupid you were to think this would change anything. 

You felt like a fool.  You don’t say anything as you walk to the door and put on your boots. As you walk out of the house, you promise yourself to take it one minute at a time. Don’t overthink everything. Just let it be a one night stand. Don’t make it about your feelings. Be cool about it.

[lowtaperfeyd]

Jessica and atreides!reader angst? (Mother and daughter angst then yn slowly turns into evil which jessica slowly realise the pattern was repeating)

Metamorphosis

Lady Jessica x Daughter!reader

(Not beta read, we die like Feyd-Rautha)

author's note: If you guys can't tell I really like writing angst. This is also the longest thing I've written so far :). Also trying a new formatting type.

warnings: mentions of death, mommy issues, mentions of blood, mentions of Paul after drinking the water of life

wc: 1145

Lady Jessica did her job halfway right. To ensure she completed her Bene Gesserit mission, gave birth to twins. A boy named Paul and a girl named (Y/N). While the loophole was clever, the Bene Gesserit could not use the daughter she had given birth to. They said she had tainted her womb while bearing a son. 

Her father, the Duke Leto Atreides, was the only one who actually taught her important things. When she was little she would sit in a stool pulled up near her fathers desk and watch him go through paperwork and meeting notes. While he trained his son to become duke, he trained his daughter what to do in case something happened to Paul. He didn’t brush her off. 

Lady Jessica focused most of her time on Paul. His training, his skills, and his talent. While (Y/N) was taught how to use the Bene Gesserit ways by other members and not her mother. While those tutors did their job well, and she was learning quite a lot, (Y/N) found that her brother, a male, was progressing much faster than her. She was proud of her brother. It wasn’t her brother’s fault, it was her mother’s. 

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

A younger (Y/N) and Paul sat on the damp grass on Caladan on a breezy afternoon. They watched the sun lower into the sky and begin to graze where the horizon met the sea. (Y/N) took small daisies from the ground and started to make a flower crown out of them. 

“You know Paul, if you continue to improve at this rate I wouldn’t be surprised if you were better than our mother.” (Y/N) praised as she continued to pick and tie other flowers together. 

“No, no, no,” her brother replied modestly, “what she is teaching me is all of what she knows. Sooner or later I’ll plateau.” 

“You never know,” (Y/N) chuckled, cheekily, “Maybe one day she’ll go to you for advice.”

When (Y/N) finished the thin crown, she placed it onto Paul's head.

“There,” she said, “I now dubbed thy, Duke Paul Atreides of Caladan. Who will be an excellent and fair ruler.”

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

The only thing that (Y/N) had against Paul, was that her ability to use the voice was much better than his. Paul sounded like a dying horse and (Y/N) could command hundreds of people with her voice. (Y/N) found incredible joy from this. But this fact scared Lady Jessica. 

Lady Jessica was afraid of the power her daughter held. She knew of her hatred against her brother who took most of the time spent learning. Of course this all wouldn’t matter when the Duke died and they lived in the desert with the Fremen. Until Paul had a war forged in his name and (Y/N) had nothing but her brain. 

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

(Y/N) was standing in front of the giant pool of water, watching her reflection rippled and ebbed. As she stood there, she imagined a war that was fought in her name instead of Paul’s. Tons of water, from people who died while waiting for the ‘Lisan Al-Giab’ If this was my war, no one would die. She thought. After a couple of minutes a Fremen woman came by and poured the water of another warrior. If my mother and her witches hadn’t meddled, we wouldn’t have this mess. She stood there for hours, hours past when the sun went down, pondering her existence and her brother’s willingness to say he was the messiah. 

“Are you going to keep looking at your reflection or are you coming to bed?” She heard her mother say. 

“Does it matter if I stay up late? I’ve nothing to do on Arrakis.” (Y/N) responded, sounding completely uninterested in talking to her mother. 

“It does matter, you need sleep in order to thrive.” Lady Jessica declared. 

“Don’t try acting like you care now,” her daughter bit back, coldly, “don’t try acting like a caring mother. Go spread more rumors about Paul.” she sighed out. 

“They aren’t rumors, (Y/N),” She retorted, “It’s what he’s going to do. You and everyone else here realizes who he is and his potential. You need to help Paul.” 

(Y/N) bundled her hands into fists at her sides. Her knuckles popped at how hard she was squeezing them. Your son has changed far beyond what was expected. she thought, you barely recognize him anymore. 

“Would me dying for your cause be sufficient?” (Y/N) uttered under her breath as she continued to look at her reflection, “Should I stand out there and be a martyr? The loving sister of the Kwisatz Haderach…” 

Lady Jessica breathed in sharply and said nothing in return. She took her hands and put them over her stomach where her other child was. 

(Y/N) turned around to look at her mother, “You agree don’t you?’ she assumed.

Still, the Lady said nothing and just looked at her daughter. She met her daughter's eyes. The blue within blue encased her small pupils and her skin looking paler and deeper set than when they had left Arrakis. 

“Why aren’t you speaking?” Her daughter whispered, “Tell me what you think!”

“I think you as a martyr would do as much damage as if you were alive,” She voiced, “your death would be mourned. But, it would not change anything.” 

The sudden use of the voice surprised and startled Lady Jessica, “You imbecile, you using the Voice on your own mother.” 

“You didn’t seem to mind when Paul used it on your old reverend mother,” (Y/N) stated, “Paul and I did the same thing, use the Voice on a reverend mother.”

“You used it on your mother. Paul seized the moment so he could speak.”

“You were never a mother.” (Y/N) asserted, “you were a housemate, an incubator 

at best.” 

This stunned the reverend mother. She had never heard her daughter speak so unrighteously and sternly. It was almost like she had never really known her. The (Y/N) she knew, the sweet girl who collected wildflowers that had grown on the cliff sides, had died when they landed on Arrakis and was replaced by someone cold and quiet. 

“I’ll help my brother.” (Y/N) expressed as she moved closer to her mother, “I’ll do as he says. No matter how much you go against it. It doesn’t matter if he asks me to burn temples or castles, or even destroy planets. As long as I don’t have to follow you.” 

As she concluded her announcement, she turned to hastily walk out of the dark, humid cavern. 

Leaving Lady Jessica on her own; to see what had become of her daughter who would burn down the world if given the chance and her son who slipped unnecessary blood in the name of war. 

[novaursa]

The Golden Oath (to decide)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to take a chance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @howtodisappearcompletely3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial @jsprien213

The road narrowed as the procession climbed the last hill, the sun now high above them, its light muted beneath a veil of thin cloud. Dust rose from the hooves of their horses, and beyond the crest of the hill, the ruins of Summerhall slowly came into view—a broken crown of stone and ash, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the passage of time.

Jaime had heard the tales, of course—whispers passed between pages and knights of the court, stories of fire and madness and the fall of a dream long dead. But no telling had prepared him for the solemn quiet that blanketed the ruins like a shroud. Even the birds had stilled their songs, and the air held a heaviness that pressed into the lungs, as if it remembered everything that had happened here.

He rode close to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy as they descended the last slope, the guard fanning out behind them. Crumbled columns reached skyward like fingers of a dead god, scorched stone blackened from old flames. What had once been a great hall now lay in splintered ruin—arches collapsed, hearths hollow and cold, no roof to shelter what remained.

Jaime said nothing as they dismounted, the leather reins firm in his grip. His gaze swept over the shattered remnants of the palace, noting where the fire had burned deepest—walls half-fallen in on themselves, the marble tiles cracked and blackened beneath moss and decay.

Ahead of them, Rhaegar and Y/N walked side by side, the prince’s hand light on her back as they passed through what had once been the grand entrance. There was no ceremony in the way they moved, no announcement of their intention to separate from the group. They simply passed beyond the threshold of the ruins, the pale folds of her cloak disappearing behind the stone arch with graceful finality.

Jaime’s brows drew together as he watched them go. He remained where he stood for a long moment, eyes lingering on the dark space where they had vanished.

