#he would sleep to death if it were up to him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

uvobreakmylegs · 2 days

Text

Refuge

part 1 of a werewolf!Nobunaga x female!reader fic

Part 2 (coming soon)

Warnings: blood, gore, self harm, mentions of death

Word Count: 8.2k

The pale full moon shone down upon the quiet forest, illuminating the pure white snow that lay like a blanket across the forest floor. Light from the moon made the shadows of the barren tree branches even more obvious when combined the bright surface beneath them, and the pattern they made upon the snow resembled that of gnarled arms with outstretched hands, forever reaching out with extended fingers. Any animals that lived within the vicinity were asleep, either only for the night or in hibernation, waiting for the weather to warm before they dared venture out again.

Within the sleeping forest sat a wooden cabin, an obvious and out of place interruption to the quiet landscape of the endless trees. Someone had carved out for themselves a home within the woods with the small, simple cabin in the equally small clearing. It could either be viewed as a cozy space or an invader of the natural state of the forest, but regardless, it stood there, the chimney softly carrying up the last remnants of smoke from a dying fire. Above it, the moonlight hit the man-made building in a way that made it instantly noticeable.

And in the forest, there was one that noticed it immediately.

Where almost everyone and everything was asleep within the dead quiet of the wilderness, one was awake. And when he noticed the cabin, he stalked closer, his snout sniffing the dry air as he tried to discern who or what was inside the small structure.

Not many chose to live so far away from the rest of civilization, and when they did, it was for a specific reason, some job or craft of theirs that was better suited for out in the wilderness. For what reason was this cabin here, he wondered. A quick glance showed nothing of interest; only a small, frozen over garden to one side, and a dead log on the other that had clearly been used as a way to chop firewood.

Who was in there? A family? Or perhaps a couple that intended to start one?

Regardless of who was in there, they would be easy targets. Being so far away from anyone else and being attacked in the middle of the night would make them as much, as the sudden chaos that would interrupt their sleep would catch them off guard.

But perhaps, he thought to himself, there might be just enough time for his hunt to become interesting.

Standing between two pine trees, he breathed in.

Only a single human scent could be identified.

And as he listened with sharp ears that strained to hear of the interior of the cabin, little else was to be noted other than the faintest noise of someone breathing evenly.

Only one.

The longer he stood, the more he was certain that there was only a single person with in that structure, someone who was asleep like the rest of the forest.

That revelation dampened his mood.

Someone being alone in the woods must have been some elderly person who was stuck in their ways, he thought. They wouldn't be able to move fast, and they would hardly offer up any sort of challenge should he choose to attack.

While it wasn't always what he was looking for in his hunts, the thought of it being too easy was unappealing.

It would be several miles to the only town he knew was in the area, however. He would spend several miles trekking there and back to his own little camp if he chose to head that way. If he killed the person within, he'd satiate his hunger and have a better shelter for the night, possibly the next few days.

It was far more pragmatic to attack the cabin. While there would be little sport, he could always wait for the next month if that was what he wanted.

Yet even as he told himself that, he continued to stand there, staring at the quiet cabin.

….. No.

After waiting a month for this night to return, that wasn't the way he wanted it to end. Perhaps it was his own instinct that told him that. The need to have a proper hunt.

Regardless, he made his choice as he stepped away, turning and heading towards the direction of what must have been the nearby town as he followed his nose, picking up bits and pieces of more human scents that the gentle breeze brought his way. The cabin behind him was quickly forgotten as he continued forward. Thus the cabin and the woman within were left in peace.

And not an hour after, gunshots could be heard ringing through the night, though in the safety of your home, you weren't aware of any of it as you slept through the ordeal completely.

Winter was rarely kind.

That was a harsh truth that everyone in the region had learned, as the area where you lived was always hit with heavy barrages of thickly layered snow. Icy winds would shriek through the open spaces, running past trees and buildings as it brought with it a torrent of ice that clung to whatever surface it could. The blizzards would always beat down upon the wooden doors of the homes that did their best to keep the harsh weather out, and sometimes those storms would last for several days if not longer.

All of that left everyone chilled to the bone and desperately clinging to whatever shreds of warmth they could get their hands on. As such, everyone would ensure that their fireplaces or their wood burning stoves were in proper order. Nothing would grow during this time either, so if one wanted to survive, having ample food stored away was required. That could be a difficult task depending on how many mouths one had to feed.

Though for you it was a bit easier as you only needed to worry about yourself.

You lived several miles away from the nearby town of Willsden, and the area of the woods where your cabin stood allowed for enough extra space for you to grow your own crops. The summer and autumn months were spent growing your own food in the little garden, harvesting the vegetables when they were ready and storing them away. And for the food that you couldn't produce on your own, you would buy or bartering for whatever it was that you needed. All you needed was enough in your storage that would last you until spring came, and then the process would repeat itself.

Though the winters weren't always the same; sometimes the snow would thaw later than anticipated and that would cause you issues as you scrambled to find a way to provide for yourself, but overall you managed to do fine. The fact that you were surviving on your own for so long was proof enough of that. Even if it was difficult, you were happy with what you had and what you were able to accomplish.

As you stepped out from the warm confines of the cabin and into the harsh cold, you shuddered as a chill instantly set into you. The winters were far too cold and you wished you could simply stay beneath the covers where it was far more cozy.

But with the work that needed to be done, that simply wasn't an option.

The empty basket on your back shifted as you closed the door behind you, though you quickly readjusted it as you turned towards the forest that surrounded your home. Today's chore would be tiring: you needed to collect wood that could be chopped up and be used as fuel for your fireplace. It was simple enough to say that, but all parts of that process would be obnoxious, from finding and putting what you found into the basket, to carting it all back to your home and then chopping it up so it would be fit for use.

Obnoxious, but you needed your fireplace to remain lit so you could survive the winter.

Though as you looked up to the sky, you noted that the weather didn't look promising. Whereas the day prior had been rather clear, now the skies were dark and clouded, and there was something in the air that felt strange.

If you were to guess, a blizzard was likely going to hit the area, and soon.

You sighed to yourself. That work would need to be completed in short period of time. The last thing you needed was needing to go out and try to chop wood while a blizzard raged around you.

Best to get to it now.

After pushing your scarf up over your nose, you adjusted the basket once more before you walked forward, your boots sinking into the snow as you did so.

But when you had traveled a few steps, you noticed something.

At the very edge of the clearing, in between a pair of large pine trees, you spotted two prominent footprints that were set deep into the snow. Curious, you walked in that direction, wanting to know what might have left those prints. Most likely it had been some sort of animal.

You felt you were correct when you reached them and saw a faint indents in the snow where the claws had at one point gouged in. And when you looked at how long the prints were, it was clear that whatever had been standing here had been large.

A bear?

The thought made you gulp; bears being awake during the winter was dangerous, as they were always angry if they were awoken before the season had ended. They'd be hungry, too, and with a lack of food to be found in the forest, they were generally driven to find the food they wanted in the homes of people like yourself. Glancing back at your cabin, you found that the prints had been facing the door directly. An image came to mind from that: one of a bear standing in the snow as it watched your home while you were blissfully unaware inside.

But you hadn't heard anything the night prior. You had slept rather soundly, and that was part of what left you being reluctant to exit your bed that morning.

If you had made more noise in your sleep, would the bear have tried to come in?

A shudder ran through you as you thought of what might have happened if it had heard you. No doubt you would be dead, no matter the efforts you may have put into getting to the rifle you had hanging on one of your walls.

That would have been a gruesome way to go.

Looking back down at the footprints, you noticed that there were more than just the two, and your eyes followed along as you saw that the beast had decided to turn west, walking away from your home.

That was the direction of Willsden, you noted. Worry then hit you as you hoped everyone there was alright. Ideally, you would have tried to head towards the town and see if that was the case, but when you glanced up to the sky again, it was clear that you didn't have time for that. You still needed to collect your firewood, and even if you did decide to forgo that, the journey both to and from the town would eat up too much of your time. At the absolute worst, you would get lost in the snow and freeze to death.

It was better to continue doing what you needed to, and then, once it was safe to make the trip down to Willsden, you would do so.

You set off again, telling yourself that the people of the town would be fine. The town had a lot of people living there, after all. If some lumbering beast was on the attack, they would no doubt notice quickly. They also had the manpower to defend themselves, so whatever fight might ensue likely wouldn't last long.

Before you turned your mind completely to the chore you needed to start, you glanced again at the set of tracks.

…. Strange.

Looking at the placement of the tracks, it almost seemed as if the animal had been walking on it's hind feet the whole time.

….. The thought was utterly ridiculous, you told yourself.

That was the last you thought of the prints before you settled onto your task.

The basket on your back was nearly full with the soon-to-be firewood when you noticed an unexpected flash of color within the whites and browns of the forest. Turning your head to look, your brows furrowed as you couldn't quite make it out whatever it was as a dead bush stood in your way, blocking you from seeing whatever it was clearly.

Whatever it was, though, it was red.

You shouldn't have bothered to get a closer look. You had work to do and a short time limit to do it, if the clouds above you were any indication. All you would be doing by pushing your way past the bush was wasting spare seconds that you needed to make sure you would continue to live comfortably through the winter.

Yet your curiosity managed to be stronger and you did just that, the tall branches of the bush clinging to your clothes as you made your way by, snapping a few of them in the process. The sounds echoed out into the empty forest as you did so, and it served as a sign as to how alone you were within that space.

Though, evidently, you weren't alone completely.

The thing that had caught your attention could now be seen clearly, and as you stared down at the ground just as you had earlier outside of your cabin, it was obvious that this thing that had caught your attention was blood.

It marred the pure white snow with bright red spots, spattered across the surface like ink blots on parchment. They were sporadic and spread out, and you realized then that they trailed off in a singular direction. As your eyes followed them, you found that alongside them were gouges in the snow, like something had been dragged through. Almost seeming like footprints.

You would have noted another strange parallel when compared to what you had found hours earlier had it not been for the question that interrupted you:

Were these made by a human?

The size and the way the feet had dragged seemed similar to the footprints you might leave behind in such conditions. It certainly seemed unlikely that these would have been left by an animal. So a person had been through here. Given the blood trail that followed after the messy prints in the snow, whoever it had been was wounded.

Grievously so.

Without another thought you began to walk forward, following along the trail as you kept your eyes open for any sign of the person who had left it behind.

The trail was a long one, and often meandered about as the drops of blood and the footprints in the snow were erratic, going from one end of a clearing before doubling back and continuing the opposite way. You wondered what had driven this person to walk about in such a way – had they been out of their mind from the cold? Or had they been looking for something? Perhaps some sort of shelter before they attempted to dress their wounds. It was possible they had managed to find such a place.

Though with how much blood you could see, you had a bad feeling that whoever it was would be long dead by the time you found them.

The wind was picking up, you noted. You needed to be home before the storm hit. But it felt just as important to follow and see who was at the end of the blood trail and what condition that person was in, if just so you could leave a marker to indicate where their body was so they could be retrieved at a later date.

You felt that it was the least you could do.

Time seemed to pass slowly as you followed. How far you were traveling away from your cabin worried you – it wasn't smart to rely entirely on the trail you had followed, not with a blizzard that lurked overhead and threatened to cover the path you had made for yourself with freshly fallen snow. If you didn't find the wounded person soon, you would be forced to turn back, despite knowing the guilt that would weigh on you after such an action.

Just a little longer, you told yourself. If you didn't find this person within the next few minutes, then you would abandon the search effort.

As luck would have it, it was only a few paces more before you heard something. Something that sounded like a human voice groaning out in pain. Hearing that renewed your energy, and you rushed forward along the blood trail, your neck straining as you looked around the trees, trying to spot the person you had heard.

And when you walked past a gnarled old oak tree that sat upon an incline, you saw someone.

A man.

One that you didn't recognize. Not from the town or even beyond the slice of the world you called home.

His long black hair was frayed and messy as it flowed down his back and shoulders, and the blood that was speckled in his hair matched the blood that was present in the slight bits of hair upon his face. More worryingly, there was a wound on his shoulder, a small puncture wound that could have come from a bullet if the dried blood that still managed to look bright against his pale skin told you anything. His skin was also decidedly frostbitten, and the patches of red marred his cheeks, feet and hands in particular. As for his clothing, he only had on a ragged pair of pants that looked ready to fall apart.

He looked as though he was on the verge of death. But none of that seemed to concern him.

He was fully focused on the knife he was stabbing into the side of his torso. On the left of his body, just beneath his ribs, a curtain of blood had long since fallen and dried, and it was clear that at one point, he had been walking with the open wound as the left leg of his pants was also soaked in the substance.

Fresh blood was dripping down his skin as the blade he'd forced into his flesh moved to and fro, his numb hands moving the hilt as best they could with their limited mobility. His teeth were clenched as he did so, and the look on his face was nothing short of desperate.

Why was he doing that?

Then he let out a pained noise, and with both hands, he pulled again on the hilt.

You stood still, staring at him as you tried to understand why he was doing this.

It was almost as if he was trying to dig something out of his side.

He breathed hard as he continued to pull on the hilt before eventually giving up, letting out a loud gasp of pain as he fell back against the tree trunk in frustration.

Then he noticed you.

Gray eyes widened upon the realization, and he sat still for a few moments, as though he was amazed that he had only just now realized that he wasn't alone.

You didn't get a chance to speak before his face scrunched up in pain and he doubled over.

You didn't know what his situation was, but seeing that was enough to break you out of your stupor, and you rushed over immediately, pulling the basket off of your back before you knelt down and put your hands over his, trying to get them off of the knife hilt so you could remove it from him as safely as you could.

Only you weren't allowed to do so.

Without removing his grip on the knife, he pushed himself against you to shove your hands away. With how weak he seemed to be, the amount of strength that was in that shove was surprising.

You almost didn't hear it when he spoke at first, his heavy breathing making it difficult to understand him.

“I need it out of me.”

After a moment, you responded.

“It?” you asked, confused.

He didn't reply. Or rather, he couldn't. He was groaning in pain again, and you saw the veins in his forehead pulse as he struggled with the knife.

“You're going to kill yourself,” you told him.

He wasn't listening.

He only continued to dig that knife into his side.

Once again, you watched, truly uncertain of what you should do.

Except no, you knew what you should do. You should get that knife away from him. Stop him before he hurt himself any further, so then he might have a chance of surviving.

But with how determined he was to do whatever it was he thought he was doing, you didn't think you would be successful in getting him to stop. Nor did you want to wrestle a knife away from a man who was clearly crazed from the cold and his other injuries, and especially not when he wasn't as feeble as you had first thought. He could easily injure you if you tried to do that, or worse.

So then what were you supposed to do? Wait like this? Leave him?

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard a strange sound come from where he had stabbed the knife into himself. A sound that resembled metal scraping against metal.

…. Something really was stuck in him.

And since it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere until it was out of him, you had little other choice.

The warning glare he gave you when you reached your hands out to him was harsh, but his gaze softened when you placed your hands on top of his as you said “please, let me help you.”

The man didn't answer, but he turned his attention back to the knife. This time, your steady hands helped his shaking ones when he began to pull at the knife again.

It didn't feel as though this was the right thing to do. Even with the knowledge that there was something inside of him, surely the correct thing to do was to take him somewhere warm and bandage his wounds, and then once the weather was more mild you would take him to the local physician. Surely whatever it was could wait to be taken care of until after he was out of the cold.

With every passing second that you tried to help you worried that you were only hastening this man's death. That the chances he had of surviving even until the next hour were only growing more and more slim the longer you kept this up with him. With every pull you made on the knife and the blood that came out of the gash that was only increasing in size, you were forced to wonder that if this man were to die, how much of his fate would ultimately rest upon your shoulders?

Then it came out.

You had felt it through the way you held the end of the knife hilt, how it traveled through the open wound, over his exposed insides until it reached the outside. The knife came out from his side forcefully and the thing inside of him fell out. It was too small and the blood coming from the wound was too great. Whatever had fallen out of him, it vanished into the snow next to him. The only thing you could discern was that it had been silver in color.

You didn't need to tell him that something had come out; immediately after his shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh of relief, the kind you hear when a moment of great agony had finally passed.

Now that it was out, he might listen to you.

You took that opportunity to speak, saying “we can't stay here. There's a storm-”

He fell forward.

Onto you.

You barely managed to catch him, holding him beneath his arms and keeping him from falling face first into the snow. His head rested against your shoulder and he shuddered, his eyes now closed. He was unconscious.

Though if he stayed out here in these conditions any longer, he'd be dead soon. With all the blood he'd lost, it was amazing he'd held on for as long as he did. You needed to get him to shelter as soon as possible.

But at this point, would he even make it?

Despite his chances being grim, you knew that you needed to try to get him back alive. After tearing off a bit of your skirt to wrap around the wounds on his side and shoulder, and then wrapping your own cloak around his shoulders in a desperate bid to keep him somewhat warm, you began the task of taking him home.

The way you transported him through the woods was unceremonious, to say the least. His height and weight when compared to you meant that you couldn't sling one of his arms over your shoulder and carry him that way, and even if you could, the basket on your back would have gotten in the way. So you were forced to hook your arms beneath his armpits and drag him back to your cabin while you shivered from the cold after having given up the protection your cloak offered for his sake. The basket only made the task all the more difficult with how heavy it was. It was exhausting, and a look at all of the blood still spattered on his skin had you doubting more and more that he would make it back alive. The state of his heels was also worrying, as with every pull you made over a rough tree root, they appeared more scraped and raw every time you looked at them.

All you could do was hope that the makeshift bandages you'd fashioned on the spot were enough to staunch the bleeding in the areas that were worst.

Somehow, you managed it. After a grueling forty five minutes of dragging the unconscious man and praying that he didn't die on the way there, and after the anxiety that swelled within you once the storm finally started with the snowflakes that began to rain down from the cloudy sky, you caught sight of your cabin in the distance, and that was enough to give you a burst of energy to take you the rest of the way.

It was good timing. The wind was picking up and it was only getting colder. By the time you dragged him inside and slammed the door shut, a great deal of snow had managed to get inside as well. And with how high the snow had risen when you had returned, you noted that you very well may need to dig a path out from your door.

But that wasn't important right now.

You turned your attention to the man. The exhaustion of having dragged him through the woods had you falling to your knees before you crawled over to where he lay and placing your hands on him, reaching for his mouth and the side of his neck to see if you could feel some sign of life. Either his breath or that of a pulse.

…..

It was soft, but you felt a little bit of hot hair hitting your fingers when you gently pulled his lips apart. The pulse you felt in his neck was just as faint, but it was still there.

He was still alive.

The relief you felt upon that realization was so great that you reached down to hold him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed your face against his hair.

“I'm so glad,” you murmured, “I'm so glad you're alive.”

With the way you had your face pressed against him, you didn't notice how his eyelids fluttered open.

It was only for a brief moment, and when you pulled yourself away from him, he was unconscious once more.

The first thing you had done once you had fully composed yourself was properly clean and dress his wounds for fear of infection. You had no idea how long he'd been in that state, and the knife that he'd been stabbing into his side certainly wouldn't have helped in keeping that side wound clean. Although oddly enough, when you went about cleaning and dressing those wounds, you found that they didn't seem as bad as they did when you had first discovered him. And despite your certainty that he would be suffering from frostbite, his skin now showed little sign of any such issues. Perhaps he hadn't been out there as long as you thought.

Your mind went to your second priority, which was to get him warm as he was still ice cold to the touch. Once again you were forced to drag him awkwardly, this time to your bed as you had no other place to put him. By that point your limbs were screaming over the amount of exertion you had put them through that day, and now your movements were even more slowed and pained as you dragged him across the wooden floor. Getting him onto the bed was no easy task either, as he slipped off once or twice while you were trying to place him, forcing you to grab at him as best you could to keep him from tumbling onto the floor.

Eventually you were successful in placing him on the bed, much to the relief of your sore muscles. Given that you had no clothes that would fit him, the best you could do was cover him with as many blankets as you were able to spare. The man ended up bundled on your bed, the sheets up to his neck.

After taking a step back, it didn't feel like there was anymore you could do for him.

Whether he lived through this or not all depended on his own resilience.

You then took a moment for yourself to breathe, and from that point, the rest of your day didn't last long. The amount of effort you had put in to bringing him back to your home had drained you, and you barely had the energy to make yourself something to eat before you felt the strong pull of sleep overwhelm you. You ended up settling onto the floor not far from your fireplace, a few blankets placed beneath you to protect you from the hard surface of the floor while another was pulled around you.

You spared one last glance at the man from your makeshift bed, and found that he was the same as he had been earlier.

There wasn't anything more you could do for him, you reminded yourself.

Nothing other than sincerely hope he would pull through.

The blizzard was going strong when you awoke the next morning, bursts of wind hitting the entrance of your cabin repeatedly as the winter chill tried to force its way in. But the front door stood strong, and as you sleepily added more wood into the fireplace, the warmth within the room remained as it was at a comfortable temperature.

As much as you wanted to focus on the stiffness in your back that came from sleeping on the floor and the ache in your limbs from the strain you had put them through yesterday, you turned your attention to the man you had rescued.

He was still unconscious. But as you took a few steps closer, you noted that some color had returned to his cheeks. His breathing was also more even, though the longer you stared, he showed no signs of waking up anytime soon.

But he did seem better than he had when you went to sleep, and that was a sign of good progress for his recovery.

You hoped it was, at least.

With the blizzard keeping you inside, you spent your morning doing your best to care for him. After propping his head up, you managed to get a bit of water down his throat before you checked his wounds. The gash on his side seemed better. It actually looked smaller than you remembered it being when you first saw it. And the wound on his shoulder didn't seem serious at all once you lifted up the bandages.

That seemed a bit odd, though with all of the focus on the side wound, perhaps you were incorrectly remembering how severe the one on the shoulder had been. But as long as he was getting better, that was all that mattered.

Once you had changed out the bandages, you set about cleaning him up a bit more. You wiped away the blood that was still on his skin, doing your best to apply enough force to wipe it off but not to cause further pain. You even went as far as to brush out his hair, removing the tangles and the blood that had dried and clotted in the long black strands.

He looked much better once you had finished, and you remained seated on the edge of the bed while you watched him steadily breathing in and out.

Though you were still unable to tell when he would wake up, at that moment it seemed guaranteed that he would be alright.

A relieved sigh left your lips before you got up from the bed to make yourself a meal.

The mystery man slept through the entire day, and again on the day that followed. You did your best as you looked after him, making sure he was warm and that his bandages were clean. And while you weren't sure if there was anything you could feed him in his current state, you made sure to bring cups of water to his lips to ensure he had enough fluids in his system.

That night you felt that he looked better than he had before, and you went to sleep hopeful that he would soon awaken.

Your wish was granted the next morning.

A chill in the air awoke you suddenly, pulling you out of sleep as the warmth you so desperately craved was snatched away from you. You pulled yourself up with a groan as you looked about, trying to find out what had caused you to lose your rest.

You figured it out quickly when you turned and saw that the cabin door standing wide open with a pile of snow that had tumbled inside.

Your mind became clear in an instant as you wondered who had done that.

Then your gaze went to the bed to check on your guest, only to find that it was empty.

He had gone outside? In his condition?

Now that you were fully awake, you jumped to your feet and rushed to the door, worried that he had wandered off so far that you wouldn't catch sight of him. The snow was still coming down hard, and if he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, there would be little you could do for him. You couldn't take the risk of getting lost yourself to go after him.

It was a relief when you stopped at the open doorway and saw him.

He stood out in the open, between a pair of pine trees, clothed only in the trousers you had left him in and one of the blankets you had wrapped around him. Though it didn't remain there long as it slowly dripped off his shoulders before it ended up on the snow around him. Yet he didn't seem to notice or care that he was standing half naked in the freezing cold.

Instead, he was facing your direction, staring at the cabin in what seemed to be…. Amazement? Surprise? You weren't sure; it was hard to tell what exactly that expression was with the snowflakes that were still swirling about.

Right. The snow. The snow that was fast entering through the open door of the cabin, that was showing no signs of stopping and that your injured guest was still standing in. Enough of the snow had fallen that it was deep enough to submerge up to his knees, and he had no shoes. Or socks. Or anything other than the tattered trousers that were barely holding themselves together.

Best to get him back in case the frostbite managed to get him this time.

His attention was finally turned to you when you walked out, calling to him as you did so.

“Come back inside!”

He didn't make any move, and it didn't look like he understood what you said.

Wrapping your own blanket tighter around yourself, you huffed as you approached him. Trudging out into the snow like this was the last thing you wanted, especially when you weren't dressed for the outdoors. Your nightgown did little to protect you in that moment, so you tried your best to move fast, though the large amount of snow made it difficult.

The man continued to stare at you and said nothing, even when you reached him. Even when you knelt down and pulled up the blanket from the surface. Even when you once again wrapped it around him, he still seemed out of sorts, so you decided it was best to be gentle with him.

“Come back inside,” you repeated.

That time you put one of your hands in his while the other went to his shoulder, doing your best to be encouraging as you added “please?”

After a few moments more of him staring at you with a bewildered expression, he nodded. With that, he allowed you to lead him back inside, much to your relief. The cold air was brutal against your exposed skin, and you didn't want to imagine how bad it must have been for him.

The door was slammed shut once the two of you were back within the cabin, though now without some difficulty as quite a lot of snow had gotten in by that point, much to your dismay. Oh well. It would melt soon enough, wouldn't it? Besides, right now you needed to give your full attention to your guest.

The snow that covered his hair and shoulders quickly joined the pile on the floor as you brushed it off of him as best you could before you ultimately took off the blanket you had wrapped him in and grabbed another off of the bed, repeating the action you had made outside when you placed the fresh one on his shoulders. He only continued to stare at you with that same bewildered look.

While you found the way he acted strange, you decided not to think much about it – if he had any memory of what it had been like a few days prior, perhaps he was just astonished that he was still alive.

“Here,” you said, taking hold of his arm as you prepared to lead him again, “lay back down. Your injuries are bad.”

Again, he said nothing but allowed you to do as you pleased, letting you take him back to the bed and tucking the sheets over him once he took his place on the mattress. Part of you wanted to ask what he'd been thinking by going outside, but that was a question to be saved for later, if you remembered it.

“Are you feeling alright?” you asked him. It felt best to keep your questions to ones that could be answered with a 'yes' or a 'no', at least for the time being.

He was looking about the cabin, taking everything in when you asked your question, and when he turned his attention back to you, he nodded.

That was a relief, and you smiled at him as you replied “am I right in thinking that you're hungry? You must be, after all the time you spent asleep.”

Again, he nodded.

“Alright. If you'll wait, I can make a breakfast for the two of us,” you said.

He replied with yet another nod.

Things were quiet as you cooked, and you were happy to be next to the fireplace after the brief amount of time outside. The minute or so you had spent out there had chilled you to the core, and you hated to wonder about what it had been like for him.

You glanced over to find him watching you, and you thought that perhaps now you might try to get some answers, if he had any.

“Was there a reason for why you went outside?” you asked.

His brows furrowed, and he turned his head so he was staring up at the ceiling. And then, for the first time, he spoke.

“I don't know,” he said.

“Ah. Alright then.”

Clearing your throat, you decided to push forward with your next question.

“Do you know what happened to you?” you asked.

At that, his mouth pressed into a line and he looked uncomfortable. Quickly, you added “if you aren't able to talk about it, that's fine.”

“No, no, it's not that,” he told you, “I…. Uh, I don't…. I don't remember.”

“Oh.”

What exactly had he gone through before you found him?

“It looked as though you'd been attacked,” you said, “you have bullet wounds.”

“You were behaving strangely when I found you, as well,” you added.

He shook his head.

“I don't remember,” he reiterated.

Then he turned his head towards you as he asked “where are we?”

“In my cabin?”

“Yes, but where is it?”

“Ah. We're outside Willsden. About eight miles away from there,” you explained.

“Have you been in contact with anyone from there?”

You blinked.

“No?” you responded.

“I see.”

He went back to staring at the ceiling, though you noticed movement beneath the blankets after. His hand went to his side – the one that he'd been digging the knife into, where he'd gotten that bullet out of him.

Foolishly, you only then realized why he had been asking about where the two of you were.

“I'm sorry – with the weather still being bad, it'll take some time for the roads to clear up even after the snow stops, but as soon as it does I'll fetch a doctor for you,” you told him.

For some reason, he seemed surprised when you said that, and again he stared at you for a few moments.

You wondered if you really were as strange as he seemed to perceive you to be.

When the food was finished cooking, you moved to help him sit up in the bed only to be surprised at how easily he lifted himself up without your assistance. After the way you had found him half frozen to death in the snow and then the days that had followed, you would have thought him to be weaker, yet he moved without much trouble, though the wound in his side seemed to still be giving him some trouble as you saw him wince and grab at it again. At least the shoulder wound seemed to be better.

He spoke again when you were in the middle of your meal, having paused with his own as he asked you “what's your name?”

You answered him, and asked for his in turn.

Nobunaga, he told you.

The introduction seemed to help him, as once the two of you had the other's name, he was more open with you when he spoke. He'd been traveling, he told you, going from town to town in search of work. While he had been on his way to Willsden from Doveport before he wound up where you found him in the woods. Again, he told you that he didn't remember what had happened to him, but it seemed safe enough to conclude that he had been attacked, robbed and left for dead.

Hearing that, and remembering the way he had been when you first laid eyes on him, all you could feel was immense pity for the man. What sort of people leave another person to die in such a manner? Although it was silly to ask that question as you knew the answer – the number of people in the world who had no issue cutting short the lives of others for the sake of their own greed were far too many.

“I don't suppose you have an idea as to how long you were out there,” you said.

“Since the night prior,” Nobunaga answered as he sighed.

“The night?” you asked, confused. It didn't seem likely to you that one man could have lasted that many hours outside in the cold with the way he was.

Nobunaga seemed to realize that as well, as he corrected himself with “ah, maybe I'm misremembering. I couldn't have been out that long. So it must have been the morning at the latest.”

You nodded, as that made more sense.

“I wonder why I didn't hear any gunfire,” you then said, “wherever it was where you were attacked, it couldn't have been that far from here.”

“I do remember bits and pieces where I was walking for a long while. Maybe the area where I was attacked was further away,” he suggested.

Nobunaga then added “or maybe you were in too deep a sleep.”

“Ah… I suppose.”

It felt slightly embarrassing to admit it, but that explanation would make sense. It didn't bode well for you to sleep so deeply if something was wrong, however. But regardless of that, the person or people who had attacked Nobunaga posed a threat and they would need to be taken care of.

You got his attention again as you said “as soon as the road opens up, I'll fetch a doctor for you, and I'll report the crime as well.”

“Report it?” he asked.

You nodded.

Instead of seeming relieved, he seemed wary, his eyebrows furrowing as he said “I don't see much point in doing that. Those thieves are likely long gone by now. It's best to not bother.”

“Not bother?”

That didn't seem like a normal response. Was Nobunaga ashamed that he had been attacked?

“No one will blame you for what they did,” you said.

“I'm not worried about that.”

“Then may I ask what you are worried about?”

Nobunaga paused, his mind seemingly racing to find an excuse.

Why was he trying so hard to convince you to drop it?

“I just think there's no point because,” he began, waiting half a moment before he continued with “I'm…. I'm not getting any of the things they stole back. And I don't care much about what they took, anyway. I'm also still alive, so I have the satisfaction of knowing that they failed to kill me.”

He seemed hesitant about everything he said except the last part. That seemed to be the only part that seemed genuine from what he was telling you. Though why he wanted you to stay quiet was still a mystery.

…. Maybe he was still confused after that time he'd spent in the cold.

“I think you're right about that, that we won't retrieve your items,” you agreed, “but if there are murderers running about the area, others should be warned about it. What if they attack someone else? We could help the others in the town if we tell them.”

“Ah…… Right….”

It was clear he hadn't thought of that, and he didn't have any argument to make against that point.

Nobunaga leaned back on the bed as he continued “shouldn't you be worried about yourself, though? It doesn't look like you have any way to defend against murderers.”

“I don't, but I also think we'll be fine for the time being.”

“Why?”

“There is an advantage to the weather being so poor,” you stated, “no one will be coming here while the outside is still like that.”

Nobunaga nodded slowly, though his gaze was a bit distant after you said that. Was he worrying about his attackers finding him again?

“We'll be okay,” you told him, “I'm certain of it.”

He nodded slowly again.

Shortly thereafter he said that he wanted to rest more, and you retired to read quietly beside the fireplace while he settled back into the bed.

It was almost pitch black in the room when you were suddenly awoken as an unsettling feeling washed over you, a feeling that your subconscious was able to recognize. That it was strong enough to rouse you from sleep was odd, and even more odd was the sensation that had been recognized.

It felt as though someone had been watching you.

Someone had been standing over you, watching you as they took every slight movement you made, every soft breath you took as your tightly wrapped blanket rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Why had they watched you so intently?

Some part of your mind told you with certainty that was what had happened; even though you hadn't been awake for it, you felt certain of that fact. After taking a few moments to process those thoughts, you glanced over at the one person who could have been doing such a thing.

Though it was hard to make out in the dark, you were able to see enough of Nobunaga's form to tell that he was in bed, and it appeared that he was asleep.

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness further, and though you couldn't make out everything, you felt that he didn't look as though he had moved from the bed at all; he was still in the same position as they had when you both had retired for the evening. It certainly didn't seem as though he had quickly returned to the bed once he realized you were awake, and you surely would have heard him if he did. Not only that, how could he have moved that fast with his injuries still being as grave as they were?

It seemed unlikely.

You looked away from him as you stretched out your arms.

You were imagining things, likely due to the poor quality of sleep that came as a result from resting on the floor. But you had no alternative to that at the moment, so it was all you could do to simply make the best of it.

Once again, you laid down on your makeshift bed while you did your best to ignore the feeling of discomfort that it brought.

Instead, your mind went to the brief conversation you and Nobunaga had before you both had gone to sleep. Right before you had settled down, he had asked you about what you had said to him when he was on the brink of death.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“When you brought me inside,” he clarified, “I think I was partially awake for that, and…. I thought I heard you say something.”

“Oh. Ah….”

You remembered the words that had tumbled out of your mouth at that time, ones that were brought out through sheer relief when you had realized that he was still alive. For whatever reason, that moment felt more embarrassing now that you knew he was somewhat conscious for it, though the source of that embarrassment was unknown.

“I… I may have said something, yes,” you answered, looking away from him.

He nodded again, his eyes going back up to the ceiling.

The next morning he was awake before you were, and the way he sat up in bed almost made it seem as though he was waiting for you to wake up.

You weren't able to get out a greeting before he spoke.

“I realized that I haven't thanked you once for saving me,” Nobunaga said, “so…. Thank you. I really mean it.”

You hadn't even thought of that until now, but his gratitude was appreciated as you smiled at him as you answered “I'm just happy I was able to help.”

Nobunaga looked away quickly as a blush formed on his cheeks.

#reader insert #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere x reader #yandere nobunaga #nobunaga x reader #yandere hxh #yandere #hxh x reader #hxh nobunaga #monster au

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satanghulu · 1 day

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the horrors of econs [teaser]

✦ PAIRING: satan x f!reader ✦ SUMMARY: Okay, you didn’t mean to summon a demon nor did you mean to throw a book at him but hey, it’s not like you expected the literal embodiment of Wrath to apparate in your apartment! Now, if only he could go back to where he came from… ✦ WARNING: College AU, crack, mild mentions of violence ✦ WC: 1K

| MASTERLIST

══════════════════

You were going to kill Solomon.

It’s a well-known fact that that guy was shady but really? Was he trying to give you an express pass straight to Death’s doorstep or something? Maybe he had always harboured a secret dislike for you because why on earth did the Economic textbook he lent you summon a--demon?!

“Human. Are you done staring at me?” The man--no, demon? brushes off the dust on the back of his pants. Wait, were those cow prints you see? No, wait. What are those hideous things draped across his neck? And, what was with his disaster of a shirt? For a second, you thought you had teleported to an alternate Jojo Bizarre Adventure universe.

”Your outfit is ugly as hell.” You blurted out, hands delayed in flying up to cover your mouth when you realised the words had escaped from you. The man--no, demon turns with flashing eyes, his tail swishing dangerously behind him. Oh my god, were those spikes embedded in them? Suddenly, you regret ever opening your mouth. This is why people always tell you to keep your mouth shut when you are in a sleep-deprived state. You could feel sweat beading at the side of your temple as you slowly backed away, edging to the bedroom door.

“Are you courting death, little lamb?” He hissed, taking a step closer. You took furtive glances around the room, swallowing hard when you realised the only makeshift weapon you had was the Econs textbook that Solomon had lent you.

The demon’s eyes had narrowed into slits, breathing coming out hot and heavy as if he was poised to attack you at a moment’s notice. Your grip on the textbook tightened as he advanced nearer to you, now a couple of steps away.

“Answer me, human--” The demon mocked you again, arms stretching forward presumably to attack you as you--

You threw the textbook at him.

Thud!

The textbook bounced off his head with a loud thud as he just stared at you in disbelief. At least, you had managed to get a headshot – your only accomplishment in life alongside the stupidest thing you have ever done. And somehow, you had landed yourself in deeper trouble if the shaking with barely contained rage from the thing was any indication.

You silently sent a prayer to the deity above, hoping that whoever was watching you from above would grant you a peaceful death. Although you weren’t one to believe much in religion, this seemed like a good time to start. Maybe next, an angel would drop from the sky too.

“HAHAHAHA!”

The hands you had raised as a shield were being forcefully put down by the entity in front of you.

“HAHAHA, I didn’t know humans could be this interesting.” Oh. The shaking was from laughter, you noted dumbly. You stared blankly at him before taking another step back, trying to covertly loosen his grip around your wrist.

Great, it seemed like the “demon” was a maniac too.

After struggling in his grip for a good minute, you gave up the fight and waited for his laughter to die down. “HAHAHAHA. I never thought the day would come when I would get bested by a human. HAHAHA.” The entity in front of you kept mumbling to himself with a crazed look in his eyes. Honestly, you were getting kinda worried for him too. There’s no way getting smacked by a book is as funny as he made it sound.

After another minute, his laughter finally subsided and his hold on you had loosened enough for you to wiggle out tentatively. The thing stared at you before his mouth curled into a grin with a glint in his eye.

“So human, tell me why you summoned a demon.”

Well, at least you got your answer to the burning question plaguing you. However, it was not something you wanted to hear at the moment. It wasn’t reassuring, one bit at all.

“I’m really interested to hear what you want. Tell me why a measly human like you summoned one of the seven Denizens of Hell.” Said demon asked, voice growly in a way that gave you butterflies in the stomach; but the butterflies were trying to tear its way out to escape.

It took you a few moments to register his statement. The seven Denizens of Hell? You weren’t familiar with the concept but it seems to indicate that the demon standing before you holds a high rank which could potentially spell more trouble for you.

“Uh.” You started. “I didn’t summon you, I think?” You dragged out your words hesitantly, holding out both hands in front of you defensively. Immediately, his face pinched into a frown as he studied your expression.

“You’re not lying.” He concluded after a second. “Though, something must have happened for me to be summoned.” He sighed, finally moving out of your personal space to scan around your room – which had been trashed from the black void that had opened up to teleport the demon.

As you quietly bemoaned the state of your living quarters, the demon strides towards the textbook lying innocently on the ground. “This is it.” He bent at the waist to lean down and studied the title of the book. “An Introduction to Economics: 1st Edition.” He said stonily.

“How did you know?” It was a curious sight to witness, a demon with actual horns completed with a barbed tail was standing in the middle of the wreckage of your room as if he belonged there. You could hardly believe it but sadly, no matter how many times you rubbed your eyes, the scene remained the same.

“I felt the magic radiating off it.” He answered simply.

“Where did you get the book from?”

“My friend lent it to me because-- Oh fuck.” You suddenly froze, feeling the blood drain from your face. The demon stared at you inquisitively, prompting you to finish your sentence.

“I have an exam tomorrow.”

══════════════════

a/n ▸ teaser teaser!! im still writing the rest of it but i just really like the introductory part of this so i wanted to make a separate post. im also not sure if this would end up as a series or just a long fic so bear w me huehue

#reader needs a break (and sleep) 💤#satangwrites #satangwrites: the horrors of econs #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me swd #shall we date om #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me satan #satan #obey me satan x you #satan x you #satan x reader

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mrsunder · 2 days

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Ever since I made that post about Alone with the little joke about him being Ghoap baby I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

Like imagine Soap (who isn't dead because fuck activision) finding this hulking monster while doing zombie clean up and thinking it's Ghost at first but Laswell swears up and down (and even shows him proof) that Ghost is safe. After he sees his own familiar tattoo and the unmoving arm he thought was just shadowed behind its back was actually darker skinned... he realizes what it is and is both SUPER PISSED and hesitant.

He knows what these monsters can do… but he can't bring himself to kill Ghost even if it's not actually him. He'd never sleep again if he had to put a bullet between Ghost's eyes himself. (he didn't think about the arms, didn't want to think too hard about what they were trying to do that resulted in a three headed monster and signs of the entire 141 on its body) So he just sits down in the room he found it in, stays close and lets the thing engage first while trying to be as little of a threat as possible. (It's the STUPIDEST thing he's ever done and Ghost absolutely tell him that as loudly as possible when they eventually meet up again) It takes a while, but when it sees his tattoo and realizes they share a mark on their skin Alone decides that Soap is clearly Like Him and now Soap has his very own Giant Murder Child. He goes back to the 141 because he can't keep doing what he's doing while also trying to care for Alone with just the hands off help Laswell can provide and the only reason they have a Calm Discussion and they don't all throttle him for faking his death is because said murder child doesn't quite understand different levels of violence and would just assume they're attacking him. It obviously takes a while for them to really get behind having Alone around (especially Ghost for REALLY OBVIOUS REASONS) but eventually they all realize he's got some kind of humanity in him. He was able to be taught to use a gun and doesn't just run around killing everyone he gets his hands on like the other monsters they were shown after Soap's return. While he has issues speaking because of damage to his body and how the side heads attach to the main one, they're able to teach him to read, write, and how to use BSL. It's slow going, but they make progress. Soap retires to a nice secluded place after a while so he can dedicate more time to helping Alone. Ghost follows along behind him because he's not going to let Johnny out of his sight ever again. (Price and Gaz visit often because Ghost wasn't the only one waking up from nightmares of Soap's "death") Alone will be as close to a fully functional person as he can be (what with the multiple heads, arms, random body jerking, and being a literal monster making it a bit hard to just go get a normal 9 to 5). He just needs to be taught what he missed because he was "born" fully grown. He'd probably either take up Soap's place with Laswell and get to go happily rip zombie heads off or join Kortac because they make a him a damn good offer (and if he threatens to tear out the throat of anyone that so much as looks at the 141 wrong, well that's just between him and his fellow operators).