He shifted slightly, then turned to Ser Barristan, who was tightening the strap of his vambrace, his expression unbothered as if this had been expected.

"Shouldn’t someone follow them?" Jaime asked, his voice low but firm. "It’s not safe. These ruins—"

"They will be fine on their own," Barristan said, cutting him off gently but with the steady weight of authority. He didn’t look at Jaime as he spoke, merely adjusting the leather binding with practiced ease. "They’ve come here before, and they come for their own reasons. We are here only to ensure they return."

Jaime frowned, glancing toward Ser Arthur, who stood beside a jagged pillar with one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawn. The Sword of the Morning gave Jaime a glance, then nodded faintly.

"Summerhall is sacred to the prince," Arthur said. "And to her."

Jaime’s jaw clenched. "And what is it to you?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "A ruin. A reminder. Nothing more."

But Barristan, older and less inclined to philosophical detachment, gave Jaime a longer look, his eyes unreadable beneath the line of his brow.

"You care for her," he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jaime’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before he set his jaw and looked away. "I respect her," he said simply.

Barristan’s mouth twitched, just faintly, before he turned his attention back to the guards dispersing among the trees.

"You’re not the first."

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. "What?"

The older knight’s tone remained neutral. "To see her. To want her. To wonder if what you see in her eyes is meant for you."

Jaime stared at him, something unsettled curling low in his chest.

"But you must understand something," Barristan continued. "She is the king’s daughter, yes. But more than that—she is his."

He didn’t say the prince’s name. He didn’t have to.

Jaime looked once more toward the ruins, now silent and still beneath the rising sun. He could almost imagine their voices echoing within the blackened halls—hers low and warm, his soft and distant like a harp played in an empty chamber.

And suddenly, Jaime felt as though he were standing outside something he had never truly been invited into.

He said nothing more, only stood there beside the stones, waiting for a glimpse of silver and violet to return from the ruin of dreams.

The light dimmed as you stepped beneath what remained of the old stone arch, the world outside muffled the moment you and Rhaegar entered the hollow shell of what had once been a palace built for joy. Vines crept along the broken walls, their green fingers winding through cracks left by fire and time, and shattered marble tiles crunched under your boots as you moved further inward. The air here smelled of ash and earth, of something old and buried, something that clung to the bones of Summerhall like a final breath that refused to leave.

Rhaegar walked just ahead, his footsteps slow and careful, not out of fear, but reverence. He did not speak at first, and neither did you. This place had always demanded silence when you came together, silence not out of respect, but of understanding. It was as though the stones themselves remembered the cries that had risen here the night it burned—Aegon’s last dream, kindled in fire and ended in smoke.

You followed him through the collapsed doorway that once led to the hall of the fountain, or what remained of it. The basin was cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by moss, and the marble dragons that once spiraled around its rim had lost their heads to time and heat. You stepped beside him, your cloak brushing the crumbling stone, and you looked not at the ruin, but at Rhaegar.

His expression was distant, his eyes tracing the outlines of what had once been. His hands, usually so steady, hung at his sides, his fingers twitching now and again like a man playing invisible strings. The silence had stretched too long, so you broke it first, your voice soft.

“You’ve grown quieter here.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “It’s quieter here,” he answered, though it wasn’t truly an explanation.

You glanced around, the ruins swallowing you both in shadow and memory. “You used to say this was where you felt closest to what came before.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I still do.”

You watched him for a long moment. His face looked older today. Not from time, but from weight. From thought. You could see it in the lines that hadn’t been there last year, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had already lived through the prophecy he was meant to fulfill.

He finally looked at you. His eyes were strange in this light—flickering between indigo and stormcloud. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked you, quietly, as though afraid the ruins might answer for you.

You drew in a breath, letting it settle before answering. “I believe we shape it,” you said. “Even when it’s written.”

He turned from you again, his jaw tight, the tension spreading through his shoulders. “Mine is already written. In scrolls, in books, in flames.” He shook his head slowly. “And every step I take, I feel it binding tighter around me.”

You moved closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “But not alone.”

Rhaegar went still, and for a moment you thought he might close off again like he always did when the subject crept too close to his heart. But instead, he turned toward you fully, his eyes burning now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Fear.

“I’m afraid,” he said. “Not of what I must do. Not of what I will become. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk it without you.”

His words hung there, suspended between ruin and memory. You had heard his fears before, but never so plainly. Never so bare.

You reached for him, your hand settling gently against his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed like the soft rhythm of a distant drum. “You won’t.”

He swallowed, and for the first time, his posture seemed to break. “The future takes things,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when they’re not ready to be taken.”

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Then we will make the future yield.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms coming around you slowly, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. He held you against him, and you could feel it now—the quiet tremble beneath his stillness. Rhaegar, the silver prince, the one who carried songs and sorrow alike, was simply a man here. A brother. Yours.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“I never have,” you answered.

And in the stillness of Summerhall, surrounded by what had burned, you held onto one another like the last unbroken thing.

The sun had crept higher into the sky, tracing shadows across the broken stone and brittle grass of Summerhall. The ruins lay still, undisturbed save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the hollowed walls and stirred the remnants of a palace long dead. Jaime stood near the edge of the old courtyard, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the scorched archway where the prince and princess had disappeared nearly an hour ago.

He was growing restless.

His horse had long since cooled beneath the shade of a tree. The guards lounged or kept idle watch. Ser Arthur, patient as ever, sat with his back to a blackened pillar, his head tipped downward as he thumbed through a small leather-bound book, utterly unbothered by the passage of time. But Jaime… Jaime was coiled tight.

He didn’t realize he was scowling until a voice beside him stirred him from his brooding.

“Patience is a virtue for knights,” Ser Barristan said lightly, walking toward him with his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was tousled slightly from removing it, but his eyes were focused and clear beneath the weight of years. “Though I find fewer and fewer of the young possess it.”

Jaime didn’t look at him at first. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “It’s been too long,” he said flatly.

“They’ve been here before,” Barristan replied, as if that answered anything. “And they’ve always returned.”

Jaime shifted his stance, fingers drumming against his arm. “She’s not just some wandering lady from the Reach,” he said. “She’s the king’s daughter.”

Barristan raised a brow. “And you think the prince would let harm come to her?”

Jaime glanced at him then, just briefly. “I don’t think anything. That’s the problem.”

For a time, they stood in silence, the breeze rustling the scorched grass around them. Then Barristan spoke again, this time more carefully.

“You train like a knight. You fight like one. But your thoughts, Jaime…” He paused. “They’ve drifted elsewhere, haven’t they?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

“You asked me once,” Barristan continued, “what it felt like to wear the white. To take the vows. You were only twelve, and you looked at me as though I’d been made of stories.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But now you hardly speak of it at all.”

Jaime turned to him, slowly. His jaw was tight. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“But not the same way,” Barristan said quietly.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, staring at the blackened stones beneath his boots. “I never wanted Casterly Rock. That was meant for Kevan’s son. Even when I was a boy, I knew my father would see me as a sword first and heir second.” He glanced up at the sky, his voice lower now. “But I never imagined I’d want anything else.” He looked toward the archway again, his gaze distant. “Now I do.”

Barristan regarded him, his expression unreadable. “You would give up the Kingsguard. Give up your name. Your legacy. For her?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “For her, I’d try.”

The old knight was quiet for a long time. Then, he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“I have seen many men fall in love with dragons,” he said. “Some from afar. Some from within. It rarely ends well for any of them—especially the ones without wings.”

Jaime turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Barristan sighed, the weight of experience settling in his shoulders. “Then pray, for both your sakes, that this fire does not burn you alive.”

Jaime said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the ruins.

And still, you did not return.