#call of duty #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #Alone (cod operator)#alone doesn't speak because i couldn't find voicelines for him #so now he gets to learn sign language

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catsteeth · 2 days

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The Bird & The Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

FINALE +:✿ Chapter - 20 ✿:+ Gone Is The Cage

Previous Chapter | Chapter Index

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: MDNI, smut, spanking, chocking, p in v unprotected sex, oral sex (fem rec), hair pulling, mask wearing, VIOLENCE, NSFW themes, Sandor “my wife” Clegane, misogyny, protectiveness, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mention of prostitution.

Word Count: 13K

As the days went by in Winterfell. Sandor was all the more protective. Like a sneering dog whenever anyone got too close to you or your babes. If you weren’t sleeping, feeding your babes, or having Sandor feed you, you were more than likely apologizing for Sandor snapping at some poor midwife who was a new face. But after a fortnight, you were soon well enough to travel.

As the time for you and your new family to leave Winterfell, your chambers were overrun with handmaidens packing away your belongings.

As Sandor entered your chambers, he was disappointed that he was not greeted by you. Instead your midwife, Eira who was examining your daughter, “How's the girl?” Sandor asked in a gruff tone, his gentle eyes landing on his daughter.

As he approached the babe he placed his large hand on top of her head. Caressing it gently, hardly touching her at all. Though she had grown and gained weight, he still did not trust himself with her.

“Growing well, M’Lord. Her mothers kept her well fed.” Eira said as she snapped her fingers near the babe's ear, testing her alertness to sounds. “She is a healthy one. Well enough for the journey.” Eira said with glee.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sandor’s mouth and was accompanied by a small sigh of relief. Your daughter seemed to have borne the brunt of such a premature birth. He let the little babe hold onto his finger as he looked around the room with a confused look, “Where’s the afterbirth?” As he asked just as you walked into the chamber holding your son, “Ah there he is.” Sandor rasped.

“I don’t like that name for him.” You said with a smirk, as you approached Sandor and Eira.

“He’ll need to toughen up, eh?” Sandor said with an uncharacteristically playful tone as he looked at the boy in your arms.

“He is not even a year old.” You said as you placed the boy in Sandor’s arms.

“Can’t have him growing into a cunt, now can we?” Sandor said gruffly as he looked at the boy within his arms.

You gently caressed the babes cheek, “Don’t listen to him sweet boy, your fathers a grumpy old mut.” You said softly. You looked up at Sandor, who gave you a very small smile as he placed a hand on the back of your head. You were about to push yourself up onto your tiptoes to kiss him, but a knock fell upon your door. Making Sandor groan in annoyance. “Come in.” You said. “Jon.” You said happily. Relieved to see your cousin was left unscathed by the war. You wrapped your arms around him, physical affection came much easier to you now than it did before the babes.

Sandor would have been jealous if it weren’t your cousin, so for now he simply groaned under his breath.

Surprised at your affection, “Motherhood agrees with you.” Jon remarked at your much happier demeanor

“I should hope so. After the pain it took to get these splendid creatures out.” You said as you let him go from your embrace.

“I hope the labor was easy?” He said awkwardly.

“I believe I told the maester to fuck off.” You said as you smiled.

“I believe it was to ‘Shut the fuck up.’ M’Lady.” Your midwife Eira corrected you as she brought you your daughter.

“Ah yes, thank you, Eira.” You said as she handed you your girl. “My first born, Eira.” You said, presenting your daughter. Though you noticed Jon’s confused demeanor. “She was the reason I made it through the labor. And with such a lovely name it was hard not to name my girl after her.”

Jon nodded, he looked upon the babe then back to you. “Tyrion was right, you and hers likeness is uncanny.”

You shook your head, “She’s too small to know if she truly does.” You were awfully proud of her already.

“She does.” Sandor said as he continued to pack away your things whilst holding your son.

“A beauty.” Jon said, “She shall make a man a fine wife someday.”

Sandor scoffed as he approached Jon, “A wife? She’ll eat men alive.” He too was awfully proud of your daughter already.

“And this…” You said taking your son from Sandor’s arms, presenting him to your cousin, “This is Jon.”

Jon chuckled at the babe bearing the same name as he, “After your father?” He asked, looking upon the child.

“And you.” You said softly, “He should be named after a man who was steadfast.”

He smiled softly looking upon the babe, “He is the spitting image of his father.”

“Let's hope not.” Sandor grumbled from behind you,

“Stop it.” You said without looking at him.

Jon’s gaze left your child and fell onto you, “We’ve one more war to see through.” He said with a heavy tone. It was clear he meant the attack on Kings Landing. “We would hope you’d stand with us once again."

“My men are yours.” You said placing a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon smiled at you. Looked around at the chamber that had become your own now barren. Stripped of all of your possessions. “This is it then?” Jon sighed.

“I am sure we will meet again.” You spoke softly.

“We will.” He said with conviction. He then turned to your husband who stood protectively behind you, “Clegane.” He acknowledged with a nod of his head.

Sandor nodded back, and Jon left your chambers.

The idea of war hitting Kings Landing tempted Sandor. He would have the opportunity to finally kill his brother, and take the revenge he so desperately wanted. He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind as he continued to pack away your things, though he was unsuccessful.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Before you would leave Winterfell, you insisted on taking one more person along with you.

Eira was not hard to find. She was residing in a small chamber that was attached to the maester’s quarters. As you entered the chamber, you noticed how small it was for a mother of two. A warm room, with a You could smell the smoke of fire licking at the kettle hanging over it. You could see Eira with her back turned tending to her youngest son, no more than a year old.

“Eira,” You said warmly, announcing your presence.

Startled, Eira turned around and stood straight as she faced you “M’Lady!” she gasped.

“I’m sorry to startle you!” You apologized as you approached her.

She breathed a laugh, “No it's quite alright, can I help you?” she asked.

You smiled, “Yes I suppose you can.” You held your own hand tightly, unsure of how to ask what you were about to ask of her, “Do you have a family here?”

She shook her head, “Just my boys.” She said motioning towards the two children behind her. A boy no more than a year of age and the other no more than three.

You smiled at the two children staring at you with shy demeanors. “Handsome young men.” Your eyes then fell back onto Eira, “A father?” you proddied her for information, attempting to see how many people she would want with her.

Eira shifted awkwardly, “No, M’lady.” she stepped closer to you, attempting to conceal her words from her children, “I was sold to a pleasure house, young.”

You narrowed your eyes, “You are young.”

She shook her head, “I was much younger then. I ran off with my eldest, when I found out I was pregnant with my youngest.” She looked at the boys with love, “I couldn’t raise them there.”

You felt a sting of empathy for the girl, how could you not? She was a girl no more than ten and five, already experienced such horrors. “Would you like to leave the North, live with your children in the Eyrie?” You asked with confidence. Knowing now more than ever that she deserved a new beginning.

Eira’s eyes went wide, her lips parted. She did not know what to say, it took her a moment before she eventually blurted out, “M’Lady?”

“I mislike male healers and maesters.” You said much more calmly, “Now that I am Lady of the Vale, I would like for you to learn from the maester and healers of the Vale. Until you’re ready to be the Eyrie’s maester.”

She stammered for a moment, “Women cannot be maesters-“

“By tradition. Fuck tradition.” You stepped closer to her, “Your boys would be taught well under maesters of great experience, and trained in swordsmanship by the best knights of the Vale. Live in rooms of their own, as will you.”

“You’re offering a new life, for me and my boys. It’s too generous-“ The girl could not bring herself to feel worthy of the offer you presented to her.

You took her hand, “I want you to take it, if you want it.” You said firmly.

“Course I want it.” She said with a sharp exhale, in disbelief.

“Take it then.” You said with a gentle smile as you squeezed her hand gently.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you walked to board the carriage that would carry you, and your babes. Sandor was busy loading your belongings into the other carriages, and barking at the men to be sure the carriage would be safe for you and his children.

You rolled your eyes at Sandor’s barking as you heard a familiar voice call out. “Cousin.”

You turned around to see it was… “Sansa.” You said with a relieved sigh. You were worried you’d not see her before you parted.

“I do not wish for you to leave.” She said as she grabbed hold of your hand.

You smiled somberly, “I do not wish to part from you. But my place is not here. It is in the Eyrie.” You leaned in closer, “Where I shall take Littlefinger's head for what he’s done to us.” You whispered for her ears only.

She smirked, “You’ve always been a strong one.”

“We’ve done some wondrous things together.” You said smiling, “Fed men to dogs.” You jested.

She shook her head, “I’d not been able to do it without you. You’d always been like an older sister to me, when I needed it.”

“I wasn’t always there.” You said with melancholy eyes. You felt guilt for not being able to protect her for so long. “But we’re women now. We can look after ourselves.”

“I’m not sure how much you’ll need to look after yourself.” She said as she looked over towards Sandor, she looked back at you “Once this war is finished you must come visit.”

You smiled at her softly, “I’d like that.”

She tightened her grip on your hand, then let go. “Go safely, cousin.” With that Sansa finished. Turning around to leave you to your travels.

As you walked closer to the carriage, a young and handsome northern guard approached you, “My Lady, if I may-” He began extending his hand towards you to help you into the carriage.

However Sandor interrupted this. “Keep your fucking hands off my wife.” He grumbled, scaring off the man quickly. He gave you his forearm to help you into the carriage.

You sighed, “Sandor.” wishing he would not bark so much. Though he was much more protective now than he ever was.

“The babes, M’lady, M’lord.” She said as she handed you and your husband two baskets. Each holding one of your children, wrapped in comfortable blankets, ready for the journey.

You poked your head out of the window of the cabin, “Thank you, Eira. You and your boy's carriage is the one ahead of ours.” You said pointing towards the carriage they would be taking.

Eira smiled widely, giddy with excitement “Thank you, M’lady.” she said with a quick nod as she went to retrieve her own two boys.

Sandor gently placed your babes within the carriage. He turned towards the driver of the carriage, “Ride smoothly, or I’ll break both your hands.” He said, warning the man. He’d not have his wife or his children disturbed by a rocky carriage ride.

Sandor then reluctantly climbed into the carriage as well. He preferred to ride on his own horse. It was more comfortable for his large stature. He also felt silly being placed in a carriage, a man like him. But he needed to have his eyes on you and his babes on such a long journey.

You sighed, “Sandor the man cannot control the road's stability.” You said as you tucked your son into his blanket a bit tighter.

He watched you tend to your son with love in his eyes, “He’d better try.”

You smirked, “You show affection in a strange way.” You said as the carriage began to move, rocking gently which soothed your babes, “What will people think of our family?” you sighed.

He leaned forward, “That you have a man for a husband.” he said, and you smiled at his protectiveness though you tried to conceal it. He leaned back into his seat, biting the cork of his wineskin and pulling it off. “Fuck what they think anyway. I protect my own, thats that, and too fucking bad if you don’t like how I do it.” He grumbled as he took a swig of his wine.

You smirked and breathed a small laugh, “I love you, you fool.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Your arrival at the Eyrie was warm, and cheerful. The smallfolk threw small flower petals onto your carriage at it past the Bloody Gate. Your knights cheered as you stepped out of your carriage. And the maids and servants within the Eyrie rejoiced in your return. The whole thing was horribly uncomfortable for Sandor. A man who hated any attention by large groups of people, especially positive attention.

As you placed your children within their bassinets in their nursery, you smiled. You felt warm, your home was now your own again. Not only that but your home was filled with your family once again.

You leaned down, leaning over your babes bassinets, “This is your home.” You whispered softly to them as they drifted into sleep.

“I thought it would be colder.” Sandor remarked as he looked around the elegant room.

You stood and approached Sandor, “It normally is.”

That was true, normally the Eyrie was. But perhaps it was the love that was brought with you and your children.

“Hm.” He hummed,

You looked back towards your babes sleeping in their cradles, “Strange to think we made them.” Sandor looked towards them as well, “So beautiful.” You said gently,

“They got it from you.” He rasped. “Beautiful.” You looked up at him, “But you know it.” He shrugged.

“I do?” You scoffed.

“You should.” He said as he cupped your cheek.

You looked at him with love. “I want another child.” you blurted out.

His eyes went a bit wide, and his eyebrows narrowed, “But you said-“

“I want a litter of them.” You said partially as a jest, but also somewhat serious. You thought of your aunt Cat and envied how many children she bore. You couldn’t imagine how much love and joy would be filled within this palace with your children.

“A litter?” He questioned,

“Mhm.” You said as you held onto his chest and pressed his lips to your own as you stood on your tiptoes.

As your lips parted, he rasped “It’ll take a lot of fucking to get that many.”

You nodded, “Mmhmmm.” You kissed him once more before letting go, “Do you wish for more?” you asked earnestly.

He smirked, “What man wouldn’t want a dozen babes birthed by you?”

Just as he was about to kiss you once more a handmaiden entered the chamber, “My Lady?” she said cautiously.

“Hm?” You hummed with a slight smile, all too happy.

The handmaiden held onto her own hand as she approached you, “A Lannister guard delivered a chest.” She spoke with concern.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

The chest was brought to the High Hall.

You began to approach it but Sandor placed a hand in front of you, “Don’t come near it.”

You huffed in frustration but nodded for him to look into it.

Sandor approached the chest, and opened it cautiously with one hand on the hilt of his sword. But soon as it was open he released his grip on the handle just looking at whatever was in the chest for a moment.

“Well?” You asked, antsy, to know what it was.

He waved you over, as you approached it you saw what laid in the chest. Within it was the Hound's helmet. A large helmet in the shape of a snarling dog. And in its mouth was a silver necklace with a pendant of a woman with falcon wings, holding a tear shaped pearl. “What is this?” Sandor asked as he took the necklace in his hand.

“A necklace Tyrion had made for me. An engagement gift.” It was a valerian steel necklace. A generous gift he presented to you in an attempt to compensate you for your hand in marriage.

His hand closed into a fist around the necklace, “That fucking imp sent this?” He asked with anger than began to boil

“No.” You said confidently, Tyrion had no reason to provoke you or Sandor. Nor would he want to. “Cersei did.” You said, piecing together what this all meant. “It’s a threat if she should win the war.”

Sandor groaned under his breath, “Lannister cunts.” He did not like the fact someone would be so bold as to threaten his wife.

“She won’t win.” You said, attempting to calm him, “She doesn’t have a dragon.”

“But if she does?” He asked lowly.

You shook your head, “The Eyrie is impregnable.”

“We fucking impregnated it.” His temper began to slip.

“Only because Littlefinger was a fool. We won’t be so stupid.” You said as your attention was diverted to your breasts began to ache, “I need to feed the babes.” You said, as you walked out of the High Hall.

The idea of war lingered in Sandors mind. He wanted to fight against the Lannisters, fight against Cersei for sending you a threat. But he could not push the desire to pursue revenge out of his mind. He wanted to hunt Gregor down. But he knew you’d not allow it.

You never liked him fighting, and now you despised the idea now that you and he had children. Before you’d no power to stop him, but now you did. If you commanded the knights of the Vale to not allow him passage through the Bloody Gate, he would be trapped.

So, for now he would need to push his fantasies of revenge out of his mind,

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor entered your chambers for the first time. He looked upon the room with narrow eyes. He looked at your possessions new and old. How he wished he had found you earlier, perhaps none of what happened to you would have. He felt out of place in such an extravagant castle, but he felt more at home here. It felt like you.

He threw the helmet down in the corner of the room, as he sat on your bed and removed his leather overcoat.

A maid entered the chambers holding a number of your gowns that you’d brought with you from Winterfell. She was somewhat surprised to see Sandor in your chambers, “My Lord?” She asked cautiously.

Sandor looked over his shoulder, “What?” He asked with narrowed brows. Confused as to why someone would be bothering him.

She stammered before spitting out, “Shall I fetch the Lady?”

Sandor raised his brow, “Why?” he questioned, concerned something was wrong with you.

“Well- my Lord you are in the Lady’s chamber.” Though it was true after a Lady and Lord were married for some time, and had children, they would often sleep separately. Only sleeping together for the purposes of creating more children. Sandor rolled his eyes at the girls assumption, “Your chamber is down the-“

Sandor turned back around as he grumbled, “Me and my wife share a bed.”

“But-“ She attempted to continue,

“Fuck off.” He grumbled under his breath. Not knowing that you had just entered the chamber as well.

You sighed, “Never mind him.” You smiled at the girl as you took the gowns in her hand. You nodded to her signaling she was dismissed. As the girl closed the door you turned to Sandor. “Must you snap at everyone?” You sighed.

“Don’t like cunts sticking their noses where they don’t belong.” He rasped as he continued to remove bits of his other clothing, he looked behind him at you, noticing you did not have your babes. “Where’s the children?” he questioned.

You smiled, you appreciated how invested he was. “With Eira. She said I needed rest.” You said as you began to hang your gowns in your wardrobe. As you did, you noticed a white gown, simple and plain. It was the one you wore on your wedding, as you looked at it you thought about your wedding. “Could you imagine if we’d had a traditional wedding?”

“Didn’t we?” Sandor huffed.

You shrugged, “Traditional of noble houses, I suppose. You’ve been to many as a guard.” You said turning to look at him, “I remember Loras wanted a large and extravagant one with a tournament.” Sandor looked at you with jealous eyes, “You cannot be jealous of an engagement made out of survival with a man who would never touch me.” You sighed.

“I know. I saved him for you didn’t I?” Sandor did not understand your friendship with Loras, but he knew it was important to you and that was enough for him to care.

You thought about Loras, and then of Sandor, “You and he were quite different.”

“Aye, he sucked co-”

“Alright.” You said waving your hand at him to stop speaking.

As you continued to riffle through your dresses, the thought did not leave you. What if you did have such a public and traditional wedding. You thought of you in a much more grand gown, one of ivory silk and a veil made of a sheer and glimmering fabric. But the thought of Sandor being put on such a public display. The thought made you snicker,

“What?” Sandor asked as he threw off his boots.

“Just,” You tried to hold in your laughter but could not, “The thought of you at an extravagant wedding-wearing the finest silks-” You could not help but laugh openly.

“Are you laughing at me?” Sandor asked with a furrowed brow. He hid his own smile with his signature scowl, happy just to see you laughing.

You closed your wardrobe as you continued, “Oh and our dance! How gracefully you would dance about the banquet halls!” You continued to laugh.

“Keep mocking me, woman, see where it lands you.”

“Where?” You asked with a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow.

“On your knees.” He groaned, his temptation growing.

“Oh, you’re moving onto the bedding ceremony?” You said in a teasing tone as you walked over towards him with your eyes trailing over his body. It had been so long since you’d felt desirable. Sandor was more affectionate than ever. Holding you as you slept, being sure you held onto his arm as you walked anywhere no matter how close. He made sure you ate well, and he made certain your babes were never far. However you wanted to feel desired.

You ran your hands over his shoulders, helping him pull his tunic over his head “You think I’d allow for a fucking bedding ceramony?” You teased. Sandor grabbed you by your waist, manhandling you as he threw you onto the bed, and climbed on top of you.

You giggled and squirmed a bit but were pinned in place by Sandors weight, “Where is your respect for tradition?” You teased with a smirk on your face feeling him tense above you.

“In the seventh hell.” He rasped his face just inches from yours, “I’d kill any cock sucking rat who even thought of it.” His voice was deep and dark. Violent.

“My brave and loyal husband.” You said in a whisper as your arms wrapped around his neck.

“Hmmmm…” He groaned under your touch, he could feel his length hardening. Though he tried his best to ignore it. You needed to recover after giving him two children. And he would not give into his temptation and risk harming you.

You however, felt like teasing him, “You don’t like the idea? Tens of men grabbing me, ripping my clothes off, calling out vulgarities-” You said with a smirk, knowing your words would only heat his blood.

“You want me angry?” He interrupted you, as he asked you with a furrowed brow. Unsure of what it was you were trying to accomplish with such a question. Especially to him, the one man who’d kill another man for wanting you.

You ran your hand down his neck, “You fuck harder angry.” You said as your legs came to lock around his waist, and your lips found his neck. But as soon as you began he pulled away, throwing himself off the bed and stomping off to the other side of the room. You propped yourself up by your elbows. “Husband?”

“Fucking hells-You can’t look at me like that-touch me like that.” He groaned in frustration.

“Why not, is there another woman?” You said in a jest. Though in truth you were somewhat concerned about your new body and how he would think of it.

He shook his head, “You’ll drive a man mad.” He said out of breath, “I’m already going mad. I can’t fuck you-can’t even taste you.” He said as though the words were pent up. He’d been wishing to say them for so long now.

You began to undo your dresses ties, allowing the fabric to sag around your shoulders, “I want you to fuck me, to taste me-“

“I can’t.” He interrupted you and turned away from you, knowing your words would only tempt him. “I won’t hurt you.” He rasped.

“Sandor.” You called out to him in a sultry tone.

“Shit-“ He hissed, “Woman don’t call my name like that.” He felt his cock straining against his breeches, “I can’t hurt you. I’d rather die.” He said with his fists tightening.

You rolled your eyes at him, “Would you listen to your wife? The maester said I’m well enough now to perform my ‘duties’.” Sandor turned back around to look at you, his eyes were nearly black, “So did Eira.” You further supported your claim.

“You mean it?” He rasped, his voice low and deep. You nodded in return, making Sandor march over towards you whilst he discarded his tunic over his head, “You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow.” He said pushing you back down onto the bed. He climbed on top of you, his hands ravaged your body.

You wrapped your legs around his waist once again. And his mouth found its place on your neck, and soon your sternum. Whilst his hands gripped hold of whatever they could through your dress.

“Fuck.” You moaned, “I missed your hands on me so terribly.” You said with closed eyes as your words were drawing out slowly. Your nails gripped onto his strong back.

Suddenly he pulled his mouth from your neck, loosened his grip. He pushed himself off of you, his eyes wide. He pulled you off the bed, making you stand in front of him before he laid back onto it. Propping himself up on his elbows to watch you, “Strip for me.” He commanded, his voice was deep and husky.

You stood there, somewhat uncomfortable. You felt red heat slash across your cheeks, “Sandor-“

“Never mind any of that shit you think about your body.” He groaned, pulling his breeches and small clothes down with one swift movement, you didn’t hide your gaze as you looked at his hard thick cock. Red and already glisting with precum, “Fuck, I’ve been going mad without it.” You were unable to move as you felt heat begin to pool in your core, “Do you want me to beg is that it?” Sandor groaned, “Please,” He said as he gripped onto his cock stroking it slowly, “Please… I’m going fucking mad..” He groaned almost pathetically.

You wanted to feel desired, and Sandor more than satisfied that want.

Your gown was hanging around your shoulders, the laces were halfway done already. You began to undo them slowly. You turned away from him and looked at him over your shoulder as you slipped the gown lower and lower. He groaned in pleasure watching you. As your gown dropped, fabric pooling around your feet, leaving you in a shift. You turned back to him as you pulled the shift over your head. Leaving you in your thigh stockings.

Sandor continued to groan as you stepped towards him, now both of you naked and wanting. You placed your foot on his inner thigh, making his hiss. Then you pulled the ribbon from around your thigh, then rolling your stocking down your legs. “Seven fucking hells, woman.” He groaned as you continued to do the same with your other stocking.

You grabbed hold of his wrist, making him release his grip on his cock, “Hands off what's mine.” You commanded him, and though surprised by your sudden confidence, he felt his cock twitch under your authority. He smirked up at you as you straddled him.

“Do not be gentle with me.” You commanded firmly, pulling his hair back, making him look up at you.

“Don’t know if I could be.” He nearly panted, cunt struck and in awe of you.

One of his hands wrapped around your throat, and the other gripped roughly onto your hip. In one swift movement he flipped you onto your back, his hand still around your throat. “Open your mouth.” He rasped, his voice heavy with lust.

You did as he asked, sticking your tongue out as you looked up at him with an equally lustful gaze. His grip on your throat tightened as he spit into your mouth. It felt filthy and degraded, and you loved it.

“Swallow it.” He rasped, and once again you obeyed happily. He groaned at the sight, his grip on your throat tightened for just a moment making you gasp. “I’m going to take my time with you.” His thumb rubbed up and down your throat roughly. “Been denied of what I need for too long.”

He hesitated for a moment. As if he were waiting for your say so. You nodded slowly, your eyes fixated on his face. His mind was overtaken by his lust and his face gave it away. His eyes were nearly black and he couldn’t stop biting his lip. “I want it.” You whined.

And with that, Sandor pushed you back against the mattress. He pinned your hips down by locking his around them. The hot air of his breath hit your bare cunt, making you shutter. It has been so long since you’d felt it, you instinctively closed your thighs but Sandor only needed one hand to pry them open with ease.

“I told you-” He rasped as he bit your inner thigh making you squeal “I’m going to take my time.” He finished as he spit on your cunt making you jump. He wasted no time lapping at your folds as if he were starved.

He pushed his face as closely to your cunt as he could, hardly able to breathe. His tongue spent so much time on your clit. Sucking on it and watching your reaction to it. Sandor then bit down on it, not hard, but enough to make you gasp and grab ahold of his hair roughly. You looked down at him with shock,

“Again.” You commanded and he happily obeyed. Sucking on your clit, soothing it before he bit down again, a cycle he repeated until he felt your release coming. The sounds of your moans hit the stone walls of your chamber in a way that made Sandor’s cock harden.

Your moans only encouraged him. He began to fuck you with his tongue, letting his nose do the work on your clit. He wanted- no he needed to take your release in his mouth. He needed it.

He let out a moan as he felt it reach his tongue. He drank you in with the hunger of a starved man.

He continued to lick you through your climax, but soon you realized he did not stop. You felt yourself becoming more and more sensitive as his attention went back to your clit. Perhaps he did not know you finished? He always knew when you were finished, he knew your body and its language better than you did. But perhaps he did not know. “I finished-” You whined, pulling on his hair.

“I’m not.” He groaned into your cunt. The vibration of his voice made you arch your back and push yourself further into his mouth.

“Sandor!” You moaned out, “I-I-I” You stammered, unable to speak. You were so sensitive, so overstimulated, you could not think, it was blissful.

He couldn’t help himself. He missed your taste more than he missed anything. It was as if you tasted of the finest and rarest of wines. “You can take it, fuck, give me another.” He moaned as he sucked on your clit again. His eyes not leaving your face as you began to shake and shutter. So sensitive and beautiful. It was not long before he was drinking in another release of your own. As you laid panting on the mattress he finally lifted his face from between your legs. “Gods, you’re fucking perfect.” He said with a kiss to your lower stomach.

“Come here.” You whined breathlessly, as you raised a weak arm towards him. He obeyed his lovely wife. Climbing above you. You kissed him, tasting yourself so clearly on his tongue. You pulled him off of your mouth by pulling his hair, he groaned at its absence, “Not nice to keep me waiting, after I have been aching for you for so long.” you said as you panted.

He chuckled lowly, “That’s cause I’m not nice, girl.”

You looked into his eyes, “You are nice to me.” He pulled himself down despite your grip on his hair. Crashing his mouth into yours again.

He felt you beginning to grind yourself into his hardened length. And your hands began to weakly paw at his back. He pressed his forehead against your own, “Don’t you worry, I’m going to fuck your cunt. Can’t let it forget who it belongs to.” He began to slide his cock against your wet cunt. Covered in your release and his own spite. He let out a groan at the feeling.

You placed a hand against his shoulder, “I might not feel the same.” You said worried he’d not enjoy you the same as he did before.

“Don’t care.” He said as he bit your neck, making you moan.

Your eyes fell upon the metal helmet in the room. You remembered how you’d watch Sandor fight in tourneys and battles, wearing the helmet. You had imagined him fucking you in it countless times, and now you’d the chance.

“Wear the helmet.” You whispered.

Sandor’s face abandoned your neck, and he looked at you confused, “What?”

You brushed his hair behind his ear as you explained softly, “In King's Landing. I watched you fight in that helmet, tourney after tourney. I watched you swing steel in metal armor. I couldn’t help but squeeze my thighs together as I sat watching you exhibit your strength.” You smirked at your own defiant behavior, “I would go to my chambers, and dig my fingers into my cunt. Thinking of how I wanted you to rip my skirts and fuck me good and hard. Wearing your helmet.”

Sandor stared at you for a moment before a smirk appeared on his face. “Filthy fucking thing you are.” He said lowly.

“You like it.” You said stubbornly. It drove him wild.

“I love it.” He gave your cheek a sloppy kiss as he pushed himself off of you and walked towards the helmet that laid on the ground. He looked at it for a moment. Thinking of the times he’d worn it before. But as he looked at you sprawled naked on your bed smiling at him with flushed cheeks, he eagerly placed it onto his head.

He approached you, the Hound. You sat up, looking up at him. You could hear his breathing through the helmet. He grabbed you by your jaw, and presented his hand towards your mouth, “Spit.” he commanded gruffly. You did as he asked, spitting into his hand. He used your spit to stroke his cock, the sight made you bite your lip and moan. “On your hands and knees.” He commanded as his hand went to your hip, flipping you onto your stomach. It made your cheeks even redder.

He landed a hard spank onto your ass, making you hiss and whine. Fuck you loved it. You pushed yourself up on your knees, presenting your ass to him. He landed another few good hard spanks before he began to position his cock against your slick entrance.

You looked back at him, fuck the sight was something you’d fantasized of for so long. It was enough to make you clench. “Please, Ser.” You whined, it made Sandor’s cock throb harder than it did before. He wasted no time, he plunged into you.

You moaned loudly and buried your face into the mattress below you, gripping onto the blankets roughly.

“Fucking-” Sandor hissed, his thrusts did not relent. He was fucking you as if he would never fuck you again, “Gods, you fe-feel so fucking good“ He gripped onto your hips so tightly, you knew you’d be bruised by the time he finished. He grabbed hold of the nape of your neck and pulled you flush against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your throat tightly. You held his bicep that tightly held your throat. Whilst the other wrapped across your body, keeping you still. You nails dug into his bicep as it chokes you ever so gently, he’d flex his muscles to make the choke harder when he wanted your cunt to clench around him. His moans intertwined with your own, “Missed this cunt so fucking much.” He groaned as he continued to rut into you like an animal. “Ah!” He hissed, your cunt was spasming and clenching, sucking his cock further and further inside. “Greedy cunt keeps pulling me in-” He moaned, he hadn’t felt this ecstasy in so long. “Gonna fucking fill this greedy cunt til it’s spilling out of you.” The thought made him behind spirt small bits of his release no matter how hard he tried to wait and hold it in. “Give you another child?” His voice was softer. You looked up at him with surprise as you pulled the helmet off of him, now desperate to see his face. He did not have a face of lust now but of love. You nodded, as you felt your cunt creaming around his cock, he felt it too. “Yeah?” He groaned as he felt the ring you were leaving around his cock form.

That was what done him in. He pulsed in you and you felt the heat spread throughout your core. It must have been more than he’d ever released before you thought. It was already spilling out of you and down his cock as he slowly rutted in you and rode out both of your highs.

Once he was done, his grip on you loosened and you laid yourself onto your bed. You dropped your weight onto it. Making your hair fall into your face as you panted.

“You alright?” He asked as he brushed the hair from your face.

You smiled up at him, “I’m perfect.” you said breathlessly.

He chuckled lowly, and nodded “Aye, you are.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─

As you were laid in your bed, naked and spent. You watched your husband with loving eyes as he drank from a leather wine bottle. He noticed your lascivious gaze on him as he handed you the bottle. You took a swig only to be met with a bitter and ugly taste. Your face scrunched up as you handed it back to him.

Sandor chuckled lowly, amused at your reaction, “It’s shit huh?”

“I like my wine sweet is all.” You said attempting to remain polite. But Sandor gave you a knowing gaze, “Yes it’s shit.” You admitted. “I had always wondered about the taverns in the city. when in Kings Landing- I sometimes wondered on disguising myself and walking the streets to see the city.”

“That’s because you never been to the streets of silk.” He said as he placed his bottle of wine on table by his bedside.

“Should I venture into it?” You asked in a teasing tone, and a slight smirk.

“It’s no place for you.” He said, just the thought of you there made his heart beat faster. You being that close to such vile characters. “Men fuck whores in the streets like dogs.”

You listened to his words carefully, “Funny how there is not such a vulgar word for such men. They are just men. But perhaps men are vulgar enough.”

“You’re a strange kind of woman.” Sandor said with a slight grin.

“You’ve only now realized that?” You asked him with a raised brow,

He chuckled lowly, “No, always knew it.” His arms came around you, pulling you in close into his side. You rested your head into the crook of his neck as your hand roamed his broad and hairy chest.

You thought about his words for a moment, “Men fuck women in the streets like dogs you say?”

“Aye?” He rasped, confused as to what you were going to say.

“Have you?” You asked, your curiosity getting the better of you, “Fucked another woman?”

“I’d never betray you-“ He began gruffly,

“Before me I mean.” You interrupted, “It’s a foolish thing to ask. Of course you’ve laid with other women. You don’t fuck like you’d never fucked a woman. You never striked me as a man who valued his chastity.” You clarified as your fingers still ran across his chest.

He thought for a moment about refusing to answer you, but he couldn’t. His arm held you closer to him, his hand rubbing your back gently. “Aye.” He rasped, not proud that he’d paid whores during his time in King's Landing.

“What were they like?” You asked, devoid of any jealousy. You simply wanted to know how he was with them, was he the same to you as them? What was it about them that he liked?

Sandor shook his head, not knowing really what to say. “A means to an end.” He grumbled, “There weren’t many. Did it from behind, quickly. Threw the coin on the table and left. That was all.” He said quickly. Not wanting to think of those times. Before you there was no love, no real desire. It mattered not. He took your chin and made you look at him, “Then you came. And all that changed.”

You rested your chin on his chest, “When Baelish kissed me,” You could feel Sandors anger rise as he shifted uncomfortably and groaned, rumbling in his chest. “I thought of you.” You said earnestly, running your hand over his broad chest, “Of how you’d kill him for it. But I also thought of how different it was. I hated it. How even though lips are only lips, it did not feel the same. I never want to be without your kiss.” You said softly as you ran your thumb over his lips.

“We’re going to fucking kill him.” He rasped as he took hold of your jaw.

“Mhmm.” You hummed into his mouth, as you pulled away you locked eyes with him. “But first-I’m hungry again.” You whined as you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. Your hand running down his hairy chest and stomach. Your fingertips gently traced circled on his pelvis. Making his breath hitch. “In this bed there are no trials to commence and no wars to be fought. Just us.” You whispered into his lips as your hand traveled lower, you gripped a hold of his cock, still wet from your slick mixed with his own release. He groaned lowly and you felt his cock twitch in your hand. “Feels like you’ve a bit left in you.” You said with a mischievous grin. Making Sandor groan as his mouth took yours.

So much for rest.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Though sadly you could not stay hidden in your chambers with your husband’s cock buried inside of you. You had other matters to attend to.

You walked with your husband and the cell keeper as you made your way to the sky cell that held Littlefinger. Sandor was the first to open the cell, smirking at the sight of the dissolved and dirty Baelish, “Ah, the dog.” Baelish remarked seeing Sandor.

His eyes then moved towards you as you stepped into the doorway, “I am Lady Paramount of all Houses within the Vale. You will address the Lord Paramount consort with respect.” You nearly hissed as you spoke to him with narrowed eyes.

Baelish grinned at your anger, “Twins I hear. A boy and a girl.” He said feigning glee, until his facade of joy dropped, “However shall you choose will inherit after you?” He said in an attempt to mock you.

“My daughter was born first. She is the heir.” You answered quickly, without wavering.

He scoffed at your answer, “Do you think your son will bend a knee to her? When he is of age, as big as the hound himself.” He said as he looked at your husband behind you.

“Talk about my children again and I’ll rip your throat out.” Sandor growled.

Baelish smirked and snickered to himself.

“Your trial will be held tonight. If I were you, I would throw myself from this cell.” You said apathetically.

He shook his head, “That is a coward's way out.”

“Yes it is.” You responded quickly. Sandor lowly chuckled at your insult as he closed the cell.

As you and he walked back through the cells, Sandor felt the need to advise you. “He’ll deny the charges.”

You shook your head, “I’ve a witness.” You said confidently. “Someone who is witness to all.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You had long anticipated this moment. As you ascended the stairs up to the throne of the Eyrie. A throne carved of weirwood, a throne you always pictured yourself sitting on. As you sat on the throne, you gripped the chair tightly as if it were a dream that would slip away.

Sandor stood by your side as your sworn shield. You sat wearing a grayish blue gown, the sleeves were long and draped like wings. And you wore silver rings that sat around your fingertips and over your nails. They were sharp and resembled talons. You sat the throne, not just the Lady of the Vale, but the Falcon.

You nodded to your knights who pulled Baelish into the room in a manner that could be described as anything but gentle. As Baelish stood in front of the open moon doors, he looked up at you with anger. “You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges?” You questioned with hard eyes.

“Innocent.” He proclaimed loudly.

“Innocent of a crime I witnessed? You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. Pushing her through that Moon Door as you stood right there as you are now. And watched her fall. Do you deny it?” You questioned devoid of any emotion.

“I did it to protect you.” He huffed.

“You did it to gain control of me. Gain ultimate control within the Vale.” You said rebuking his claim, “You aided in the murder of my father, Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny this?” Your voice was slightly deeper.

He shook his head, “Whatever Lysa spoke to you, in a heated moment of anger… She was a troubled woman. Imagining enemies everywhere, even imagining you as one of them.”

You ignored his shallow attempt of a rebuttal. “You had Lysa send a letter to the Lord and Lady Stark claiming it was the Lannisters that killed my father. You began the rift between the North and the Crown. Do you deny it?” You continued to press.

“I know of no such letter.”

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray my uncle, Ned Stark. Resulting in his imprisonment and later his execution. Do you deny it?”

“I deny it! None of you were there to see what happened. None of you know the truth.”

“You held a knife to his throat.” A voice beckoned from the back of the room. Littlefinger was shocked as he saw your cousin, Bran. Accompanied by your cousin Arya. “You said, “I did warn you not to trust me.” Bran said stoically.

Arya presented the knife used to attack Bran when he was a child, “You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister.” She sheathed the knife, “But that was another lie. It was yours.”

Knowing he was not going to leave that room by denying claims that were confirmed by so many witnesses. Baelish got on his knees, making Sandor smirk. “Lady Arryn, I have known you since you were a girl. I throw myself to your mercy. The mercy of a mother, a woman with a gentle heart.” He begged.

You contemplated it for a moment. “Confess your crimes and you shall not fall from the moon doors alive.” You said sternly, and he nodded. “Did you conspire to poison Jon Arryn?”

“I did.” He said looking down in shame.

“Did you throw Lysa Arryn into the moon doors?” your voice raised and hardened.

“I did.”

“Did you influence Lysa into sending the Starks false allegations against the Lannisters. And conspired the execution of Eddard Stark?” Your voice filled with venom.

“I did.”

Your eyes narrowed, “I cannot balance the scales of suffering. Eyes for eyes, teeth for teeth, Father for a Father, A brother for a brother. You cannot make right what you’ve taken.”

He shook his head “I have nothing, I want for nothing.” You looked upon him with annoyance, “You crawled out of so many pits that should have been your graves. Not for hope, not because you had faith in yourself. But because you had hatred in your heart. I am the reason you sit the throne as you do now.” He was truly grasping at anything he could. Attempting to gain any favor he could.

You looked upon him with no sympathy of any kind, “No, I am the reason.”

He got onto his knees, “I beg of you-”

“Stop talking. I have heard enough of your words.” You announced as if you were bored. You sat up straighter in your throne, looking down on the man on his knees. “You usurped my birthright and were met with no challenge because I am a woman.” Your statement sucked the air from the room. It was true, none of the Lords or Ladies there raised any challenge to the taking of your throne. “My daughter, Eira. Will inherit after me. If I allow mercy towards this crime I set forth an example that may cost my daughter her place on this throne, perhaps her life.” You leaned forward, your eyes narrowed, “I won’t have that. So I shan't grant you mercy. Not that I would consider it otherwise.” You leaned back, “You visited acts of cruelty towards the Houses of the Vale, and its smallfolk. Deliberate starvation.” Murmurs raised in the room, Lords and Ladies outraged by his actions. Though the room fell silent as you spoke again, “There is only one answer for the crimes visited upon your neighbors, and upon the realm.” You stood from your throne, “I, Lady Arryn, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, I sentence you to die.” Baelish began to whimper and beg once again to which you spoke, “I believe I made my terms quite clear before our battle, and let it be known I am not a Lady who does not fulfill her promises. I’ll have your head.” Your proud husband by your side held a sheathed sword towards you. You took the handle and pulled it out, “By my own hand.”

You held the sword tightly in hand as you made your way down the stairs of your throne. The knights held Baelish in place. Sandor walked closely behind you. Once you reached Baelish, Sandor replaced the two knights that held Baelish down on his knees.

He continued to beg, “I loved your aunt Cat, I loved your mother-”

You held your sword high, “And yet they are dead.”

“I loved you.”

SHING

You felt the sword slice through his neck with ease and you felt the heat of his blood as bits of it splattered your gown and your skin. And with that, you fulfilled your promise. Little Fingers head rolled, falling through the Moon Doors.

You huffed, and handed Sandor the sword. He looked at you with sympathetic eyes. He knew how long you had wanted this. He looked at you as you stared down at the bloody sight before you with apathy. He hoped you felt the relief you so desperately reached for. “Throw the rest of him through the doors.” You commanded your men.

A knight, hesitated, “My Lady, you said if he confessed-”

“He’d not fall alive.” You said, finally looking away from Littlefinger's decapitated body, “Does he look alive?” You questioned as you walked away.