The solar in Maegor’s Holdfast was stifling despite the breeze that whispered through the high windows. The red and black tapestries, embroidered with dragons in flight and fire, hung heavy on the walls, absorbing the heat and amplifying the sense of confinement within the chamber. The air smelled of warmed parchment and perfumed oils, a rich, cloying mixture that clung to the skin. But it was not the heat or the scent that unsettled Tywin Lannister—it was the man seated on the carved wooden chair beneath the Targaryen crest, idly turning a jeweled ring around his finger, his violet eyes glittering with something between amusement and disdain.

Aerys Targaryen had not yet descended fully into the madness that would one day consume him, but the change had begun. It was there in the long silences between his words, the sudden flickers of suspicion behind his gaze, the way his mouth twisted when he smiled, as if the act required effort. And yet, he was still shrewd. Still cunning. Still dangerous.

“My king,” Tywin began again, his voice measured, every word deliberate. “You’ve made your views clear regarding my daughter. If you will not entertain the match between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei, then I ask you to consider—”

“You ask,” Aerys interrupted abruptly, his tone light but edged like a blade. “You, Tywin Lannister, who once served as Hand of the King, who now returns with gifts and golden children in tow, asking for my blood to be mixed with yours.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. “It would strengthen both houses.”

Aerys’s laugh was brittle, too loud for the small room. “Ah, yes, strength. That is always your language, isn’t it? Not honor, not duty—strength. Power. Gold.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Jaime is a capable boy. More than capable. And he is your daughter’s equal in birth, if not in name. I merely ask that you consider the benefit of promising her to him.”

The king’s fingers stilled against the ring. His gaze narrowed, lips curling slightly. “Your son is a squire, not a prince. And she is not yours to have.”

“She is the daughter of the dragon,” Tywin reminded him calmly. “And Westeros is watching. It would do your House good to remind the realm that alliances can be made outside the bloodline.”

“Outside?” Aerys repeated, his tone suddenly biting. “You would dilute the blood of the dragon with lion’s blood. Do you think me a fool?”

Tywin met his gaze without blinking. “I think you a king who must preserve more than his name. Isolation breeds weakness. The other Great Houses grow in power with each generation. Your own family grows thinner.”

Aerys stood then, his movements sudden, graceful despite the long folds of his black and red robes. He moved to the window, his back turned, his posture tense.

“They speak of me in whispers,” he said, voice low, almost musing. “They say I’ve grown strange. That I fear shadows and keep to myself. That I hoard wildfire between the walls.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe these things, Tywin?”

“I believe your enemies want others to believe them.”

The king turned slowly, his expression twisting into something smug. “Let them believe what they will. Let them fear. They have always feared Targaryen fire. That is how we keep the throne. Not with Lannister gold.”

Tywin remained silent, letting the pause settle between them before stepping forward.

“And what of your children?” he asked softly. “What of the girl? Will you have her remain unwed while the world speculates? Or will you—” he stopped short, letting the weight of his next words hang unspoken.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

“You mean to wed them,” Tywin said. “Your son and daughter. That is why you refuse all other matches. You’ve planned this.”

The king’s silence was answer enough.

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “You would close the Targaryen circle again.”

“As it has always been,” Aerys said, chin lifting. “As it must be.”

“You will isolate your House,” Tywin warned, voice low. “Already the smallfolk whisper that your line is touched by madness. You think to silence them by marrying your children? You will only make it worse.”

Aerys smiled slowly. “Let them whisper. So long as they kneel.”

Tywin’s eyes hardened, but he said no more. The game had been revealed. The king had made his choice—years ago, it seemed—and now he merely waited for others to fall into place, like pieces on a board whose moves only he could see.

But Tywin Lannister had not come this far to play someone else’s game.

He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And with that, he turned and left the solar, his steps echoing through the stone hall, the cold realization settling in his chest like a knife: he had brought his son here hoping for a crown.

And found a dragon’s den instead.

The sun had long since set below the hills, and the pale orange glow that had lingered in the sky gave way to the violet hush of evening. Summerhall, in twilight, seemed quieter still—its broken walls softened by the dark, its jagged lines blurred into silhouette. The stars stretched wide above the ruin, scattered like shards of glass across a velvet dome, and the moon had begun to rise, thin like the edge of a blade.

You lay beside Rhaegar in what remained of the old courtyard, your cloak spread beneath you to keep the cold of the earth at bay. The moss beneath your fingers was damp and fragrant, tinged with the scent of ash that never seemed to leave this place. Beside you, Rhaegar lay silent, one hand behind his head, the other resting lightly between you both. His silver hair spilled across the ground like a halo of light, his profile illuminated by moonlight that caught the delicate line of his jaw, the quiet slope of his brow.

You watched the stars in silence for some time. Here, without the press of court or the ever-watching eyes of nobles and lords, the world felt still. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through crumbling stone and the occasional call of a nightbird far off in the trees. It reminded you of your childhood—of stolen moments in the city when your brother played his harp and you sat cross-legged at his side, dreaming of nothing but the sound of his music and the warmth of his voice.

Now his voice came again, softer than the breeze. “They’ve been speaking of Dorne again,” Rhaegar said.

You turned your head toward him. “The council?”

He nodded slowly. “I heard Lord Mooton speaking with Grand Maester Pycelle before we departed. They believe Elia Martell would be a suitable match. That Dorne’s alliance could stabilize the southern houses.”

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you said nothing, listening to the distant sigh of the wind moving through the hollow halls. Then you reached over, gently brushing your fingertips against his sleeve.

“They speak,” you said quietly, “but they do not decide. Father does.”

Rhaegar did not look at you. His eyes were fixed upward, toward the stars. “And what if they begin to turn Father against himself? You’ve seen it too. The way they whisper about his temper, about his judgments. They speak as though his mind is already slipping.” A pause. “They will try to take the choice from him.”

You sat up slightly, leaning your weight on your elbow as you looked at him fully. “Rhaegar. He will never allow them to dictate your match.” You touched his hand. “And he will never give me to another. He’s made that much clear.”

He turned to face you now, his indigo eyes shining faintly in the starlight. “Sometimes I fear that Father’s devotion to us is the very thing they resent most.”

You didn’t deny it. You knew well how the lords of the realm watched you both—how they saw your father’s favoritism not as love, but as danger. But you also knew that no one could pull the reins from Aerys Targaryen’s hands—not yet, not while fire still clung to his voice and his will remained unbroken.

“He may be many things,” you said, gently, “but no one tells him what to do. No lord in Westeros, no whispering maester, no cautious courtier. Not even Tywin Lannister.” You smiled faintly. “Especially not him.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, something like amusement breaking the tension in his brow. “Tywin would flay himself before bending to Father’s whims. And yet he still came to court with two golden offerings.”

You laid back down, folding your hands over your stomach, your voice thoughtful. “He must be desperate, to think you’d marry Cersei.”

“She speaks with all the charm of her father,” Rhaegar muttered.

You laughed softly, your breath a cloud in the air above you. “And Jaime?”

He was quiet for a moment. “He watches you too closely.”

You said nothing, though your smile lingered. Then you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, the pressure light but warm.

“Let them speak,” you said. “Let them scheme and guess. At the end of it all, it is you and me. And it has always been.”

He turned to you again, his gaze softening. “And you’ll stay with me, even when the road darkens?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

A moment passed. Then Rhaegar sat up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We should return,” he said. “They’ll be wondering.”

You rose with him, adjusting your cloak against the chill. “Barristan will pretend not to be concerned. Arthur will say nothing at all. But Jaime…” You looked to him sidelong. “Jaime might have been counting every minute.”

Rhaegar offered no response, but his eyes narrowed faintly in the dark.

Together, you turned from the courtyard, walking side by side through the broken halls of Summerhall, leaving the ashes of dreams behind you.

Night had fully claimed Summerhall by the time you and Rhaegar returned to the camp. The ruins behind you seemed to sink deeper into shadow, their scorched stones swallowed by darkness, leaving behind only the cold scent of ash and old earth on the air. The clearing where the retinue had made their camp was quiet, lit by low-burning fires ringed with coals, their flickering light casting soft amber hues across the edges of the tents and the faint glint of polished armor.