Sandor stepped closer towards the Knight, “Do as your Lady commands.” he rasped before he followed after you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

That night, Sandor couldn’t sleep. He knew that the war was approaching. He knew this might be the only chance he would have to take his revenge.

He watched you as you slept in your warm bed. Taking in the features of your face. As if it might be the last time he’d ever see you. Sandor laid a soft kiss upon your temple and left your chambers.

He walked the dark halls of the Eyrie. Contemplating whether or not he should go against his better judgment and flee in the night to join in the war. He knew it would hurt you, but he couldn’t push his desire for revenge away.

As he paced the halls, he ran into a familiar girl. Arya. The girl was dressed and holding the hilt of her sword tightly.

“Fuck are you doing?” Sandor grumbled, feigning annoyance by the girl's presence.

“What are you doing?” She questioned back.

“Asked you first.”

She hesitated for a moment before she began, “I’m leaving for Kings Landing.”

He chuckled lowly, “A lotta names on your little list there.”

She did not share his amusement. “One that's on yours is there.” She said stoically.

Sandors smile faded fast. “Aye.” he grumbled.

Arya’s expression turned to one of sadness, “I couldn’t tell her.” he understood, because neither could you. She looked at Sandor, “Do you want to come with me?”

Sandor thought of it for a moment, before he rasped “Let me see to my children.”

She nodded, “Meet me in the High Hall.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

You woke to an empty bed. It was very late, or perhaps very early, you could not tell. You rubbed your eyes, not able to make yourself fall back asleep with Sandor, you pushed yourself out of bed. As you walked the halls, you came upon your babes nursery. You noticed the door was left open. Concerned, you rushed towards your room, but you heard a familiar voice. You peered into the room to see your husband kneeling by your son's cradle.

Sandor's voice was gentle and soft, “Be a better man than your father, your uncle, your grandfather. And be good to your mother-”

You stepped into the room, “What are you doing?” you asked with narrowed eyes.

Sandor stood, looking at you with pity that made you want to vomit. “I’ll be back.” He rasped.

You knew what he meant, you stepped towards him, “My men will fight this war. My man will not.”

“I will.” He asserted.

You scoffed, “What do you care of this war?”

“My brother is there.” His voice was darker.

“And he shall fall with the rest of them.” Your anger rose in your chest as you realized he was planning on leaving you without speaking to you.

He leaned into you, “I want to be the one to do it.”

You looked up at him with angry eyes, “No.” you asserted firmly.

“Damn it woman.” He hissed, though trying to keep his voice low on account of your sleeping children.

You looked at him with anger, a look he was not accustomed to. “You have insisted I stay away from battles, stayed away from my own enemies. And I did. Because I remembered the pain you felt when we were separated. Dead to one another. I did not want that for you. And yet you are blinded by your own selfish desires of revenge.”

“And you did not pursue your own?” He spat his words at you.

You knew he was right. But that was before you’d children, before your life was of consequence. But you shifted your argument, “I have seen you and he fight. When you fought for Loras.” You shook your head, “It is too even. The fight would take you both and you know it!” You whispered a shout.

His eyes were wide, he was frustrated by your inability to understand, “The things he’s done- Murdering babes! Raping women and girls!”

“And pressed an innocent child’s cheek into a fire over a discarded toy.” You looked at him with sympathy, “I can see what motivates you. It will not heal you-“

“It’ll feel good.” He rasped lowly.

“It would.” You said with a nod, “But that is all. A moment of happiness. But the pain stays. It stays all the same.” You rolled up your sleeve, “Look,” you presented the scar on your forearm. “My scars have not faded. My family is still gone. Your scar will not fade and your father, mother, and siblings will not return to you. But Sandor we’ve made our own family.” You said, attempting to smile, and point his attention towards the babes in their cradle.

He shook his head, “He won’t be able to kill again. Rape again.” He looked up at you, “I could kill him.”

You placed your hands on his chest, as if you were pleading with him, “You are the strongest man in the seven kingdoms. But even still, it is too great of a risk.” You furrowed your brows, “If I could take the pain from you I would. If I could hold Gregor in chains and hold in your hand a sword to do as you wish I would grant you that. But my love, I cannot.” You felt yourself on the verge of tears, a sight Sandor hated. “Drinking, eating, and fucking. Peace. That’s how you said you wished to live out our days here. That is what you said you wanted.”

“I do.” He said softly.

“You swore to protect us.” Your tears finally came.

“I will.” He insisted softly.

You shook your head, “You won’t.” You looked towards your son, “When I look at that boy, I think of you. I think of you as a little boy, young and kind. Who does not yet see the world with such disdain. One who needs his father to be better than his grandfather. Who needs his father here.” You looked back to him, he spoke no words. You felt so betrayed, you scoffed with tears falling from your cheeks, “Go then.”

You heard the sounds of your son fussing in his crib, you turned from Sandor and approached the babe.

Sandor stood there, watching you from the corner of his eye. He did not think of himself as a good man, and he did not take pride in himself. But in that moment, he never felt such hatred for himself.

He looked over at you. You sang quietly and sweetly to the babe in your arms as you rocked him. He thought of how in Kings Landing he used to fantasize of having you in a wooden house, with a babe in your arms just as you did now. He thought of all the things Gregor took from him. His face, his innocence, his faith, his belief in good, his belief in chivalry, but now he threatened to take this sight before him. Gregor threatened to take away his ability to see his children grow. Threatened to take his life with you.

Sandor approached you, but you only looked at him with teary and angry eyes. “Alright.” he rasped as he dropped to his knees, “I’m sorry.” His hands took place on your hips as he practically begged you. “I’m sorry.” He said into your skirts.

You only held your son tighter. Refusing to look at him.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

However, Sandor did meet Arya in the High Hall.

He took Arya by the shoulder, “When you find my brother. I want his head.” He said before finally leaving the High Hall.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Days passed, though your anger subsided for what Sandor had attempted to do. You had been cold and distant from him. It was not something Sandor was familiar with when it came to you. He did not enjoy it at all.

He spent his days attempting to make it up to you. His attempts however were rebuffed. You did not allow him to do more than kiss you. You couldn’t help it really. You wanted to forgive him but felt as though you couldn’t.

As you read a book within your chambers, Sandor parallel to you. He simply stared at you, as if he were trying to solve a riddle before him. You noticed it but did not want to give it any attention. Sandor's frustration grew as he could not tell what he needed to do to make you favor him again. But he would be interrupted by Eira entering the chamber with a parchment.

“A raven from Lord Tyrion.” She said as she handed you the letter.

Sandor groaned in annoyance, “Fucking hells, even up here he wants your ear.”

Your stoic expression broke, as you read the news. The crime that Jon Snow had committed. “Seven hells.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

In the old dragon pit, you and the other highest Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms were gathered. You sat beside Sandor who you still were holding to a cold shoulder as a member of the Dragon queens unsullied known as Greyworm brought forth Tyrion Lannister in chains. He explained what had happened, and expressed his intentions of killing Jon Snow for his crimes.

“Jon Snow cannot go free.” Greyworm announced.

“It is not for you to decide.” Lord Tyrion.

“You are not here to speak! We are tired of your words.” Greyworm spoke angrily.

Tyrion nodded, shamefully. “You are right. But it is not for you to decide. His fate is to be decided by our king… or queen.”

“We don’t have a king or queen.” some Lord said, you didn’t know his name or his face nor did you care to.

Tyrion scoffed a laugh, “You are the most powerful people in Westeros. Choose one.”

“I suppose you want it.” Ser Davos remarked.

Tyrion's eyes went wide, “Me? The Imp? Half the people hate me for serving Daenerys, the other half hates me for betraying her. Can't think of a worse choice.” Tyrion said, shaking his head.

“Who, then?” Sansa asked,

“This realm needs unity. It is not an easy thing to unite people.” Tyrion said in contemplation, then as his mind landed on the person he believed in. He began, “Who among us has united North, the Riverlands, and East. A girl who was orphaned in the den of lions, a girl who escaped every trap set in her way, a girl who with no money gained her own army, a girl who fought in war, a girl who conquered the Eyrie, a girl who sought justice by her own hand when the realm did not offer it. A girl like that would be steadfast, and wise beyond her years. She’d be kind, and thoughtful of her people to inspire such loyalty. Well then she should be the woman who sits on the throne.” His eyes fell onto you.

Sandor looked at you, unsure of what you would say.

You narrowed your brows, “I don’t want it.”

“No one does.” Tyrion scoffed a laugh.

“I won’t take it.” You shook your head, “I want no power greater than what I have been given by birth. I no longer care for myself, care of any desire or ambitions that once drove me. I only care for my children. I only care for my husband. I only care for my family.” You spoke confidently.

Sandor was in disbelief. You were offered power and wealth beyond anything you’d ever had. And yet you so quickly refused it.

With a nod, Tyrion spoke again, “What of the three eyed raven? He is our memory, the keeper of all our stories. The wars, weddings, births, massacres, families. He crossed beyond the wall a crippled boy, and came back the three eyed raven. He knows our past better than anyone. He could lead us into the future.”

And with that Bran the Broken was instilled at the new King of the Six Kingdoms, and Sansa became Queen of the North.

“You refused the crown?” Sandor asked as he leaned towards you. Unsure as to why you had done it.

You looked at him with your cold eyes, “I meant what I said. I have no desires or ambitions beyond my children.” It was a slight at his attempt to leave your children to pursue revenge. A slight that he understood and one that he knew he deserved.

As you continued on he watched you walk on as he heard that familiar voice again,

“Sandor.” Arya said as she approached him. Sandor hummed at her, “The tower fell before I could reach Cersei, or Gregor.” She shook her head, upset with her failed attempt, “Couldn’t get his head, but I got this.” She said as she presented Gregor's helmet covered in blood.

Sandor looked at it, he found little joy in it, and little relief. He shook his head, “Get rid of it.” He rasped as he turned to return to your side.

Arya looked at him as he walked away in confusion.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you laid in a steaming bath, your handmaidens washed your body. One cleaning your nails and another cleaning your hair. You normally would have insisted on doing it yourself, but after your travels back from Kings Landing you were simply too exhausted to do it.

Suddenly however, the door to your bathing chamber swung open. Your ladies attempted to use their own bodies to shield the view of your naked form. However they relaxed once they saw the man who hunched down to get through the doorway was in fact the lord consort, Sandor.

“Out…” Sandor commanded, and all the ladies wasted no time in dropping their scrubbing clothes into the water as they fled the room.

You stared at Sandor with an expression of annoyance. A look he was becoming increasingly difficult to take from you.

With a defeated sigh he kneeled by the tub, reaching in to retrieve a scrubbing cloth one of the maids had dropped into the water. Sandor gently took your hand, and began to clean your fingernails as the other maid was doing.

You looked at him with confusion, “What are you doing?” you questioned softly with narrowed eyes.

He snorted a laugh, not looking at you continuing to clean you, “The fuck does it look like?” he grumbled.

You raised a brow at him, unsure of what he was attempting to do. “The ladies would do that.”

“Would if I let them.” Sandor rasped, continuing to clean the rest of your arm.

“You won’t even allow women to see my body? Or perhaps you feel guilty.”

“Just shut up about it.” He snapped at you. Though he was a tamed dog, he still did not like it when such trivial things such as guilt over hurting the one thing of value he had loomed over his mind and heart. Especially when his guilty consciousness was so easily seen.

“You shut up about it.” You snapped back at him as you splashed water at him.

As the water splashed against Sandor, a silence fell upon you both. He hung his head in shame. And you looked away in frustration. Sandor’s eyes then fell upon you, much softer now. “He is dead,” he said calmly and gently.

Your gaze swiftly shifted back to Sandor. Your eyes were no longer annoyed or frustrated. But sympathetic, and mournful. Not for Gregor, but for what Sandor gave up. What Sandor gave to you but what you could not give to him. “Do you feel relief?” You asked, your voice was gentler.

Sandor shrugged, his eyes still fixated on the ground. “Some.”

“I’ve been cold towards you.” You said softly, sinking deeper into the water.

“I know.” He grumbled, looking down like a child who’d been caught misbehaving.

You moved to the edge of the tub, placing a hand on Sandor’s cheek. “I am sorry, I prevented you from what might have offered you relief from that pain in you. But if you should try to leave me or our children again. You leave us at your peril.” You offered an apology, as well as a warning. Your words soft and gentle though heavy and hard.

Sandor shook his head, placing a hand on yours that caressed his scared flesh. “I could not leave you, or our girl, our boy.” He shook his head again, “Gregor-” He looked away, the name alone caused anger to rise like bile in his throat. He closed his eyes, shaking him away from his mind, “I couldn’t let him take that too.” He said finally looking back at you.

You looked into his eyes deeply, “Say the words.” you commanded. Though your voice was soft and gentle. Hardly above a whisper.

Sandor did not hesitate, “I love you.” His voice was bold and clear.

With that, you stood from the bath. Water spilling into the tub as it rushed off of your body. Sandor's sad, brown puppy-like eyes followed you as you stepped out. You grabbed a robe, and wrapped it around yourself, still wet soaking wet. Your hair soaking the thin fabric that draped around your neck. “Stand.” You said looking back at Sandor, who was still kneeling. As if he were at your mercy. Sandor stood, and you allowed his arms to wrap around you as they were longing to for so long. You held him back. It was not often that Sandor would allow himself to be so vulnerable. You pulled yourself away from his chest, and placed your hands on either side of his face forcing his gaze onto you. “You are no longer a hound, a dog. You are a man, a husband, a father.” You said with a soft smile wanting him to rejoice in his freedom and all he had done with his new found agency.

“I do not deserve you. I’m a killer.” He said, still sulking with his sad eyes.

“Am I not?” You said defiantly. It made him crack a small smile. “You’ve been an honest man. A loyal man, to those who deserve it.” You rubbed his check gently with your thumb before running your hands along his shoulders. “Though you may refuse it, you've protected the innocent. You’re a fierce warrior.” You then embraced him once more. “My husbands a killer and I’d have it no other way.” You said softly as your face was nuzzled into his chest.

He took your face into his hands now, “Look at me,” he said as he directed your gaze to look into his, “your eyes.” his voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke softer. “Same ones that looked at me while you ate dinner with those Lannister cunts.” He remembered the first time you and he saw one another. He could never get the thought of you out of his head from that moment forth. You had bewitched him body and soul no matter how hard he attempted to deflect its hold on him. “No fear in them. I should know I’ve seen it a lot.” He said as he admired your soft gaze as it was now, “No disgust, ‘ve seen that too.” He said with a small smirk.

You did not share his amusement, you never found Sandor disgusting. And you pitied those who did, for they’d truly know how beauty transcends through skin. When you first saw his scared flesh it reminded you of ribbons of silk. You shook your head. “I’d never seen anything like you. You were beautiful.” You said as your eyes trailed over his features. Your words were earnest and the warmth of your gaze filled Sandor with purpose.

He shook his head, in disbelief of your existence even still, “I’d die for you.” He rasped.

“I want you to live for me.”

His lips pressed against yours the kiss was gentle though firm as his hand gripped the back of your head and pressed your kiss deeper. It was as if it were a vow. His hands wrapped around your waist tightly pressing you close to his chest. Sandor cared not if you were still soaking wet, he simply wanted to be as close to you as possible. Now that you were allowing his touch and offering your own in return. With his passions rising he lifted you off of the ground with ease. He began to carry you to your bed.

Your kiss did not release. No, your lips stayed together as long as you’d allow it. Only parting to meet again. He placed you onto your bed gently as if he were trying not to break you. He pressed his weight down on you, not all the way, no that would have smothered you. It was just enough for you to feel warmth and safety from his body. You must have laid there on top of one another kissing and embracing one another bodies for an hour.

Sometimes he would part from your lips to look into your eyes and pet your hair away from your face. As did so, his hand gently running through your hair, you looked upon him and his swollen lips.

“I have something for you.” You nearly whispered. Sandor looked at you with confusion, as you rolled out from underneath him. “I’d it made some time ago, but I was too cross with you to allow myself to give it.” Sandor watched from the bed as you retrieved a black leather box from your wardrobe. “Do you remember that necklace, the one Tyrion gave me?” Sandor Nodded, though not pleased with the thought of your previous engagement. You looked down at the box, trailing your finger tip along the edge of the box, “I thought that necklace was a thoughtful gift. Made in an attempt to gladden my heart by someone who desperately wanted it.” You stepped closer to Sandor. “But it was a collar. Just as all that golden jewelry was a symbol of my taking.” Your voice was much darker now, “So I had it thrown in a fire. Melted down.” You opened the box, presenting a dagger. It was not fancy, nor extravagant. Simple and effective. “You always said you wanted Valyrian steel, and I’d lost your other dagger-” You were interrupted by Sandor suddenly standing from your bed. He marched over towards the dog shaped helmet in the room. “What are you-” You couldn’t finish that either before Sandor was marching out the room with it.

You threw on a much thicker robe before following him out of your chambers.

You had to make an effort to keep up with him, his legs were much longer than yours. And when he was set on something he was determined to do it.

You followed him all the way to the High Hall, where he opened the Moon Doors. You instinctively pulled him away from them, though your strength held little influence against his stature. You held onto his forearm as he held up the helmet. “The King had it made to show that I was his dog.” He scoffed. “Fuck the King.” Looking upon the helmet for a moment more before dropping it through the moon door. “I’m my own dog now.”

Sandor turned towards you only to notice that your eyes were watery like at Robin's funeral. Only now you were smiling. You let out a sigh of relief as a tear fell from your cheek. The Hound was dead, and Sandor lived. Lived to be beside you.

His large hand came to your cheek and wiped the tear away. He did not understand the bliss you were feeling. He was about to apologize for whatever it was that made you cry. But the sounds of a maid called out, “My Lady!”

It startled you greatly, “Yes?” you beckoned back as the girl entered the room.

The girl approached you with haste, “It’s your daughter-”

You approached her with haste as well, “What’s happened?” you loudly beckoned with great concern and Sandor followed behind you.

“No my Lady, tis happy news! The little ones began to crawl.” She announced with glee.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

You and Sandor stood looking upon the small babe, crawling. Though she struggled, she still continued, prevailing. A stubborn thing just as her mother. Sandor would of course pretend as though this sight did not fill him with such immense pride but it did. The girl was born early, underweight, and yet she beat her brother who was born of a healthy weight to crawling. Such a small movement but such a large accomplishment.

You looked at Sandor, and you knew he’d never speak his praises. He’d find no use of it. You could see in his eyes he was proud. You could see the tender love he held for this little thing so deeply.

You smiled as you looked at him, “Sandor?”

“Hm?” He hummed as he watched the babe crawl.

“I love you.” You said earnestly and softly.

Sandor looked at you, he sighed, “I love you.” He said as his hand tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Sandor?” You asked again.

“Hm?” He hummed once more.

You smiled,

“I’m with child.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

NOTE: This is so bitter sweet. I am so so so grateful to all of you who have engaged with this story and engaged with my posts. This is not the end of this story! I will be doing small updates here and there. But the main series is officially at an end. K love you, xoxo

Bambi

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hajimesh · 3 days

Text

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐skyfall. suguru geto

part two. sunset (him)

⥅word c. 2,656

⥅warnings. suguru's pov, heavy angst, main character death, mentions of drinking and smoking, depressed suguru, hurt/comfort (?)

𝄢♭turning page ‐ sleeping at last / let her go ‐ passenger

Suguru will never forget the morning you came back to him. He distinctly remembers it was right after a slow night at the bar, the air felt chiller than usual, and the streets were too quiet. He couldn’t wait to get home, already dreaming of his bed and the leftover pizza from two nights ago.

But the sleep vanished as soon as he saw you sitting by the window.

At first, he thought someone had broken into his place until he realized it was you, which scared him even more than the thought of a thief. As soon as he heard your voice, it was as if he felt everything and nothing all at once—it also made him realize he had started to forget the sound of it without noticing.

It was the sight of your cheeky smile, the little wave as you teased him like you used to, that got him out of his stupor. Suddenly, he was on a high, something he hadn’t felt in months.

Gone was the tiredness from working all night as he ran up the stairs to the apartment while his heart beat wildly against his rib cage. However, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight that awaited him: sitting by the window, the curtains blew behind you as the sky shone with pinks and lilacs, clouds that looked like cotton floating in it. But even such beautiful scenery couldn’t compare to the sight of you, your beauty or the gentle smile on your face.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he felt his soul come back to his body as soon as he had you in his arms. The feel of your fingers carding through his hair immediately relaxed him, your voice soothing the dull pain that had settled deep in his heart.

He feared his heart would not make it through that morning, your presence and laugh — god, how he had missed your laugh — more than enough of a threat to his battered heart.

That morning, Suguru Geto came back to life after living like a zombie for three months without you, the pain pushed to the back of his mind as he only focused on loving you.

—

He often wondered if he should quit his job, it messed up with his sleeping schedule and mood. But that bar was where he first met you, he still remembered how you walked up to him to order a round of drinks for your friends, and by the end of the night you had left right after saving your number in his phone.

Somehow, it felt wrong to leave a place that held such beautiful memories.

“You’ll be late for work,” he heard you say, light kisses covering his face as they traveled from his lips to his jaw before focusing on his cheeks.

He could tell it was dark outside, which meant that yes, he was most definitely running late. But he was a prisoner of your kisses, he would be out of his mind to push you away.

“Shower with me.”

Suguru was enraptured the whole time, watching the water dripping down your body as you sang each song that played from the speaker you had in the bathroom. The only thing that could stop you were his lips, kissing you nonstop until he had to physically hold you so you wouldn't fall to your knees.

At that moment, he felt like he fell in love with you all over again.

He really didn't want to leave, but if you were there with him, then it meant that everything was back to normal. It made sense, right?

“See you at sunrise!”

And when he saw you by the window the next day, and the day after that, suddenly he was looking forward to each morning, hoping to see you sitting by the window where you belonged.

The world could end tomorrow, and he wouldn’t care. As long as he had you by his side, nothing could ruin his happiness.

The rush hour was at its peak, college kids flooding the small bar on a Friday night—finals were over, so Suguru kind of expected it. After all, it was something he used to do just a few years ago.

He worked as fast as he could, lining up the shot glasses and filling them with liquor so Satoru could take them to the right table. It had become part of their routine, both men realizing that they worked well together after two days of being on the same shift.

Satoru placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, squinted eyes staring suspiciously at Suguru.

“You seem… livelier,” he paused, “chirpier?”

Shrugging, Suguru continued pouring drinks, “why wouldn’t I be?”

Still looking at him weirdly, Satoru dropped the subject once the raven-haired handed him another round of drinks, turning on his heel and continuing to work—he could always ask him later.

Meanwhile, Suguru’s mind strayed to your conversation from earlier that day. It had been two weeks since you were back, and it was impossible to get you out of his mind. Before he could stop it, he was smiling at the memory, his heart fluttered at the thought of spending all of your weekends cuddling and watching movies. He hoped that one day, a little version of you both could join the tradition.

At that point, he couldn’t hide his smile.

With a push of his hips, Satoru tried to snap him out of his daydream, signaling with his head to the girl that stood in front of him.

Suguru stared at her, she seemed familiar, but it wasn’t until she reminded him of her name that he remembered who she was: an old classmate from high school. They had dated briefly during their senior year before he met you.

“I haven't seen you since we graduated,” she smiled at him, “I never thought I would find you here of all places!”

The atmosphere felt awkward, it was as if an elephant sat in the room and everyone could see it but him. He didn’t like that feeling one bit.

“Yeah, I work here.”

The girl hummed and shot Satoru a polite smile, her long nails tapping loudly against the granite.

“I-I was actually wondering if,” she paused, looking bashful as she switched her weight from one heel to the other, “we could go for a cup of coffee one of these days? You know, like, to catch up?”

Suguru instantly tensed up, “catch up?”

“Yeah! Uhm… like a date?”

He never liked it when people put him on the spot, both Satoru’s and the girl’s eyes set on him as they waited for his answer.

“Sorry, but I have a girlfriend,” he offered her an awkward smile.

Satoru sighed dramatically, wrapping an arm around Suguru’s shoulders and pulling him against his side.

“I don't think she’ll mind,” he winked at Suguru before turning to look at the confused girl, “he’d love to go on a date with you!”

Pushing him away, Suguru looked at him in disgust, “are you out of your mind?”

Both men were too busy staring at the other down to hear the girl excuse herself and leave.

Satoru scoffed, “I should be the one asking you that.”

“The fuck you mean by that!?” Suguru was fuming by now, attracting the interest of a few patrons that happened to witness everything.

“Hey, hey!” a third voice intervened, Nanami placing himself between them, “you two need to calm down.”

Suguru ignored the recently hired waiter, continuing to stare down at his best friend. There was no way he was going to stand there and let him treat you like that.

“I asked you a question: what the hell was that!?”

“Sorry for trying to get you a date with a cute girl,” Satoru said sarcastically, “one date won’t hurt, and you know it.”

Fed up with his words, Suguru pushed Nanami to the side and stepped closer to whom he had to call his best and closest friend. He had had enough of Satoru’s shit.

“Disrespect my girl again, and I'll forget you’re like a brother to me.”

With a sneer, Satoru reciprocated the look.

“Suit yourself.”

—

They barely talked again for the rest of the night.

Suguru could feel a migraine coming, the faint palpitations at the back of his head increasing as the minutes passed. All he wanted was his shift to be over, so he could go back to your arms.

He took the trash outside, staying there a few minutes as he leaned against the wall. His lips wrapped around the cigarette as he took a long drag, and unconsciously began to smile once he noticed the sky starting to lighten.

The sound of the door opening and closing took him out of his daydream.

“Spill,” Satoru stood before him, arms folded in front of his chest with a serious look that Suguru hadn’t seen in weeks, “what’s up with you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Don’t you dare push me away again,” the white-haired jabbed a finger on his chest, “you were finally recovering, and what? You’re letting her control your life again?”

“I would watch my mouth if I were you,” Suguru warned him, his features hardening again, “and she isn’t controlling anything.”

Groaning, Satoru ran a hand down his face, “when are you going to get it through your thick skull?!”

“Get what!?”

After stepping on the cigarette, Suguru started making his way inside, getting tired of Satoru’s complaints. Only to stop abruptly once he heard him speak again, his blood turning cold.

“That your girlfriend is dead.”

Suguru never believed in those weird conspiracy theories that Satoru liked to feed him, and even years later, he still managed to come up with the craziest stories.

He believed there's a rational explanation for everything, not entirely a man of science, but if you could prove what you said, then he had no reason to doubt.

Every rational thought told him it couldn’t be possible, and yet there you were, holding his face between your hands as he heard your voice, and smelled your perfume.

You were supposed to be gone.

He had to hold back from breaking down as soon as he got home, your silhouette standing by the window as if you truly were there, waiting for him like you always used to. He couldn't bear to see you smile, to hear you talk about a future when you no longer had one. He could barely keep it together when you cupped his face in your hands and made him stare at you, something seemed to have switched in your eyes, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“It’s time to let go, Suguru.”

“I can't,” he whispered in a broken voice, “I don't want to.”

Three months without seeing you, feeling you, there was no way he’d let you slip away from his grasp—not again.

Tears ran down his cheeks, his heart pressing heavily against his chest as he fought the need to crumble down to the floor. He could see your eyes glistening with tears, but your pretty smile remained, giving him all the time he needed to compose himself.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” you whispered, rubbing your thumbs against his cheekbones, trying and failing to stop the tears, “I could never blame you, I never did.”

Unwanted memories from that day swarmed his mind: the loud screech of tires against the pavement, your body next to his, the sight of your beautiful face covered in cuts and bruises mocking the peaceful look in it. The memory haunted him for months.

What was once the face of an angel, as he liked to call you, twisted into a gruesome memory.

If only he hadn’t convinced you to accompany him to the party, or if he had paid more attention to the road so he could’ve avoided the drunk driver that hit the car as he drove home. You’d still be there, with him, holding him just as you were doing right at that moment.

“I'm going insane,” he sniffled, resting his forehead against yours, “aren’t I?”

“No, no, you’re not. But you aren’t taking care of yourself,” you kept smiling through your tears, your voice gentle as if you were talking to a child, “you either sleep too little or too much, and you haven’t been attending your lectures.”

Rocking you side to side, he dismissed your comment with a nonchalant hum, “but I’m happy now, isn’t that what you want? Just… stay? Please?”

The lack of words on your part was his answer.

“Will I see you again?”

“Of course,” your smile broadened, “even if the skies fall, or a huge wave takes over the city, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Suguru’s hold tightened, your face hiding in his chest as you both tried to calm yourselves down. He didn’t dare to close his eyes, wanting to see your face for as long as he could. And even with tears clogging up your eyelashes and wobbly lips, you were still as gorgeous as he remembered.

“You’re my sunrise, and I'm your sunset,” he whispered in your ear, “never forget that.”

Not like you could. You had found your very own sunset, only yours to love and admire.

“I would never.”

Even with puffy eyes and tears wetting your cheeks, Suguru still thought you were the most beautiful woman that ever walked the earth. He helped you wipe your tears, watching you sniffle and laugh right after.

“Baby?” you spoke after a few minutes of silence and holding each other, basking in his warmth until it made you sleepy.

His lips kissed the crown of your hair while his fingers combed it away from your face, admiring your face with love brimming from his eyes, “hm?”

A lump blocked your throat, tears welling up in your eyes before quickly cascading down your cheeks as you ingrained his face into your memory.

“Look for me in the sky, I promise I'll be there.”

Suguru never saw you again after that day.

It was as if the grief took over his life all over again, the sorrow suffocating him with each breath he took. His body and soul crumpled even lower than the first time, however, with each passing week, the heaviness in his heart became lighter.

It took him a while to open up to Satoru, and when he finally did, the tears were unstoppable from both sides. Satoru felt for his friend and you, you two had had a close bond too after all, and after seeing Suguru shattered after your loss, he knew he had to be his rock.

There wasn’t a place in the city that didn’t have your name, filled with memories of your dates as Suguru and you explored the world together. But it was time to turn the page, with your memory inked on the corner of it and in Suguru’s soul.

He would never be able to forget you, and he didn’t want to.

Sitting by the window, Suguru took a look at the late spring afternoon. Living in a world without you would always be painful, which is why he found himself staring at it from your eyes. That window was your spot; he would always find you there before the sun was up, and right before it disappeared behind the horizon, waving him goodbye as he drove away to work.

The usual bustle of the streets quieted down for a moment, it was as if the world went still. Orange tinted the sky as usual, only this time, hues of blue and lilac blended across it, the wind cold and refreshing as it blew against his warm skin.

Suguru peered up at the skies with a nostalgic smile, a wave of peacefulness making its way into his heart.

“There you are, my love.”

#jjk x reader #geto x reader #jjk fic #jjk angst #suguru geto x reader #suguru x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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ilminnestrone · 2 days

Note

Angeal Hewley.

Angeal Hewley, the child who learnt too early that things like money, toys and food are scarce commodities. That if you buy that fabulous wooden sword from the carpenter, you might not have the money to buy bread. That if you eat more than one slice of said bread with your dinner, you might have to skip breakfast tomorrow. Whose father taught him that values like loyalty, respectability and honour are also scarce commodities that you can't afford to diminish or lose, because they're not easily earned back.

Angeal Hewley, the boy who soon learnt that health and time are scarce commodities too, when the same father fell ill in order to buy something beautiful, powerful and ultimately superfluous to make him happy: an equal exchange, a life for a life-taker, a death for an instrument of death. Happiness, however, was not part of the deal. Tears, however, he used all of them, and never cried again.

So Angeal Hewley, the young man, began to think that everything around him was a scarce commodity. Opportunities and failures. Victories and losses. Friends and foes. Leaving for Midgar meant holding on to the scarce commodity that was Genesis; joining the army, not losing the privilege of his time. Missions were a way out of poverty. Returning victorious was a way out of dishonour.

But he couldn't afford to waste even his days off sleeping in and lazing around. Every free minute was hoarded for the lean times. Every hobby was a way of saving for later: cooking a meal in advance for the bad days when even chewing seemed an insurmountable obstacle; growing plants so that when the time came for them to bloom, there would be something pretty to look at; taking a photograph to remember happy moments when in times of misery.

He couldn't waste kisses on people he'd never see again. Pleasure was a scarse commodity too, lovers just another beautiful thing not to be overused for fear of rusting or scratching them: the rare times, their satisfaction came first, and he was happy with the leftovers, as if it were impossible to enjoy both equally. “Live a little,” someone told him, while he was still buried inside them; but what if he had wasted a little life in doing so?

Angeal Hewley, the man who wondered if love was a scarce commodity when he discovered there were two men he wanted by his side. Who wondered again as he became more father than teacher to a boy too young to play in the war. That he was certain that innocence surely is, when he saw him kill for the first time and saw him realise that it was anything but a game.

Angeal Hewley, who would discover that unspoken words cannot be saved for later. Who hoped to the last that even pain was a scarce commodity, as he watched the man he had grown up with rotting before his eyes, and the mind of the only other companion he had ever had fading day by day: the day he realised that his body and mind were degrading, he hoped that his suffering might lessen that of Genesis and Sephiroth. Who prayed that death itself was a scarce commodity, when he asked Zack to kill him, and that his sacrifice might spare that of others.

It turns out that if there is one thing that is by no means a scarce commodity, it is the greed of the masters.

#💚❤️🧡#angeal hewley #ff7 #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #crisis core #ask #headcanon

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coltermorning · 2 days

Text

Of Love and Loss Ch. 20 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur finally find solace in a town and in each other, breaking down every last wall that remains.

Author’s Notes: Sexual content in this chapter. Chapter twenty of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

Of Love and Loss

Twenty: The Power of a Name

Word count: 6609

She really thought I would leave her here. What nonsense, especially after what happened in the last town and how much it haunts her. I suppose I’ll be seeing this journey through to the end. Either that, or long enough for her to tell me to get lost. Surprisingly, that ain’t happened quite yet, though I ain’t holding out hope that it won’t after how much of a fool I been towards her. We shall see, I guess.

It had taken ten more days to get back to civilization. The town of Ogallala was small but growing fast due to the rail built through it. Arthur knew it made you nervous to be around this many people again, but the law in this town was sparse, and the two of you kept your heads down well enough and found a hotel tucked away to stay hidden in in the meantime. If anyone came through looking for you, they’d have to go door to door to find you, and many of the townsfolk weren’t local besides. That meant no real reason to turn in two people folk hadn’t really noticed in the first place. That left Arthur calm enough not to worry over your safety like he had been the past week and a half. And that left him more relaxed than he had been in a long time.

It turned out you were nervous about more than just the law and the local population—he’d had to wriggle it out of you, but Arthur finally figured out you thought the local train station meant his departure. Your final destination wasn’t far, and you had thought he was impatient enough to get back to his gang that he would take the first train to Denver and leave you here to fend for yourself. He couldn’t begin to explain how wrong you were and had instead led you to the hotel without a word, a little miffed you thought he cared that little about you. Then again, he hadn’t outright expressed much reason for you to think otherwise, and he was starting to think it was time to. You’d immediately collapsed onto the bed upon arrival, worn from all the hard travel, so he didn’t have a chance to speak his mind anyway. Later, he told himself. Though he was in denial about the fact that very soon, there wouldn’t be a later.

Arthur sat on the floor beside the bed and chewed on a bit of cooked deer meat Beth had insisted the two of you take, looking over his journal to pass the time. Really, he wondered what to say to you. He wasn’t the best with words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. He thought of writing it down but had come up with his pitiful new journal entry instead, cowardly as ever. Then, annoyed, he turned back a page, knowing exactly what he would find. He didn’t know why it surprised him. But there you were, laid out on that bed in that barn, half-naked save for his coat. And underneath, your name. Your real name, written out after he’d finished every last gentle curve and arc of your body. He never thought knowing a name would be such an honor, but he realized that it had been your way of expressing to him what he had yet to express to you—how much you cared for him. It was obvious he felt the same, obvious in the few stolen kisses he’d gotten since what had happened in that worn down barn. But maybe the pair of you hadn’t come together like that since because he was the one holding back, not you. And that left him shameful.

Arthur looked over at you on the bed, your back steadily rising and falling in sleep. You were faced away, so he couldn’t see much of you apart from your hand draped over the bedside. Even that small glimpse of you had him thinking of how little time there was left between you and how precious this closeness was. It was time for him to admit things he never normally would or risk letting them fester within him, nothing more than regret that would chafe like hell the farther away he got from you.

Arthur stowed the deer meat and went back to studying the drawing of you. One thing he liked most about it was the look on your face—the smile. Upon first meeting you, he never would have thought someone so heartbroken could eventually be so willful again. That smile was catlike, just for him. It turned him on a little. And the rest of the drawing didn’t make matters better, nor did the thought of what the two of you had done together to cause that smile.

Arthur thought of other ways you had surprised him, as you continued to do every day. How good of a shot you were, for one. Hell, just the thought of you being so good with a gun you’d snapped that noose clean in half had him hard. Then his mind drifted to your hands wrapped around a gun, and just like that, he was lost.

Arthur’s eyes followed the curve of your breast in his coat as he thought of how argumentative you were, the way you snapped at him without fear time and again. He was used to being intimidating enough to make everyone else hold their tongue, but not you. You let him have it.

And your mouth. The way you kissed him despite not quite knowing how—it was unfair to be so good at it. Unfair to be so innocent yet so arousing. Timid yet wild, broken yet strong. All of it.

Arthur let out an annoyed breath at how aroused he had become, setting his journal aside and turning to look at you. He wouldn’t leave you again, but he was suddenly desperate to take himself in hand, something he would rather not do in front of you, asleep or not. But, he considered, you had just fallen asleep. It could be hours. You weren’t a very heavy sleeper, but he could be quiet. He could…shit. He shouldn’t be considering this. But he thought of you waking up and catching him in the act, and that made things immeasurably worse. How would you respond? That put a smile on his face. You’d never seen him naked, nor any man if he had to guess. He loved seeing that shy, surprised look on your face his overly confident words brought, and he had no doubt the sight of him pleasuring himself would make you go so red it would leave you speechless for once. Or maybe it wouldn’t, and maybe you would be curious enough to crawl off that bed and come over here, crawl in his lap and-

“Christ,” Arthur whispered, in the same sorry state he had been in that bath, thinking then of what he would do with you on the first bed you’d shared. Only now, he had no reason to feel guilty over wanting you like that. He had half a mind you wanted the same from him. Or he hoped you did, at least. If how you had responded to his touch the last time was any indication, you certainly did.

And then Arthur was thinking of what he knew he shouldn’t be, because it would lead to his hand drifting downward when he really shouldn’t allow for such things. He thought of his fingers between your legs, all those perfect sounds you made. He thought of your whispered fervor, the words don’t stop cutting through him worse than any bullet. He wanted that again. By God, he was desperate enough to wake you for it. But he wouldn’t. He would let you rest and have what little peace he could offer. Because what he was considering wasn’t quite peace so much as it was demanding, outright gratification. A desperation he could no longer tame and one he hoped to drag from you right alongside him. But again, as much as it killed him, he would wait for your desire to match his. And as he pulled another cigarette out of his ever-dwindling stash to distract him in the meantime, he knew what he felt for you must be real—nothing had ever nagged him so bad as to make him more honorable. And there was something to be said for that.

Two months and fifteen days. You woke up to the ceiling of yet another rented room, plagued by the thought of your parents’ deathdate. Your mother had been keeping up with the days, if only for some way to pass the time, and here you were doing the same two and a half months later, nearly to the day. It had been a Wednesday. The ninth of September. And now it was nearing the end of November, and all you could hold onto was how much you regretted not marking their graves with their birthdates and deathdates. With crosses bearing names you were proud to display but couldn’t bear to part with at the time, just like your own.

You looked to the windows lining the wall, noting the gray sky beyond. It was snowing again. It had been for nearly the entirety of the past week, though part of you wished it would give. There were many things you wished would give, namely the ache in your chest at the constant absence of your parents’ guidance. As far as you had come without it, you knew you could survive on your own, but that guidance was a crutch you would have loved to feel one last time. Comforting in its surrender.

Your eyes flicked to the man propped up against the wall, one leg bent at the knee and hat slung low over his eyes. He was either asleep or resting, and you didn’t want to disturb him either way. He didn’t allow himself to do so very often after the two of you had gotten so tangled with the law, but he deserved this. He was toughened, hardened by a life you would never have come out of alive. It made him strong in a way you wanted to grant respite to. Strong in a way you knew he never would himself. Stubborn, more like, but you couldn’t deny you recognized that only because you were the same.

Turning on the bed, a loud creak resulted that had Arthur raising his hat brim to look at you. Part of you wanted to pretend to be dozing anyway like you used to do as a child, but you met his eye instead. Held that stare until it turned contemplative. Until you were both looking beyond the eyes into the soul beneath.

“Didn’t want to sleep up here?” you said softly.

Arthur looked to the window, like of all things, that was what finally made him meek.

“You needed some sleep. And didn’t leave me much room besides.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. When he turned back to you, all you could say was, “It’s snowing again.”

“Yeah,” he said in a manner that made you recall the secret he had bestowed to you—something no one else knew about him. Your very own piece of him.

“And you don’t like the cold, do you?” you teased.

He scoffed. “No.”

Stubborn and gruff. You were grinning as you said, “That’s too bad. Guess I don’t have to face my shortcomings quite like you do.”

“Meanin’?” he said, annoyance in his voice though you knew he was curious enough not to drop it.

“The postman,” you admitted. Then he was letting out a laugh.

“I guess not.” He shook his head and looked back to the gray light of the nearest window. And something about doing what you had just done to ground yourself made you ache for him.

“Come up here.”

The words were out of your mouth in a second. There wasn’t an ounce of regret in you, not even when he looked to you with questioning eyes.

You scooted back and patted the bed in front of you. He didn’t make a fuss about it—just rose and walked over, his spurs jingling with each step. He swiped his hat from his head and sat, holding your eye as he folded his lumbering frame down on the bed beside you. You lay facing each other when he set his hat on your head, an action so fond you nearly choked up with it.

He smiled at you, likely because of the way his hat was much too big and sat crookedly, covering one of your eyes completely. You had the sudden urge to give him yours, but it was on the floor behind you, and you wouldn’t move enough to ruin this perfect moment with him. He was never so…tender. Especially not with the way he looked at you. Like it was a privilege to do so.