You walked beside your brother in silence, your cloak drawn close around you, the night wind tugging softly at your pale hair. The firelight caught in his profile as you stepped into camp—the quiet set of his mouth, the unfocused distance in his eyes. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet centering that had not been there when you arrived. Whatever had weighed upon him earlier in the day had eased, if only slightly.

The guards took notice of your return without fanfare. They moved as soldiers often did—observing everything, commenting on nothing. But as you approached the central fire where Ser Barristan stood speaking quietly with Ser Arthur Dayne, the old knight lifted his head, and the conversation stilled.

“My prince,” Barristan said with a slight bow of the head. “Shall we begin preparations to ride at first light?”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, pulling his gloves tighter. “Yes. We return to the capital tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Barristan replied, his gaze flickering toward you for the briefest moment, his eyes unreadable. “The men will be ready.”

You inclined your head to them both and turned to step toward your own tent, the warmth of the fire briefly brushing against your skin as you passed it. But you could feel it—a gaze lingering—not from Rhaegar or the knights, but from the edge of the firelight.

Jaime.

He was crouched beside his tent, working a leather strap between his gloved fingers, pretending to busy himself with tying down the flaps, though they had long since been secured. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes that suggested concentration, but his posture betrayed him—too still, too tense, his head lifting slightly with every soft step you took.

You paused by the water basin outside your tent, letting your fingers brush the cool metal rim, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the shift of his gaze—the flicker of green eyes that never strayed far from where you stood.

He had barely spoken since you and Rhaegar left, but the weight of his silence was louder than words.

Behind you, the camp settled further into quiet. The guards rotated shifts, and Ser Arthur began checking over the horses tethered nearby. You heard soft conversation in Dorne-accented Low Valyrian between two of Rhaegar’s retainers, muffled by distance and night.

You turned slightly toward your tent’s entrance, then paused and glanced back—Jaime was still watching.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in that careful, cautious way of a young man who wasn’t sure if what he felt was allowed to become anything at all.

And you—you were no stranger to being watched.

But something about the way he looked at you was different. Not hungry, not proud, not with the entitlement so many lords’ sons carried when they gazed upon a princess.

His gaze held wonder.

And perhaps, quietly, a question.

You turned your head and disappeared into the dark canvas folds of your tent, saying nothing.

But even then, behind your closed eyes and the rustle of your cloak as you unfastened it, you could still feel him watching.

The canvas walls of Jaime’s tent creaked softly in the night wind, the faint rustle of fabric barely louder than the rhythm of his breath. He lay flat on the modest cot, boots pulled off but the rest of his clothes still clinging to him, his cloak bundled beneath his head in place of a proper pillow. The air was cold against his skin, and despite the small brazier burning low in the corner, the warmth did little to reach him. He stared at the sloped ceiling, its folds of cloth illuminated faintly by the dying glow of the coals. Outside, the camp was quiet—sleep had claimed most of the men, the guards walked their rounds in silence, and the sounds of the forest beyond Summerhall’s broken stones whispered with night creatures.

But Jaime could not sleep.

Not for the cold. Not for the discomfort. But because of you.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you standing in the starlight—your hair pale and soft, trailing like light down your back as you passed beneath the old archway with Rhaegar. He saw the way you looked when you returned: calm, but distant, as if your mind had not yet followed you back from the place the two of you had gone. You hadn’t spoken a word to him. You hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done more than any conversation might have.

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of you standing near the water basin, pausing just long enough to let him see that you knew. That you had always known.

He shifted onto his side, drawing the cloak closer to his neck, staring at the shadowed flap of the tent’s entrance. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear keeping his thoughts caged. Rhaegar had claimed your time, your attention, your closeness, but Jaime couldn’t allow himself to be silent forever. He didn’t know if what he felt was foolish. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. All he knew was that it was real.

And that he wanted more.

Tomorrow, they would leave Summerhall. Return to King’s Landing, return to the games of court and whispered alliances, and you would vanish back into the castle’s halls, where you moved like a ghost no one dared reach for. If he didn’t speak now—if he didn’t try—then he would lose whatever slender chance he had to be near you.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The fire in the brazier cracked softly, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. He breathed in, the scent of smoke and dust heavy in his lungs, and exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll speak with her,” he said aloud, his voice low and certain in the darkness. “Before we ride.”

Even if it led nowhere. Even if it only confirmed that her thoughts lay with Rhaegar, as he feared. He had to know. He had to offer more than stolen glances and half-smiles over firelight. You were not a dream he could afford to let drift further away.

The wind picked up outside, tugging gently at the corner of the tent. Jaime lay back once more, closing his eyes not in sleep, but in resolve.

Tomorrow. Before the sun rose high and they turned their horses north. He would find you.

And he would speak.

The first whispers of dawn spilled pale across the landscape, turning the edges of Summerhall's ruined stones from charcoal to ashen gray. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling between the hooves of restless horses and coiling around the boots of squires hurrying to break down camp. The metallic clatter of buckles, the flapping of canvas, and the murmured commands of men folding their tents into neat piles filled the air with the quiet energy of morning.

You stood near your tent, your cloak drawn close against the chill that came before the sun. The ruins behind you were dark and still, but the sky above had begun to shift—faint streaks of rose and amber blossoming at the horizon. The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only a cold ring of stones and scattered embers, but you hadn’t moved far from it. There was something peaceful in these last quiet moments before the ride began. Something final, too, as if Summerhall, in its silence, was saying farewell.

And then you heard footsteps behind you—deliberate, hesitant.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Jaime Lannister approached with his cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, his golden hair slightly tousled, his sword strapped at his hip. He wasn’t in armor yet—just the traveling leathers, scuffed and dusted with the ash and soil of yesterday’s ride—but somehow he still looked the part of a lord's son, every inch the lion trying not to stalk too loudly.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. Hesitant, but not unsure. “Did you sleep well?”

You offered him a faint smile. “As well as one can in a ruined palace.”

That drew a small chuckle from him, and he took a slow step closer, as if gauging how close he was permitted to stand. He looked out toward the morning haze with you, his eyes catching the first hints of yellow that filtered over the hills.

“This place,” he said after a moment, “it reminds me of somewhere else. Somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.” He glanced at you. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak out of Casterly Rock with Cersei. There was an old watchtower at the edge of the cliffs. Crumbling and forgotten, like this. We’d pretend we were dragonlords there—two brave warriors building a kingdom out of sea stone and wind.”

You looked at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Did you take turns being the dragon?”

He smiled, sheepish. “No. Cersei was always the dragon. I was whatever she told me to be.” He laughed to himself, then rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was quiet there. And for once, no one expected anything of us. No father, no maesters, no banners. Just salt and air and... her laughter.”

He seemed to catch himself then, the softness in his tone drawing back slightly. His gaze returned to you, and something shifted behind his eyes—a vulnerability poorly hidden behind his usual ease.

“I never thought I’d come to like a place like this again,” he admitted. “But I do.”

You tilted your head gently. “Because it reminds you of home?”

Jaime hesitated, then shook his head. “Because of you.”

You felt the breath in your lungs pause, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, not looking at you now. “Forgive me, I’m… not particularly good at this sort of thing. I’ve never had to… speak this way. Not to anyone.” He glanced at you again, briefly, and then away. “I never had to try.”

Your brow arched faintly, amusement glimmering behind your eyes. “That sounds like something someone says when they’re used to being adored.”

He smiled, a little crooked now. “That’s just it. I’ve been flattered before. Admired. Not… seen.” He gestured vaguely toward the ruins, toward the day beginning around you. “Not like this. Not like here.”

You studied him, the way he stood half in shadow, half in light, fighting the urge to retreat into something easier. Something more familiar. But his voice was honest. His words clumsy, yes—but sincere.

“You don’t need to charm me, Ser Jaime,” you said gently. “You only need to be yourself.”

He met your eyes then, and for the first time since you’d known him, there was no trace of performance.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You nodded, then turned your gaze back to the horizon. “Then try walking with me. The day waits for no one.”

Jaime stepped beside you, falling into stride as you moved toward the others, the low light stretching long across the earth ahead.

And for the first time, you let him walk beside you.

The soft crunch of grass and soil beneath your boots was the only sound between you and Jaime as you walked back toward the center of the camp. The sky had begun to blossom with the full colors of morning—rose, amber, the faintest tinge of lilac streaked across the eastern horizon. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but there was movement all around now. Squires moved briskly with saddles and gear, guards were tightening straps, checking bridles, and shifting into the formation that would carry the procession back to the Red Keep. Horses stamped the earth impatiently, their breath curling in the morning light, and the scent of fresh leather mixed with the familiar tang of steel.

Your mare, Moonveil, was already saddled and waiting, her dappled coat gleaming with dew. She nickered softly at your approach, ears flicking toward you, and you reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along her neck. Jaime’s stallion was tethered nearby, his chestnut coat well-brushed and gleaming, already restless under the weight of his light armor.

Rhaegar stood just ahead with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan, his back partially turned as he spoke quietly with the two Kingsguard. His hair caught the rising light and glimmered like frost, his profile calm as ever—still, poised, as if he belonged not to the world around him but to some dream yet unfolding.

As you and Jaime approached, his voice paused mid-sentence, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the young lion walking a step behind you.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled on Jaime for only the briefest of moments.

Not a glare. Not a challenge. Just a look—cool, unreadable, assessing.

And then he looked away, disinterested.

If Jaime noticed the dismissal, he didn’t show it. He stepped ahead and moved to his horse, checking the girth himself even though the stablehands had already seen to it, clearly needing something for his hands to do. His jaw tightened for only a moment, just enough for you to notice, before he composed himself and turned to mount.

Rhaegar’s voice drifted toward you a moment later, soft but audible.

“We’ll take the south road through Bramblebend,” he said to Ser Arthur, mounting with effortless grace. “It’s quieter. And I would not have my sister ride through the capital’s filth upon our return.”

Barristan nodded. “It will add time, but not much.”

You moved to mount Moonveil, and as you swung into the saddle, you felt Jaime’s eyes on you again—brief, searching. He said nothing as he settled onto his stallion beside you, but the silence that hung between you now was different than it had been days ago. It was not the quiet of uncertainty, but of something beginning to take shape, fragile and unnamed.

Rhaegar rode at the front of the procession as always, Ser Arthur flanking him at one side, Ser Barristan falling into position near the rear. You remained near the center, Jaime keeping close, though now with a careful distance—never too near, never too far.

The ruins of Summerhall receded behind you, swallowed slowly by the trees and the mist.

None of you looked back.

But you felt the shift beneath your ribs—that this ride home would not be the same as the ride here.

And the lion at your side was no longer watching you as an outsider might.

He rode with the intent of a man who had made a decision.

And was waiting for you to see it.

[writing-cins]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩

Pairings: Alastor x gn reader Summary: In which you are an annoying simp and Alastor regrets claiming your soul. Warnings/Tags: gn reader, Emberlynn-coded reader, unrequited love, reader is obsessed with Alastor and he can barely handle it, second-hand embarrassment, really, it gets uncomfortable, a whole bunch of passive aggressiveness and sarcastic remarks, Alastor questions his sanity, reader is annoying af, Alastor being Alastor, trash-fic Wordcount: 3.6k A/N: I had this idea for months but watching the latest Helluva Boss short made me actually want to write it. I hope you like this trash fic. I have many more ideas for funny (and uncomfortable) moments between Alastor and our simping reader. Comments, Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated!

Spin-off: 'Curiosity Killed the Demon'

Masterlist

   Alastor was a man who never felt regret because every move he made was precisely calculated, every action driven by a purpose only he fully understood. He always had an ulterior motive in mind, ensuring that he was the one who came out on top. His every decision was meticulously planned, and every word carefully chosen to keep his game running flawlessly and his grip on control unyielding. He was a mastermind at the top of Hell's food chain. One of the most powerful and feared overlords, a dealmaker at heart, with hundreds – no, thousands – of souls bound to him, all following his every command, terrified of what might happen if they disobeyed. None of them ever dared to challenge their loyalty, always doing as he said. But one in particular stood out: you.

   Some might say you were just another sinner in his vast collection of pawns, but you were different. You followed him like a dog that didn’t even need a leash. When he called, you came. When he gave an order, you were already carrying it out by the time he finished speaking. You were completely, utterly devoted to him. And oh, Satan, were you irritating.

   Alastor remembered the day he met you as if it were yesterday. How could he forget? It was a memory that had burned itself into his mind like a brand on the hind flank of a horse. While most souls came to him begging for help, trading their essence for a taste of power or security, you practically threw yourself at him. Your eyes had been wide as saucers, lips pursed with desperate eagerness, and a strange gleam of excitement had nearly brought tears to your eyes.

   “Please, please, please! I’ll do anything for you!” you had begged, your eyes so wide it seemed like they might pop out of your head.

   Alastor had narrowed his eyes, the static around him crackling with an intensity that made your hairs stand up on your neck. “Anything...?” he had replied with a slow drawl, his grin turning sharp and menacing as he leaned in closer, towering over you. His sharp canines bared in a predatory smile that would make most people flinch, but you… you only seemed more excited.

   Had he known just how annoying you’d become, he might have killed and eaten you right then and there in that dark alleyway. Alastor was a patient man. At least, that's what he let others believe. But you often pushed him to the brink of madness, testing his limits as if you secretly anticipated getting double-killed. Had he considered featuring your squeaky voice on his infamous radio broadcast? More than a few times. The idea alone was deliciously tempting. He often fantasized about the sound of your screams if he ever decided to torture you. Yet, a deep-seated uncertainty always held him back. Some kind of deeply rooted fear that you might actually enjoy it. You were so wildly unpredictable that he couldn’t even tell if you would cry in agony or, disturbingly, moan in pleasure.

   The thought alone horrified him.

   No, he wouldn’t subject himself to that humiliation. If he weren’t already plagued by nightmares, the prospect of you enjoying your torment would certainly give him some. You were already haunting him in his waking life; he couldn’t bear the thought of you invading his rare moments of sleep, too.

   Your existence felt like a cruel joke. A fucked up twist of fate or perhaps the true eternal punishment Hell had in store for him. You were utterly infuriating, a disruptive presence in Hell's chaotic tranquility. And yet, he couldn’t deny that he found some guilty pleasure in your antics. As irritating and nerve-wracking as you were, you were the most entertaining thing he’d encountered in eons. Watching you embarrass yourself without even realizing it, witnessing your clumsiness, your stupidity, and being the object of your obsessive attention, the center of your world, was better than every drug advertised in Pentagram City’s most run-down district. As uncomfortable as you made him feel, Alastor had to admit that he secretly reveled in your desperate need for attention, your never-ending search for his affection and your unwavering, completely blind, loyalty.

   You followed him everywhere he went. Like a lost puppy you’d trail after him with an enthusiastic skip in your step, hopping around like a deer on a wide open field. Alastor didn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know you were there, because you always were. You followed him everywhere. To the bar, to the kitchen, to the hotel’s parlor or his outings. You’d probably even follow him to the bathroom, if you could. You were always there – eyes gleaming with devotion, your adoration conspicuous and radiating around you like the static in Alastor’s presence.

   It was suffocating.

   And he couldn’t even tell what was more terrifying: that you were so focused on him he could always feel your gaze burning through the back of his coat, or that your steps were so silent he couldn’t even hear them despite his almost preternatural hearing. Only an occasional squeak that made you sound like an excited guinea pig actually proved your presence, causing his ears to perk up and twitch in overstimulation.