You tilted his hat so you could see him out of both eyes and smiled at him. “What?”

He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. “Just…”

He took a moment. You would have given him all the time in the world to know what that look was for.

“You,” he admitted on an outward breath. “Ain’t what I expected.”

“How so?”

His eyes flicked away then, like he wasn’t used to this kind of talk. He obviously wasn’t, as you’d never gotten this much from him before, but it still softened you to see him so nervous over it. Like he was trying hard to get the words right.

“I didn’t expect you to be so…alive.”

Blue eyes met yours on the last word, and they nearly took your breath. Because he understood you in a way you hadn’t realized. You’d never been so proud to be called such a mundane thing. But it meant the world to you.

“I didn’t either,” you admitted. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

He made a huff of surprise. Or maybe disbelief.

“I mean it,” you told him. “As much as you like to grate on my nerves, I think you’re good for me.”

“Am I?” he said, a tease in his tone.

“You are.”

“Well, I…” He trailed off, his gaze averting again. His breathing quickened and grew heavy. You were willing to bet he would kill for a cigarette right about now. But you let his words hang, hoping he would finish. Hoping he would voice what you already felt.

“I’m glad I met you,” he said lowly. “You’re pretty damn good for me too, and I ain’t just saying that because you saved my neck.”

You chuckled. “No?”

He shook his head, those blue eyes flashing. But your gaze was suddenly drawn to his throat, to the subtle line you hadn’t noticed before. He had remnants of that noose on his skin, a slightly reddish-purple scar on his throat. It looked to be healing still, like he may rid himself of it yet. You hoped he did. That was a grim reminder of something he hadn’t deserved.

Without really thinking, you reached out and touched his skin, running your thumb over the edge of the mark. He flinched but didn’t push back.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

He shrugged this off, catching your wrist and tugging it away. “Ah, I’ll survive yet. Besides, look at you now. You would have been fine without me.”

“No.” You met his eyes, needing him to know how serious you were. “No, I wouldn’t have.”

He stumbled a little over your hard gaze but went on. “I have no doubt you could have made it to your folks without me by that point.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

Again, he hesitated. Just watched you.

“I would have been heartbroken all over again, Arthur.”

This shocked him. Surprisingly, after everything the two of you had been through and blatantly felt for each other, he was still taken aback to hear that you cared so much.

“I couldn’t—can’t—do this without you.”

He studied you for a beat. Then, a little gruffly, “Me neither.”

It was your turn to be shocked.

“I mean…” he went on, trying hard to get his words right. “I don’t want to.”

And there it was. Just what you had been hoping so deep down that you wouldn’t even admit it to yourself—how much you wanted him to stay. How badly you hoped he would pick you over his old life.

“Me either,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked back and forth between yours, his hand finding the side of your face. You thought he would speak again, but instead he leaned forward and brought his lips to yours. It was all you ever needed to know, better than any word he could speak.

Within seconds, you moved into him, closing the space between your bodies. The kiss was slow but loving, just like the two of you. Slow to admit anything to each other but sure of it once that fondness was shared.

You broke away from him, finally finding your courage. “When we get to North Platte, I’d like you to consider staying. With me.”

The look he leveled you with was devastating. Pure shock. Awe at being so adored.

Instead of answering, his strong arms came around you and pulled you down, turning you beneath him as he kissed you. He kissed you hard, and you returned it. The act was plenty answer enough about how he felt.

Before you had even a measure of your fill of him, he broke away. But then he moved down, his mouth finding your throat just like it had in that old barn.

This, you thought. This, with him, was all there was. And you wanted all of him.

“Arthur,” you breathed, his lips like fire lighting your skin. He stopped and met your eye. “Teach me.”

His gaze went dark, but he asked anyway. “Teach you what?”

“All of it. I want all of you.”

He studied you. Then, quietly, “You sure?”

“More than I’ve ever been.”

His mouth crashed to yours. His hands skimmed against your sides until he grabbed your hips and pinned them flat to the bed. Then he was moving down again, fervent. Deliberate as he started with your boots, just like the last time. You were a bundle of anticipation as you watched him, felt him. But this time, you wouldn’t stand for him to do all the work himself.

Once he had your shoes off, you came forward and pushed him down to the bed instead. You knelt over him and started taking off his boots, unbuckling his gun belt. You didn’t care that you hadn’t done this and didn’t know what in the hell to do other than copy what he had done to you the last time. You shed your own coat and leaned forward, kissing him as you ran your arms through the sleeves, shedding the burly garment. And you kept kissing him as you brought his coat over his shoulders, letting him lean up as you pulled it away from his back and arms. Once he had one arm free, he wrapped it around you and pulled you tight against him as he kissed you hard, landing you right in his lap. His tongue was desperate against yours, and you could feel every inch of your arousal explode at the feeling of him so close. Of what was to come.

Eventually, the two of you parted enough for him to get more of your layers off. But your focus was never so sharp as it became when you went to undo the buttons of his shirt and union suit. Each inch of skin revealed was a gift. He was muscled and broad, with hair lining his chest and scars on his slightly freckled skin. One jagged pink line just under his collarbone drew your eye, and you kissed it. Your mouth was never so addicted to someone as it was when you started kissing his chest, moving upward, toward his neck. Then, finally, his mouth. Nothing was ever so perfect. He let out a satisfied breath and laid back down, content to let you kiss him. You were just the same. You suddenly wished you could draw like he could so that you could record this moment in your memory forever—what it looked like. You on top of him in nothing but your chemise and pants, sure as you kissed him. Him splayed below you, perfectly content to be there, his broad body encompassing yours and his shirt and union suit halfway off. That was doing things to you that you couldn’t explain. Your barely covered breasts were pushed up against his bare chest, and the heat and friction it brought was pure pleasure. Not to mention his mouth and how fully he took you, exploring every inch of you. One of his hands had fallen to your backside and was squeezing you with the slightest pressure but over and over again so that your bodies moved together. It was so good you needed more.

Finally finding the will to back off him again, you took his shirt and threw it aside before beginning to unbutton his pants. His head fell back to the bed, and he let out a low groan when your hands worked over what you were willing to guess was the most sensitive part of him. The anticipation to see his bare body ate at you so that you sped up, slipping his pants from his long, muscled legs. All that remained on him was the bottom half of his union suit, and the material was thin enough for you to see the outline of a hard bit of muscle running alongside his thigh and toward his belly. You knew next to nothing about a man’s anatomy but knew this was how one differed from a woman. So, without really thinking, you laid your hand on him there. He let out a groan so arousing you wanted this to happen already, wanted to feel that pleasure he had wrought from you so easily before.

You moved back up his body and started kissing him when he flipped you again, laying you underneath him. The sight was, again, something you’d never forget. Those broad, strong shoulders your gaze kept snagging on shifted and flexed as he worked the buttons of your pants. His chest did too, every scar moving under his strength. His arms were equally distracting, and you knew then it was no wonder people were easily intimidated by him. But you weren’t. And you admired every inch of him you could see as he slid your pants off and made to push your chemise up your chest.

“I’m making the same deal with you as before,” he said lowly as he admired your body. “You don’t like anything about this, and you tell me. I’ll stop.” His eyes met yours in their sincerity.

“You know I won’t stop you,” you breathed, the words coming out feminine and needy.

“We got a deal?” he said anyway.

You nodded. And because you remembered he preferred you to say it aloud, “Yes.” Then he pushed your chemise up and over your breasts, over your head and arms until he was dragging it all away. All your hesitation and inexperience, gone. All of it lost in the wake of his want of you.

He immediately brought his mouth down to your nipple, the feeling of warmth it brought just like last time. You’d forgotten how perfect it felt. You brought your hand to the back of his head, playing with the short strands as your mouth fell open in pleasure. He was moving against you this time, his heavy body lining against yours in a way that drove you mad.

You let out a moan at a particularly harsh swirl of his tongue, then did it again when his free hand found your other breast. God above, you could feel this for an eternity and never tire of it. But this wasn’t just about you.

Your hand slid down his muscled back, down until it reached the edge of his union suit. You wanted it off. Wanted him bare, completely.

You started to tug at the fabric when Arthur’s hands shifted, and his mouth moved away just enough for him to get his balance as he stripped his remaining clothes away. You watched him in awe. You watched as he turned slightly to get the union suit over his feet, the sight of his bare side so muscled and strong like the rest of him wholly distracting. But it wasn’t until he turned back toward you that your gaze caught and held. You could feel his eyes on you, could sense his amusement in his resulting chuckle, but you didn’t care. What you had touched before between his legs was now free of any clothing, a hard line of muscle just like the rest of him that stood erect against his body. The sight alone swallowed you in arousal.

He clambered closer, beginning to speak. “You-”

Your hand was around that proud length before he could say another word. He hissed a breath at your touch, and you quickly let go, thinking you’d done something wrong.

“Christ, woman,” he mumbled, nearly falling on top of you in his fervor to kiss you again.

“I’m sorry,” you said into his mouth, not knowing what it was you’d been trying, only that you couldn’t resist.

He pulled away and looked into your eyes, his gaze full and heavy as the smirk beneath it. “Shit, don’t apologize. I’d prefer you did it again if it wouldn’t cut this meetin’ so short.”

You were more confused by that than anything but didn’t respond, especially when he leaned down to kiss you and you felt that length against your thigh, hard and impossible to ignore.

You moaned into his mouth, feeling his hand begin to skim down your side. His fingers brushed over the bumpy, scarred skin near your ribs and hesitated. He broke away, looking down at the scar he had mended back together himself. His fingers ran across it, caressing it. A wordless apology for what had happened to you. The touch made conflicting emotions fight to be free from deep within you. Because the scar was a painful reminder of what would never go away, a loss so potent you could cry over it even now. But you wouldn’t, because you were equally as enthralled with Arthur’s loving touch, with how he had stitched you back together both physically and emotionally. He was still doing it to this day. And the touch was a tangible reminder—how much he would surrender himself over to you just to make you somewhat whole again. Something you’d never thought you would be gifted by him but, you were beginning to learn, something he did naturally. Kind, selfless man.

Arthur brought his mouth down to your side and pressed a kiss to that scar, tender and patient. It nearly brought tears to your eyes.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, needing to put your thoughts elsewhere. Needing him to put the pieces of you back together again one more time.

He obliged you. All sadness was lost as his hand drifted downward and between your legs, a blazing heat taking its place. Just like before, he worked his fingers against you as a slickness gathered there, urging you to rock against him. And you did, a bundle of anticipation over waiting for what you had felt last time—his finger sliding inside of you. But he took his time and circled his thumb around those nerves again, making you arch into his touch.

After enough of this, it turned into a pleasurable sort of torture. You broke the kiss. “Arthur,” you warned, though it sounded more like begging. And perhaps you were.

He let out a low laugh that caught on every inch of your arousal. “Just making sure you’re ready for me. Don’t want to hurt you, darlin’.”

Darling. How endearing. Now that was a nickname you could grow used to.

You considered what else he’d said and remembered that slight feeling of discomfort at his finger moving inside of you, like your body wasn’t used to such things. But you also remembered how good it felt to get beyond that feeling, that and his chosen nickname enough to have you wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging him back down in a kiss. He let out a low noise this time, more of a satisfied breath. And it was enough to have your tongue finding his as his finger dipped inside of you. You froze, completely focused on the feeling. Arthur took control of the kiss, of everything, as he moved his hand against you. You were breathing heavy in seconds, the feeling beyond satisfaction.

After enough of this for that curling feeling to take hold deep within you, he slipped another finger into you. You were wrong before. That was beyond satisfaction. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you couldn’t kiss him anymore as you rocked against his hand, completely caught up in those thick fingers moving so persistently. He didn’t miss a beat, his mouth going to your neck instead, pressing hot kisses to the spot just below your ear as you panted for him.

The feeling from before, that explosive feeling you so wanted to experience again, was nearing. “Please,” you whispered, desperate for it. But before Arthur could drag it out of you, his fingers were slipping away. You nearly whimpered at the loss, looking down to see why he’d stopped. Your heartbeat pounded through you, right between your legs, when you saw where he moved. He was settling between your legs, the hard length of him running against the inside of your thigh. And you understood then exactly what this was, what you had asked of him and what he was about to do. To be fit together so perfectly, so completely, that there was no beginning or end between you.

He met your eyes, boxing you in completely beneath his heavy body. “You sure you want this?” His voice was rough with his own arousal.

“Desperately,” you breathed.

That made him smirk, the look of it so perfect on his face you wanted to kiss it away. But he beat you to it, his mouth coming down on yours. And in seconds, his full weight was against your body, and he pushed his hips into yours until you felt the head of his length slip inside of you. You moaned, your head falling back to the bed with how perfect and full it felt, and Arthur grunted as his hands found your head and he devoured you in a kiss, his hips moving slowly and carefully, in and out as shallowly as he could.

You couldn’t get air down but didn’t care as the feeling of him moving inside of you stretched you wide. He went deeper with every rock of his hips, the small bout of pain returning like it had before, but you didn’t stop him. Wouldn’t dare. It was more pleasurable than it was harsh, and besides, it was doing things to him, not just you. Things you wanted to hear and feel from him every moment. He was as lost as you were, beginning to pick up his pace as his mouth on yours became distracted.

You were soon both panting, both riding on pleasure so full and growing fuller the deeper he rocked into you. He finally broke the kiss, bearing all focus on where your bodies met. By now he was so deep inside of you it was impossible to think of him never not being there, like he belonged there. And the thought alone of him taking you like this, making you his, was forcing that tension deep within you to ratchet up at every thrust.

You whined his name. He groaned low and rough in response, shifting his hands to your hips to hold you steady beneath him as he thrust hard. It felt so good you knew you would be unraveling again in seconds. And, to add to that perfect build, you brought one leg up and hooked it around him, making for a better angle for him to sink into you. It was immediately euphoric.

“Y/N,” he groaned, a desperate plea.

And that—the power in that utterance, your name on his lips—was your undoing.

You let out a small cry as your pleasure snapped in two.

He cursed a filthy word, and your world constricted to the feel of him inside of you, rocking those beautiful hips, pulling every ounce of pleasure your body could give. It shot through every part of you. It tore you apart and put you back together all at once. Just like his fondness for you did.

You were letting out one long whine for him when your senses came back. And, you realized, he was saying something. Your name. He was saying your name like a prayer. Never in your life were you so proud for someone to have it, for someone to use it in this way. So reverent and honored by it, like it was a gift to know it and a privilege to speak it.

You loved him then. You were sure of it.

Arthur’s pace stuttered a moment before a breath rattled through his chest and he pulled back, sliding out of you. He half-collapsed on top of you, something warm and wet meeting the skin of your stomach as he groaned like a man utterly unraveled. You knew then he was experiencing the same pleasure you just had. Knowing you’d both felt it, together, because of each other…you were so proud that the feeling fought to be free from your chest.

Arthur drew in each labored breath above you, only propped up by one strong forearm now. The other fell lazily over you as he held the side of your face like he would never release you again. His hair fell over his gaze, and only when he looked up at you did you smile. Just for him.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured, running his thumb along your cheekbone as he went back to attempting to control his breathing.

You blushed under those words but pushed through the flattered feeling it brought you and said what you couldn’t resist. “Was that- was I…okay?”

He scoffed a laugh. “You kidding?”

“I don’t exactly know what I’m doing-”

He cut you off with a less than innocent kiss and pulled back with that smirk on his face. “You were perfect.” He rolled to his back beside you, the bed creaking with his weight. Still, he sucked down air like he couldn’t catch it. That proudness of yours reared its head again at the sound. “So perfect,” he continued, “That I’m gonna need to do it all over again just to be sure it’s as perfect as I remember.”

Now that, you could get behind. Those muscles low in your belly were already tightening at the mere mention of again. But before you could turn to him and coax him into repeating the act, he was leaning over the side of the bed, his strong back flexing with the movement. The sound of his satchel opening and shutting filled the room, and then he had a black cloth in his hand and was touching it to your belly. Right—you’d forgotten about that wetness from before, and now you watched as he wiped whatever it was away.

“What’s that?” you had the courage to ask.

Arthur’s eyes flicked up to yours, and that incessant smirk returned. “‘Course,” he said, swiping the last of it away and tossing the cloth aside. “Forgot you knew as much about this as I do about living up in them mountains.”

“Very funny.”

He snickered. “It’s…well. When a man finds his pleasure, that’s what happens.” His expression filled with amusement as he shifted to his side, propping up on an elbow. “You don’t know nothing about this, do you? About being with child?”

You shook your head. “I figured sex leads to pregnancy, but I’ve never really thought past that.” And suddenly, the very idea had worry blooming sharp and fierce within you. “I won’t…I’m not going to get pregnant, am I?”

He snickered again and shook his head more with amusement than any sort of affirmation. “No, you won’t.”

“How are you so sure-”

“Relax,” he teased, drawing the word out. “The only way that could happen is if I’d done that inside of you.”

You felt Arthur’s smirking stare like a brand then, because just those words had your arousal flaring. Did part of you…want that?

You must have made a face, because Arthur pushed you on it. “What?”

“Nothing,” you insisted.

He chuckled, the sound making you turn away or risk admitting that particular genius.

“Can’t lie to me, darlin’.”

There was that word again. You turned back to him, finding you were watching his mouth of all things. “You finally landed on a decent nickname, then.”

“You like that one?”

God, his smile. The way he said those words. You were a mess of fondness over his annoyingly handsome face when you quipped, “Much better than the others.”

“What, nameless or sweetheart?”

You swatted at his bare chest and immediately regretted it when your hand met with hard muscle. “Damn you,” you muttered, but you were smiling as you said it. Stupid, perfect man. He smiled right back.

“At least you never have to call me nameless again,” you offered.

His smile turned thoughtful. Content. “No. I don’t.”

You remembered then how he had said your name before. It ate you up inside to think he had only used it in the moments that mattered most. The first time being when you’d offered it to him, something that led to your walls coming down right alongside his. Then moments ago, giving up the last pieces of yourselves to each other. And maybe that’s what that utterance had been to him—a surrender. The damning truth that you both felt too strongly to shy away from it any longer. There was no more space for reluctance to stay. There was no more time for it either.

You recalled your request before all this, asking him to stay with you. He’d never answered, but when he said your name with so much care, any worry about the matter vanished. Because there was love in that word. He felt for you just as you felt for him. And that was more answer than anything else he could have said because he had used the perfect word to make you understand—the word most important to you of any of them. Not a yes, but a confession. Not an acceptance, but a name. The one word you had left to hold dear. And looking at him now smiling down at you, you felt that fondness and understanding from him better than you’d ever felt it from anyone.

Instead of any response, you kissed him. Acceptance in your own form. And just as soft and supple as a yes on his lips, he kissed you back.

_________

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445 @meet-me-backstage @marygillisapologist @formula1mount @oziozzioslo @lunawolfclaw @c1gs-coffee

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing #nsft #lemon fanfic

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flowercrowngods · 22 hours

Text

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

#i needed to project my real people emotions i have about michael bruce onto steve okay #does this qualify as a missing scene? they all have trauma they deserve a missing scene about it #this is nothing really it just fucks me up :)#steve harrington #dio words #listen the michael bruce poems are on archive.org like the whole book pls do yourselves a favour and read some good fucking poetry 😭😭#my man was 21 when he died okay :(#next poet for steve to discover is henry kirke white okay i’m just all over the forgotten Romantics who died too young now #stranger things fanfic #also this is not nearly as poetic as it deserves to be but my brain is too out of it lately whoops

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googleitlol · 17 hours

Note

Two questions! Well, one’s more like a prompt/scenario, but I’m still saying it!

Do you have any plans on getting back to your “The Memory of You” fanfic in the future? Because I’m a certified Macaque wimp (right there with Wukong) and I’m dying to know everything that happened between him and Lian!😭

And second:

I just got myself Black Myth Wukong brainrot and I randomly thought of a situation where Dove would wake up from a nightmare about Wukong’s death, and she instinctively places a hand over the Destined One’s heart to hear it beating because of his resemblance and everything. And the Destined One just helps hold her hand to his chest and resting his own hand over hers until she calms down🥲💘💞

1) Omg tbh I didn't realise ppl were still reading that one! I'm focusing on PoM rn so I don't think I'll be getting to it anytime soon unfortunately. I do wanna continue it tho, and rewrite some stuff too! My google doc is so big for TMoY that if you wanted, I could totally answer some asks about it. Since I'm focusing on Dove and Wukong rn, I wouldn't mind sharing some secrets about Lian and Macaque's past (I will yap so much abt them, I love Lian she's my sweetheart).

I also took a break from writing that fic because, uhhhhh… I had only seen part of season 4 when I started writing the backstory for Lian, did some research into chinese mythology and legends I could pull from… then after posting a bunch of chapters, I watched the rest and realised I accidentally made her backstory/creation extremely similar to someone else (if you're caught up on the show, you'll know who I'm talking about). They both involve, uh… similar people?? So I got spooked and decided to wait a bit to see if that character's backstory would be like what I'd written for Lian and… it's starts out very similar 💀

But honestly, I think I'm gonna keep it the same cuz I love Lian, and I love the story I've made for her and Macaque. So if you've got any questions abt them, I'd be happy to answer until I shift my focus back onto TMoY.