   “Alastor!” your squeaky voice warbled through the corridors of the Hazbin Hotel and Alastor stopped in tracks, holding his breath in annoyance and his smile twisting into an uncomfortable grimace. With a silent sigh he turned around and tilted his head unnaturally to the side, his red and black hair swinging with the movement like a curtain.

   “Yes, my dear?” he retorted with exaggerated joy, the strain in his voice betraying the forced politeness and tinged with anything but patience. Today was one of those days he found himself regretting his decision to ever put that collar around your neck. He just wanted to be left in peace, not having the nerve to handle your exhausting presence.

   You grinned at him proudly and Alastor could feel his stomach twist, nausea creeping through his guts at the recognition of the lovestruck gleam in your eyes. When you didn’t respond instantly, he narrowed his eyes, his voice losing any of that faked patience, “What is it?”

   You shrugged your shoulders, though your grin didn’t waver. “Nothing!” you exclaimed enthusiastically, “I just wanted you to wait for me!”

   “Ah,” Alastor retorted, unimpressed, the uncomfortable feeling inside his guts increasing. “You know, you don’t have to follow me around everywhere I go,” he said, a subtle hint of irritation in his tone, hoping you'd understand that he wanted to be left alone.

   Your expression didn’t falter. In fact, it became even more eager, the gleam in your eyes so intense that Alastor could see his entire reflection in those dark orbs of yours. “But I want to be present whenever you need my assistance!” you exclaimed, interlacing your fingers in a gesture that resembled a pleading prayer.

   “I can always summon you, if that's the case,” Alastor quickly explained, still not convinced by your flimsy excuse for clinging to him like a parasite.

   “Oh, but I want to be close just in case you forget, my sweet Radio Demon!” you chirped, batting your eyelashes with saccharine devotion.

   Alastor cringed inwardly. Why exactly did he do this to himself again? Oh, yeah, right… He hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to wring your neck or keep you around for entertainment.

   “Well, that's very thoughtful of you,” he replied in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Before he could say more, you let out another joyful squeak. Alastor's ears flattened against his head as the high-pitched noise pierced his eardrums. He saw your eyes widen with delight and silently cursed himself for even attempting to sound polite – even if his words were more of a mocking jab than a genuine compliment. Yet, you seemed to take it as one. You trembled with excitement, your knees bouncing like a jackhammer. It was a wonder your vibrations didn’t send seismic waves rippling through the floor, cracking the occasional brick.

   Alastor let out a sigh. “My dear,” he said, his voice smooth as honey, “your… enthusiasm is truly unmatched. But don’t you have anything better to do than… following me around all the time?”

   You immediately shook your head. “No, Alastor-kun. I’ve devoted myself to being your servant,” you declared with unwavering certainty. “Besides, nothing’s better than being by your side!” You looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes, the adoration in your gaze both unsettling and pathetic. “I want to see everything you do, learn from you, be close to you. You’re just so… incredible!”

   Alastor let out yet another sigh. Although he found your flattery grating, he couldn’t deny the subtle boost to his ego from your words. He knew he was exceptional, but hearing it so explicitly was an indulgence he couldn’t resist. No matter how much you grated on his nerves. “Incredible, you say?” he repeated, and you nodded with such fervor that it was clear you genuinely believed what you were saying, rather than simply using your words to flatter him. “And what, pray tell, do you find so ‘incredible’ about me?”

   You blinked, obviously surprised by the question and took a moment to ponder an answer.

   Alastor chuckled softly. If you were already venturing into this territory, he might as well use it to his advantage and coax you into showering him with even more compliments. It was amusing how effortlessly he could manipulate you into praising him as if he were a deity, a god deserving to be worshiped. And it took barely any effort at all. You were so completely infatuated with him that he imagined you might even write a song for him – if only your singing voice didn't sound like a saw on the verge of breaking.

   “Well,” you mused aloud before gushing, “Everything!” You began to enumerate, counting on your fingers as you spoke, “Your power! Your elegance, your wit, your charisma! The way you command everyone’s attention with just your presence… How people are captivated by you… Your style, your old-fashioned charm, your impeccable sense of humor…”

   Alastor’s eyes narrowed as he listened, struggling to keep up with the torrent of words spilling from your mouth. He stared at you, on the verge of zoning out as he tried to manage the relentless flow of praise. Did you ever need to pause for breath? How could you talk so much without gasping for air?! It was almost impressive…

   “…like I said, everything, Alastor-kun. I mean, you’re the Radio Demon! You’re… absolutely remarkable! And I’d follow you to the end of Hell and back!” you concluded, your endless monologue finally coming to an end. Alastor’s grin widened, not from the sheer volume of praise you’ve just thrown at him, but from the amusement of your desperate eagerness to win his attention. From the moment you met him in that dark alleyway, you had craved his affection. It wasn’t that he had found you helpless – no, you had actively sought him out. Why? He had no idea. He would never understand your obsession nor the full extent of your feelings for him.

   “Why, thank you, my dear…” he forced out between clenched teeth, his jaw tightening without him even realizing it. “It’s always nice to hear how much you admire me, but… let’s not linger on it any longer…” he added, his voice betraying the discomfort that always crept in whenever you were near.

  You stared at him, your confusion practically palpable. “Why?” you asked, genuinely confused and a bit taken aback by his abrupt change in tone. “You asked me what I think of you. I’m just being honest!”

   Indeed, he had. But he hadn’t expected you to gush on endlessly like the Niagara Falls – even though, by now, he should’ve known better. Why did he even ask, knowing full well you were unpredictable and always found a way to annoy him further? Was your presence really so irritating that he tended to forget his usual caution? Alastor was a polite man after all and he valued manners above all else. 

   Manners.

   Manners, manners, manners.

   He prided himself on manners. But you? You weren't worth any of them. He needed to remember that.

   “Oh, my dear, I’m only concerned that your little brain might overheat from thinking too hard. We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself and get a headache, would we?” he replied, his tone thick with mockery, every word dripping with sarcasm. He could see your eyes widen and your pupils dilating.

   “Aww, Alastor-kun, you're so considerate!” you cooed, entirely missing the veiled insult.

   Alastor chuckled, his lips curling into an exaggerated smile while his eyes narrowed, feigning a semblance of care. Your delusion was almost painful to watch, though there was a certain dark humor to it.

   “Why, I'm simply concerned about your well-being! After all, too much... admiration could lead to a most unfortunate accident,” he continued, flashing his sharp teeth in a menacing grin, a predatory glint in his eyes. His pupils shifted to radio dials for a quick second and the static around him crackled in a dangerous intensity. The threat in his words was clear, but knowing you, you’d probably overlook it entirely, twisting it into yet another misguided belief that he cared about you. Which he didn’t. Alastor cared for very few people, and you were certainly not one of them.

   A strange sound – something akin to a dying hamster’s squeak – escaped your lips and ripped him out of his reverie as you started bouncing up and down again. Alastor couldn’t help but wonder, for a second time, how the floor beneath you didn’t give way and send you tumbling several floors down, far away from him and into a dark, twisted corner of Hell where you would never bother him again. Or maybe you would just break enough of your limbs to keep you from trailing after him for at least the next six weeks... Either way, the image in his head was delightfully hilarious, and he nearly chuckled, wishing to some kind of higher being to let this tiny mishap come true.

   “Aww, you’re so thoughtful! You really do care about me, Alastor-kun!” you chirped, and Alastor’s eye twitched. There it was – your joyful exclamation of utter delusion. Yikes.

   Alastor took a deep breath, his grip tightening around his cane. “Oh, yes… care…” he drawled. “Your well-being is... of utmost importance... so, considering you’ve been trailing after me all day… and the days before… and the weeks… and months…” he continued, his voice growing weaker with each word, “how about you take a break? Leave the hotel, spend some time with yourself, explore the streets of Pentagram City...” and hopefully never return… he finished in his head. His smile was sharp, his face settling into that same threatening expression as before.

   You waved a dismissive hand, grinning with a wide, toothy smile. “Don’t worry about me! I always feel so good around you!” you exclaimed with fervor, and Alastor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. There it was again – that relentless, infuriating optimism that clung to you like a bad stench, no matter how much he tried to wash it away. How were you always so blissfully unaware of his disdain?

   “My, my! Such dedication... I’m almost flattered. But… have you ever considered, oh, I don’t know… finding a hobby? Far, far away from me, perhaps?” he said through clenched teeth, realizing yet again that he was still being far too kind. Why couldn’t he just scare you away? Were you really so pathetic that he couldn’t bring himself to be outright rude? Your antics must have really been some kind of messed up guilty pleasure for him…

   You tilted your head and straightened your back, gazing up at him with those unsettlingly large eyes. “Oh, but you are my hobby, Alastor-kun! My absolute favorite! Watching you, learning from you, serving you – it’s all I ever want to do! You’re my senpai, Alastor! My favorite deer boy!”

   Alastor’s eyes widened, and his grin began to falter, teetering on the edge of a frown, his expression one of sheer disbelief. Your... ‘senpai’? What in all seven circles of Hell was a ‘senpai’?! He might have considered asking Angel Dust the next time he saw that spider if he weren’t already convinced that the explanation would just traumatize him further. And did you really just call him ‘deer boy’?!

   His eye twitched once more, and then something inside him snapped.

   Alastor’s eyes darkened, the crimson on the verge of turning black again, the static increasing around him, crackling with charged malevolence. “Careful, my dear,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his sharp claws scratching the top of his cane with a metallic screech. “You’re walking on dangerous territory.” He stepped closer, looming over you like a tower of deep red and black, intimidating and far from pleased. He slowly got furious, the discomfort slowly turning into something he should’ve felt much earlier. Through narrowed eyes, he watched you flinch, though you didn’t step back. Instead, you straightened your back and tilted your head to look up at him, your mouth moving in a way that indicated that you were nervously biting your lip.

   Alastor’s smile widened at the sight, his yellow teeth flashing in the dim corridor, and the lights began to flicker around you, their energy drawn off by the crackling static around him. One blink, and his eyes turned black again, ticking radio dials replacing his irises, blood-red and dangerous as the demon himself. It took him only a flick of his hand to conjure the leash around your neck, its invisible form taking shape and turning solid glowing green.

   “If you insist on being a loyal little shadow, then perhaps I should teach you some manners,” he hissed, leaning down slightly, his grin stretching unnervingly wide. The collar tightened around your neck, a cold, burning sensation seeping through your bones as his words dug into your skin like jagged glass, a painful reminder of his control. He tugged on the leash, and you stumbled forward, eyes wide, your breath catching in your throat.

   “My, my…” he continued, flicking his tongue with a repeated motion that created a smacking sound, both unsettling and provocative. “If you truly want to serve me, you’ll need to learn some boundaries, my dear. I've been far too forgiving with you, but even I have my limits.” He pulled you closer until there were mere inches between you, his breath icy against your skin. You visibly shivered as his voice dropped to a low whisper, each word laced with sweet yet deadly venom. “After all, it would be such a shame if I had to... discipline you. And believe me, I can be quite imaginative when it comes to punishment.”

   For a moment, you just stared at him, and Alastor’s broad grin relaxed into a pleased smile, satisfaction blooming in his chest. For once, your reaction was exactly what he had anticipated. You were silent.

   Frightened.

   Oh, what a wonderful sight after enduring your incessant chatter for the past several minutes – months, actually. But he also knew this calm wouldn’t last long. A brief respite before the cycle began anew, and he found himself caught once more between annoyance and amusement.

   Perhaps, in some twisted way, he was a bit of a masochist. Because despite his power, his ruthlessness, his terrifying reputation as the Radio Demon, he continued to endure your presence and insufferable behavior if it meant he could find that brief moment of satisfaction when he saw that flicker of fear in your eyes. When he could finally silence that ceaseless admiration. When he so blatantly humiliated you with his words, degraded you with his passive aggression, yet you still met him with unyielding enthusiasm, somehow convinced he was speaking to you sweetly, when in reality, all he did was use his power over you to eventually put you in your place, reminding you of who he was and what he was capable of. 

   It was a game of control, an endless cycle where he used his dominance to break you down, only to watch you build yourself back up with even more deluded devotion. And while it should have irritated him beyond measure, there was something oddly gratifying about it – about toying with the boundaries of your blind infatuation and making you dance on the edge of dread and reverence.

   Seconds ticked by, stretching into what felt like minutes, and you eventually took a deep breath, releasing it in a long, shaky sigh. You blinked, once, twice, eyes still wide and pupils constricted. You shivered under his control, slight goosebumps rising on your skin. Alastor took in the sight, his satisfaction evident in the effect he had on you.

   You took another deep breath, then whispered in a low, breathless tone, “Fuck…”

   Alastor blinked and tilted his head, caught off-guard by the unexpected reaction. Confusion spread across his face, but before he could even formulate a response, you interrupted.

   “That was hot.”

   One second passed.

   Two.

   Three.

   Then, Alastor released your leash, hastily retreating as if he had just burned himself on a hot surface. His grayish skin turned pale, and his grin faltered into an expression of utter mortification. Within moments, his shadows enveloped him, and he seeped into the floor, leaving you behind in the hallway, bewildered and flustered.

   Maybe he should actually consider featuring you in his broadcast. Because that was the most horrifyingly unsettling response he had ever encountered. Some demons hid their cruelty behind a facade, blending seamlessly into their surroundings. And you? You were undoubtedly among the most insidiously malevolent of them all.

I had so many ideas for this fic but most of them didn't fit into the plot. So stay tuned for more Alastor x Emberlynn-coded reader content...

[gam3r-girli3]

❛ thief of my heart ❜

The day Arthur Morgan met the love of his life was the day you robbed him.

The Morgan man huffs in frustration, grumbling under his breath about the damn heat inside the carriage as it rode out of Saint Denis, headed towards Rhodes where his father had arranged for him to meet a potential suitor.

This wasn't the first time he was forced to meet a stranger with the possibility of making her his wife and it more than likely won't be the last.

He loathes it, despises feeling like a prize pony that his father is desperate to put out to stud just because he's greedy for more money. Marrying into a family even wealthier than his own would be good for them, help lift their status in society even higher and make them a little richer.

Arthur didn't care about money, not in the way his father did. All Lyle Morgan ever did was chase the dollar since before Arthur was born.

His mother, Beatrice, on the other hand, was a kind, gentle woman who understood Arthur's feelings about such demeaning arrangements - but no matter how much she tried, she could not sway Lyle's mind from forcing his son to take a wife.

The weather was always humid and dry in Saint Denis but out here in the outskirts of the city was even worse. Arthur observes the passing scenery, admiring the beauty of the area despite the heat making his suit cling to him, the way the mist lingered over the land, shadowing the tall trees.

His eyes zero in on a buck, watching as it raises its head, ears twitching as it hears the carriage rolling by. Not taking any chances, the buck turns and dashes away, disappearing into the woods.

Arthur's heart clenches with longing. He'd never known much freedom in his life. His father ruled the family with an iron fist, controlling all they did and how they portrayed themselves, always looking for an angle to climb the societal ladder ever higher.

The few times he'd been allowed to ride his horse outside the city he'd had to be escorted by guards, making sure he didn't go too far for too long.

As the carriage rode on further, entering an area shaded by the cover of large trees and overgrown shrubbery, that's when three men appear from seemingly nowhere, guns pointed at them, shouting for the driver to stop.

Arthur's heart was hammering in his chest, the air turning palpable with tension and terror.

One of them approached the carriage as the other two wrestled the driver and guard down from their seats, ensuring they didn't make any sudden movements.

The door opened and a head popped in, gun raised.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat, surprise filling him.

It was a woman.

A very woman attractive, he could tell even with the mask covering the lower half of your face, leaving only your eyes on display.

"Remain calm, sir," you drawl - your voice sending a rush of heat through him despite the situation - and lift the gun to his chest, "and no one has to get hurt."

"Alright, miss," Arthur raises his hands in surrender. "Just don't shoot."

As Arthur climbs out of the carriage and stands on the side of the road with the driver and the guard, watching you and your two companions take the few belongings in the lock box, his eyes never leave you. His heart is still racing, thumping erratically against his ribs, but for different reasons now.

He'd never met an outlaw, let alone a female one. He didn't expect someone so... beautiful. Despite your rough and harsh life you lead, you're the prettiest goddamn thing he'd ever seen in his life, including all the southern belles his father had tried to set him up with; none of them held a candle to you.

As if sensing his gaze, your eyes flicker up to meet his once more before you mount your horse, taking off after the other two outlaws.

From that day on, he knows deep down, his life will never be the same.

He didn't expect to see you again, but he dreamed he would. Your face is burned into his mind, your eyes, the beautiful shade of them. There was such a vivaciousness about you that most people in Saint Denis lacked. You were so alive and clearly unapologetic in who you were, and something about that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

He'd stay awake for hours into the night, sat at his desk, oil lamp burning away as he sketches image after image of you, some without the mask, trying to imagine the slope of your nose and the shape of your lips.

One day he heads to the post office with a small stack of letters his father insisted (ordered) he wrote and sent off to more potential suitors, asking for meetings. He hands them to the courier with a sickly feeling in his stomach when, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a poster hanging on the wall behind him.

WANTED ALIVE for robbery, murder, stealing a stagecoach, theft & looting.

Highly dangerous and armed. Approach with great caution.

Arthur pays little attention to the four figure reward, all too focused on the image of you. It's a rough sketch, clearly done from memory, but it was you - without a mask.

His eyes greedily drink it in, and then, before he can convince himself otherwise, he quickly rips the poster off the wall and tucks it into his pocket, swiftly leaving the post office as inconspicuously as possible.

Later that week, when his father leaves for a business meeting in New York, Arthur quietly slips away into the stables where he mounts his Arabian steed and rides as fast as he can out of Saint Denis before any guards were alerted to his disappearance.

He'd studied your bounty poster more clearly since he'd swiped it from the post office. It said you were last seen around the outskirts of a town called Valentine, so that's where he heads to.

When he arrives into the town - a small cattle town, by the looks and smell of it, mud and shit everywhere - he receives many curious and suspicious looks, no doubt wondering why someone like him was in a place like this. He clearly didn't belong, in his polished suit, sitting in the saddle of his pristine Arabian. He knows his appearance screams 'wealth' and suddenly, he wishes he'd thought to change into something more inconspicuous and chosen a less expensive looking horse.

"Well, lookie what we got here." Arthur turns in the direction of the raspy voice and finds a rough looking man leaning against the lamppost, twirling a knife in his hand, causing his stomach to sink with dread. "I think you got lost, mister. This ain't no place for a city slicker."

Arthur swallows thickly. "I'm not looking for trouble, sir. Just passing through."

The man, face weathered and scarred, grins an ugly grin, putting his rotten and yellowed teeth on display. "Why don't you show me what you got in that saddlebag o' yours, pretty boy." It wasn't a request.

As he reaches a trembling hand down to his saddlebag, he almost misses the sight of a figure coming up behind the man and slamming the butt of their pistol into the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. Arthur stares in shock for a moment at the man's still form, crumpled on the muddy ground, before lifting his gaze to his saviour - only to meet a pair of all too familiar eyes.

"Howdy, stranger," you drawl smoothly, corners of your lips curling up in a half smirk. "Funny seein' you again."

. . .

Many years had passed since that day in Valentine when you'd saved Arthur Morgan's hide - ironically after robbing him when you'd first met weeks prior (he's never let you live it down).

You'd tried to shake him, you had, but there was something about the man that shattered your usual defenses and made you want to open yourself up to him in a way you'd never done with anyone before.

Arthur Morgan had burrowed under your skin and made a home in your heart permanently, unwilling to let you push him away (and boy, did you try at first).

He'd been willing to give everything up for you, his life of privilege, his wealth, his family, everything. 'None of it means a damn thing if I can't be with you' he'd said, so he walked away and never looked back.

Eventually, over time, the Van der Linde gang slowly began to crumble, the law closing in ever more, leading to several members either getting killed or leaving.

It was a hard decision for you to make, having grown up in the gang, but you couldn't bear the thought of the man you loved getting hurt because of the life you'd led, so you force yourself to walk away from the outlaw life - the only way of living you'd ever known - and move far away into the countryside with your husband, settling down on a small ranch.

Arthur had even managed to convince you to have children, which you were hesitant to do because of your past and the risks it still carried of coming back to haunt you, but you knew in your heart you wanted to start a family too and so, you did.

Two children and a son later, and you and Arthur couldn't have been happier or more content.

Upon reflection, it was safe to say that both of you were incredibly glad you had robbed his stagecoach that fateful day all those years ago.

requested ♡ hope you enjoyed, anon!

[ pics in collage do not belong to me - all were found on pinterest ]

[darkdemeter]

WAR MARCH HEADCANONS

.ᐟ Well well well, some bastard really did wake up, pour the milk before the cereal and said “I’m gonna fuck around and find out today” if they’ve decided to come at you - and War isn’t having it!

.ᐟ fiercely loyal and protective to the point that it’s downright scary (unless you enjoy watching this man tear wings off of angels and demon’s jaws in half)

.ᐟ War cares very much and is respectful of your needs. He ensures you have a healthy supply of food and water, that you’re well rested if he sees you’re exhausted

.ᐟ the way his heart feels like it’s stopped beating if you both somehow get separated. The man will brutally gut and punch through any amount of debris to get to you

.ᐟ maybe or may not have held the watcher in a choking grasp when he made an unsavoury insult regarding you…

.ᐟ guaranteed protection. The literal definition of a one man army you could ever want

.ᐟ he may be stoic, he may be grumpy — but there’s a soft spot he’s got just for you

.ᐟ Run your fingers through his hair and give his head a delightful scratch for the love of the Creator- DO IT

.ᐟ if you give his cheek or lips a small kiss you’ll see this man’s face become a shade of red

.ᐟ Okay, War can be playful, he just so rarely is… but that doesn’t stop the odd chuckle and smile from slipping through; and you catch it every time

.ᐟ enjoys the tender act of his hand holding yours when camp is set up and when you’re riding together, just put your hands atop his as he’s holding the reins. He yearns for that connection deep down

.ᐟ speaking of Ruin, War had a grasp of being both firm yet gentle with the introductions and suffice to say, Ruin is for sure War’s four legged counterpart; this horse charges the field like a blazing meteor on ground level to get to you if you’re in trouble

.ᐟ War will have Ruin take off with you to get you out of harm’s way

.ᐟ have you reminded War to redirect the beams yet?

.ᐟ a bed? What’s that? HE IS THE BED. How dare you try and sleep on a bedroll?

+ nsfw bonus +

.ᐟ straight up, I’m gonna lay it on, this man is HUGE and is well endowed (his height is 8’5, that is my personal HC) Will he fit? Well, you can certainly try and experiment

.ᐟ he’s a very gentle and careful lover (especially that first time) You have to literally assure and beg this man for harder action cause he’s afraid of hurting you

.ᐟ aftercare. Every time. And he’s amazing at it

.ᐟ holds you close with kisses and cuddles, wrapping you in his red cloak

.ᐟ is very much a giver! Damn well putting your pleasure before his own. He’s at first hesitant when you intend to do some giving in return but oh, does he enjoy it so much when you do

.ᐟ very stoic to not be so loud, but the soft growls and groans let’s you know. And every so often you’ll catch a lilt of a pleasures purr

.ᐟ he’s got the stamina for a few rounds, the only limit is how much you can take

.ᐟ wants to gently bite you but is afraid of being too rough so instead he clenched his jaw tightly to stifle the urge