2) Oh, and… my god. I love this idea of yours. That dream. Hoo boy, that dream. I love it when people understand the sort of angst I wanna put Dove under. Running to her love, knowing what's about to happen but too far to stop it. Maybe if he saw her, if he knew she was coming, maybe he'd still be there. But no matter how much her throat scratches as she screams, no sound is made. No matter how fast she runs, how far she pushes herself, nothing changes.

The Destined One frowns, he's seen her like this on so many nights. There's something that's plaguing her… he just doesn't know what. She shuts him down at any and all moments he has to inquire about her night-terrors. Still, he's found a subtle way to help in the best way he can. After one night where she reached out for him and he let her hand press against his chest, he noticed how she calmed a bit.

That becomes their nightly ritual. Whenever he notices how she starts to mumble in her sleep, shout and cry, he'll cuddle up next to her and hold her in his arms. He'll keep her head pressed against his chest so she can hear his heart– that always calms her down. As long as she has something, her hand or even an ear pressed to his heart, she'll calm down. Maybe the first few nights he started doing this, she'd cuddle up to him a bit. He'd be awkward about it at first, but eventually grow used to it. After a while, he'd find that he actually really enjoys spending those nights with Dove in his arms.

#black myth wukong #sun wukong x reader #macaque x oc #lego monkie kid #the memory of you #peace of mind #pom #little dove asks

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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 day

Text

Why Not Us?

CW: Memories of mass murder, some internalized dehumanization, survivor’s guilt

Misae made it to the little bedroom before the moon rose, thankfully. He nearly tripped over the strange mattress on the floor, the one they’d blown up with air and then thrown blankets and pillows on. It was meant to be his bed, he thought, which made sense.

Anaya might let him on the real bed, but not to sleep. Wolves, like dogs, slept on the floor. It would be lonely, but it would make sense. Almost nothing did, now. Sitting in chairs, eating pizza instead of having to shift to eat the raw meat thrown into the kennels, wearing clothes and being asked if he would like something to drink… they didn’t seem to know what he was, to understand.

He could hear them now, Eden, Anaya, and Vanessa, from down the hall. They talked and laughed, and Misae felt hollowed out at the sound, wishing he could be there with them.

Maybe there would be more pizza.

He laid one hand on his stomach. It felt… almost rounded. He’d never eaten so much or so well, not in all the life he had lived. He hadn’t had to fight over any of it, either. There hadn’t been the need to snarl and posture, or crawl on his belly and lick at an older wolf’s mouth, hoping they’d give him a few scraps out of pity or some dim affection.

The moon’s slow rise made him restless, bouncing on his toes as he tried to decide where he could safely change. The room was small, but he could fit under the big bed if he was smart about it.

But then the humans would get into the bed, and if the mattress dipped low it might force him back out.

The call to shift prickled under his skin, and Misae stripped his shirt and pants off before it could take hold and leave him confused and trapped in the cloth. He tossed the sweatpants and shirt onto the bed just as he felt his spine begin to bend.

It always felt so good, when the shift started. Like waking up after a good sleep, coming back to where you belonged. He had always been meant to walk on four legs, and the human side was only what he was allowed for good behavior.

He leaned over, a sensation like goosebumps running up and down his arms and legs, setting his hair on end. The healing wound in his leg throbbed but some of the pain felt more distant as he changed.

It wasn’t that the wound disappeared, it was only that his wolf body knew how it felt to be injured with silver far better than his human body did. It knew how to ignore the pain, how to keep moving, because to let the pain take you was to be singled out to die. Wolves who were too hurt to keep going were wolves that starved, his instincts knew it. Wolves who starved died.

Everyone died anyway. It hadn't mattered how good they were when Bill didn't want them any longer.

He shuddered and shoved that thought aside. He couldn’t think about his family, not now. It would overtake him and he’d just be trapped in the grave in his mind, even if his body was here still breathing.

He couldn’t think about dozens of flat blank eyes, frozen in mute horror. He couldn’t think about the warmth still lingering in the stiffening bodies pressed all around him, about how Nina had tried to cover him and hide him from the shots even as she had been bleeding to death herself.

Had Nina been his real mother?

It was possible. Their fur was the same, their eyes were the same. But some of the other wolves had fur and eyes like his, too. But... maybe Nina had been his mother.

Maybe she had known it, if only at the end, and tried to save the one pup she could.

The humans had tried to ruin them to each other, make them hurtful and hateful, but the wolves had found a way to love, anyway. In secret, when it was safe, and at the end when nothing was safe and it didn’t matter any longer there was one more way to love that Bill couldn't take from them.

It made no difference if you loved when you would lose each other anyway. In the end, the werewolves had loved each other, and it hadn’t saved any of them.

Except him.

Misae closed his eyes, stretching his shifting muscles and forcing himself to leave the dead behind, for now anyway. For as long as he could.

Bones cracked and broke beneath his skin, painlessly reforming. Misae dropped to a crouch and leaned his weight forward on his hands, feeling bare, vulnerable fingers change to rougher paw pads and clicking nails. He stretched his front legs until the muscles stretched and burned and sighed, contented by the feeling.

Canine teeth lengthened and his ears grew. He twitched one just to feel it, exhaling a rough sigh as his tongue briefly lolled out. Fur spread over skin like a blanket, a little patchy but still warming his chilly body, and the bed on the floor called to him. He was tired, and the killing back at Bill’s house kept trying to worm its way past his moments of comfort and warmth in this new place, with these new people.

If he laid still, it would catch up with him, and he didn’t want Anaya or Eden to hear how wolves mourned, how they cried. He didn’t know if they would still comfort him then, or if they would turn angry at the sounds, or learn to hate him. Bill’s family hated the sound of the mourning wolves, beat them for their weeping in human form or for their howls as wolves.

Who knew what regular humans would do?

Misae only knew that Anaya and Eden had been kind, so far. But so had Aaron, sometimes - Bill’s youngest son had been known to scratch behind a wolf’s ears when none of the other humans were looking. Even Austin had once bandaged Misae’s leg after he’d gotten it caught in a fence and bled.

That didn’t make them any kinder when the werewolves broke the rules, rules no one ever said out loud but simply expected the wolves to learn by being beaten when they were broken until they figured them out. It had never stopped Austin from calling them all names, or laughing when they fought.

Human kindness always had limits.

Always.

Even as he became the first form he ever knew, the stalking werewolf that Bill had never been able to separate from the boy whose body the wolf shared, Misae knew he had to hide. Not from Anaya or Eden, who had already seen him as a wolf. Not because he feared them.

He had to hide because they didn’t know to fear him.

Misae’s nose turned black and scents exploded into the world around him. What had before been just the light smell of cleaning products and maybe a pumpkin-scented candle was now a collection of stories he could read in the air and along the ground. Vanessa had walked in here to set up the mattress, having forgotten to take her shoes off after getting the mail. Misae could smell the grass she had stepped on, scent the slight shift in her smell of frustration when it took a long time to get the air pump working to set up the mattress. He could smell, on the mattress, long months spent idle with no need to be used. The faintest smell of a camping trip, some time in the past - the last time the air mattress had been needed.

The way his sense of smell changed was always what gave away when it was time to find somewhere to hide, before the silver light could touch his fur and call to him. It would make him want to run, to howl and see if any other wolves were nearby to answer.

What would he do if they were?

He had known only his own family. He’d never seen any werewolves that didn’t huddle together in the kennels, fighting over the barest hints of kindness shown to them by Bill and his family. If he met a free wolf, he might simply lay down, show his belly, and wait for them to tear out his throat when they smelled the kennels on him.

Misae paced restlessly around the small room, limping and trying to keep weight off his injured leg, snuffling against the ground, tracing the hints of Eden and Anaya in here and then following the softer smell of Vanessa until he found the closet door was cracked open.

Perfect. Like a den.

He had to paw at it, whining softly with his ears flat against his head, looking nervously at the patch of moonlight that seemed to head inexorably in his direction. His heart raced beneath his fur at the sight.

Bill had always said, over and over again, never let the moonlight touch you. It was the only rule the humans told the werewolves, and taught to the pups before they were put into the main kennels. During the full moon, for three nights, they would huddle together inside big wooden boxes that formed a kind of den. Anyone caught outside the den, by Bill or by the cameras, would be punished.

It was the first thing Misae remembered learning, while still toddling around on four short legs, a few weeks after birth. Never let the moonlight touch you. He'd broken the rule running from the guns, from the grave of his family. He'd broken the rule running from Austin. But… that had been different, hadn’t it?

Hadn’t it?

Misae clambered clumsily over a pile of cardboard boxes, blowing harshly through his nose as things packed inside clattered around. He pushed at them with his snout until he had made for himself a sort of barrier, protecting him from the world outside this tiny space. He turned in a circle and then laid down, ears flat, shimmering amber-brown eyes watching the silvery light that cut across the bed through the open doorway.

Beneath his nose, soaked into the floorboards years ago, he could smell a hint of a rose perfume. Left by some other person, long before any of the familiar smells of Vanessa's life had entered this place.

The scent made him shudder, heart going cold.

Bill's wife Ada wore rose perfume.

The smell of roses, for the children in the puppy kennels, meant one of you might vanish that day. Ada sometimes took them, luring them out with treats and soft words until she could get the loop around their necks to pull tight, leading them on the leash inside.

She mostly brought them back, after sticking needles to take blood or give what she called 'medicine' that put the puppies to deep sleep and left them groggy and confused upon waking. She mostly brought them back.

But not always.

Rose perfume drifting on the air was sometimes all the warning they got before a pup disappeared.

The memories made him tremble and he whined softly, but quieted the sound as fast as he could. It was something all of them learned, not just how to hide from the moonlight but also how to be so quiet that none of the men and women inside the house could hear and think of them.

They all learned how to be, if only temporarily, forgotten.

Now Misae was the only left for Bill and his family to remember. He wondered if Bill would come for him, still. Try to find him. Or if, now that he'd outrun Austin, he'd let Misae go into a world where nobody was left to even love him in secret any longer.

It was Eden and Anaya he needed to hide from now. Not because they might hurt him, but because he might hurt them. Wolves were most dangerous when the moon was full, calling on their nonhuman blood.

It made them monsters - hungry, mindless killers.

Everyone knew that.

Bill made sure everyone knew that.

He watched the moonlight’s slow crawl along the small room until his eyes drifted shut and he dozed off, his tail flicking occasionally. Once the moon began to set in the morning, just as the sun rose, he’d be able to be a boy again. Until then, he could relax into the form he was far more comfortable in even if he had been painstakingly taught to fear what it was capable of.

He slept deeply enough to have fuzzy, formless dreams. He was beneath all of his family, trying to crawl out from under them. They called for him, cried for help, whined and whimpered and shouted and cursed.

The air was being slowly crushed out of him, and he desperately tried to get out from beneath the weight of their deaths, their memories.

He looked up to see straight down the barrel of Austin’s shotgun, the black within the metal circle, holding his death.

Found you, Austin said, softly. Time to go, Rusty.

Fingers touched the top of his head.

Misae?

He jolted awake and snapped out of sheer instinct, ears flat in a flash and teeth clicking together. He didn’t quite catch anything, but as his eyes opened, he saw Anaya looking down at him, eyes wide, her hand jerked back against her chest.

“Misae?” She repeated, voice a little shakier this time. She was wearing sleeping clothes, and Eden was just behind her, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had Misae looking in jealousy at skin only scarred along the underside of his chest, two odd half-circle shapes that didn’t mean anything to Misae’s mind. “Holy shit.”

“DId he bite you?” Eden asked, an edge to his voice. “Anaya, if he bit you-... isn’t that how it-... it spreads?”

Misae curled up tighter, whimpering, his heart picking back up into a pounding race that made him dizzy. He tucked his tail as tightly as he could and looked up with his chin pressed against the floor, licking at his chops nervously.

“Naya? Did he-”

“No, he didn’t,” Anaya replied, frowning back at Eden, before dropping into a crouch. “And we don’t know that that's how it spreads, or whatever. Or even if it does spread. Who even knows what’s real and what isn’t about werewolves?”

“Before yesterday, I would have told you nothing is real about werewolves,” Eden said, hovering behind her.

“And you would have been wrong, wouldn't you. Besides, he was asleep. I woke him up, that’s on me, not him. Hey, Misae. Hey there, honey.” Her voice softened, and she shoved some of Misae’s barrier of boxes aside, until she could hold out her hand and lay it down with knuckles on floor and palm facing up, between them. “It’s okay, honey. It’s just me. Are you good? We were worried when we didn’t see where you’d gone. You were making some noise in here, I thought maybe something was wrong.”

Misae’s nose twitched. He eased forward, belly to the ground, until he could slowly lay his chin in her palm. She let one finger gently scratch at the soft fur there and he whined.

“He’s okay,” Anaya whispered. “I scared you, huh? You were having bad dreams, I bet. Don't blame you, this has been a really weird day. Just... the weirdest. Can I ask why you're here in the closet?”

“There’s a joke about being a closeted werewolf in there somewhere, but I’m honestly not awake enough to make it,” Eden said, but he moved back until he could sit on the bed. He didn’t quite relax, not yet, but the space helped Misae to feel a little safer. Eden didn’t look - or smell - angry.

“Oh, shut up,” Anaya said, rolling her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. She wasn’t angry, either. “And don’t spend all night coming up with it, either. I don’t want to hear it when we wake up.”

“Well, now I have to come up with something. I have to come up with something and have it be the literal first thing I say to you when we wake up,” Eden teased, flopping himself backwards onto the bed and wriggling under the blankets, sighing happily when he was covered up. “Oh, this comforter weighs a ton. Perfect.”

“For someone who likes to sleep in the absolute wilderness like a caveman, you sure love a weighted blanket.” Anaya snorted.

"If I'm a caveman, that means you like a caveman." Eden grinned. "Ha ha, you're in love with a Neanderthal," He sing-songed. Anaya threw up a middle finger over her shoulder in his general direction, and Eden's smile only widened.

Misae wondered what a Nee-ander-tal was as his eyes flicked to the side, taking in the window, looking for the moonlight. To his relief, the curtains were closed.

The room was dark, now, except for a small lamp they’d turned on by the bed. There was no chance of the moon catching at his fur, calling him to hunt, to rip and tear and rend.

Misae pushed himself slowly onto his feet, ignoring his throbbing back leg. Anaya smiled at him, and it felt like a reward. His heart beat faster for new reasons, and he followed her as she eased back and away from the closet, pushing past the boxes.

When Anaya sat on the air mattress on the floor, Misae moved slowly onto it as well until he could lick at the corners of her mouth with his tail tucked underneath him. She laughed and pushed lightly at him, and he moved to lay on his side, paws curled to show her his stomach, baring his vulnerable throat.

“He likes you,” Eden commented idly from up on the bed. “Pretty sure that’s wolf for ‘you’re cool, let’s be buds.’ Also I think it means he thinks you're in charge."

"I am in charge," Anaya said, voice haughty, but there was laughter lining every word. "It's good that both you boys know it."

Misae shifted back onto his stomach and curled back up until his tail covered his nose. Anaya smiled at the sight, reaching out to scratch the top of his head. Misae sighed, eyes drifting closed again. He relaxed under the gentle affection. “There you go. All right, what matters is that you're okay. Let’s try to get some sleep, yeah? All three of us.”

He watched her stand up, ears drooping as she climbed into the real bed, next to Eden. He watched her get under the blanket, laying next to Eden. He laid on the floor where wolves belonged, missing the warmth of his family. Missing the den. Alone, here, on the ground. Werewolves weren't meant to be alone - he knew that, not from Bill or Austin but from how perfect it had felt in the den, in the kennels, when they were all together.

Anaya turned off the lamp, and darkness overtook the room.

The humans, he thought, would be blind in the dark. Misae could see everything, though. He could see the silvery moonlight held back by the curtains, could see Eden’s chest rise and fall, slowing as he slipped into sleep. He could see that Anaya stayed awake a while longer.

He listened to her breathing, holding back his whimpers until it slowed and deepened and he knew he wouldn't wake her. He could lay here, alone.

Well.

Not entirely alone.

His family was here, even if they weren’t. They would never leave him, not fully, not all the way. Even now he could feel them nosing around him trying to find a comfortable spot. He knew the pressure of their bodies around him like he knew his own paws. He could feel their chill breath on his neck, the soft nuzzle of affection that he would never really feel again. He could sense snuffles and whines, jostles for position that sometimes ended with playful snarling and rumbling growls. He could feel Nina’s weight on top of him. Feel her body jerk with the shots she had taken that he hadn’t. He could hear them, in his heart, howling just outside the little house.

He could hear their cries, begging him to join them. He should have slept for the last time in the big grave with the rest of them. He had been meant to die with his family. He wasn't the fastest in his family, the smartest, the best hunter. He wasn't anything better than anyone else.

There was no reason for him to survive, no special ability or way of being he had that made him deserve this bed with its soft blankets when everyone he loved was quiet and cold in the ground, covered in dirt and decomposing now.

He hadn’t deserved to meet kind humans. He didn’t deserve to eat pizza until his stomach ached and sit in chairs. He didn't deserve hot water to clean the dirt and blood from his skin. Others in his pack had deserved it so much more, and they had been given silver bullets instead, and now...

Now Misae was the only one left who remembered them.

He closed his eyes against the way the darkness wanted to change shape, to make him see his dead family with all the blood and bullets. He listened to their wistful, spectral howls, just outside the window. Calling and calling and calling, crying to him and to each other.

Why you? Why not us, instead? Why not the little pups, why not the mothers, why not the older wolves who had been good for so long? You were never all that good. What about you deserved to live? Why not us?

Why was it you?

Anaya and Eden slept together.

Misae slept with ghosts.

@finder-of-rings @burtlederp @deluxewhump @scoundrelwithboba @shrimpwritings

@yassifiedinformation @wildfaewhump @whatwhump @honeycollectswhump @tundra-tiger

@dont-look-me-in-the-eye @there-will-always-be-blood @fangedcinnamonroll @pigeonwhumps @yassifiedinformation

#bleeding by moonlight fic #whump #whump writing #escaped whumpee #runaway whumpee #caretakers and whumpee #internalized dehumanization #werewolf #werewolves #werewolf writing #werewolf fiction #original fiction #original story #urban fantasy #referenced mass murder #survivor's guilt #nightmares tw #referenced child abuse tw

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witchofsparkles · 3 days

Text

Ghost was not having a very good day. It wasn’t the job in particular because it was expected of him to be used to it by now after 15 years of service; it was because the man right next to him grinning ear to ear as if he didn't just come out of a bloody combat with explosives, terrorists and flying limbs. The limbs were not belong to them, god bless, but especially the explosives were their doing.

Not theirs as a team, but the man who has a nasty smile's.

The explosives belonged to the reason of his headache for months, Soap.

Ghost tried not to fall for Soap's banter, but his mouth didn't know better. Even though he couldn’t even hear what the man was saying, Ghost replied sarcastically. "Yeah, Johnny. Sure, whatever you say."

What other answer there that could be said to everything? Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just please stop talking.

"You do think I'm pretty? Oh, that’s flattering. Thank you, sir. Please write that in the report so Price can see my charm too. It would work better coming from you, the big man with the mask." Ghost almost tripped down from the heli and crashed onto the mountains thousands fits down and at that moment he didn't think he would mind a good head trauma with a highly possible death.

He though to put a stop to it, to ruin the mood, but decided against. Ghost couldn’t avert his gaze fast enough, and his eyes locked with Soap for a split second. The carefree smile Soap sent to Ghost made his stomach flutter.

And Ghost would drink bleach if he knew it would kill the butterflies in his stomach.

Yeah, there was another reason for his headache and bad times in general.

Ghost was down bad in love with his Sergeant, John MacTavish.

Ghost watched Soap walking into the base with the other soldiers, laughing loudly and looking all hot in bloody gear. Ghost just stood next to the heli silently, tried to appear like he was busy with something, and checked Soap's back out. Ghost knew he wasn’t injured or anything, but who could be sure? In the heat of the war, blood full of adrenalin, everybody could make mistakes.

The reason of his gaze was purely professional and had nothing to do with how Soap's ass was moving with his every step. Totally.

"You might wanna take your chances, you know that right?" Ghost almost jumped out of his skin and his hand went to his knife reflexively.

"You know better to not sneak up on me, Price." Ghost relaxed his stance and put the knife back. Price was smiling at him.

"And I know that I can give you a very hard time if we had to fight. Anyway. You pray that there's a mask on your face. With how obvious you're about staring at Johnny, even my dead mom can come up and laugh at you."

Ghost inhaled sharply. "You call him Johnny again, we will see about that fight."

A laugh escaped Price. "God. Calm down, son. No one's taking him. Fine, I won't call him that. Jesus."

Ghost rolled his eyes. He wasn’t feeling like talking and yet he couldn’t shut up today. Also, he didn't want to think about Price's implication. "Why are you here? I was coming to report."

Price stroked his mustache, and that made Ghost's stomach drop with worry. "Why is your hand on your mustache? Who died?"

Price threw him a dirty look. "Why do everyone think like that when they see me? No one died. Not yet. And hopefully never. I changed my mind. You go rest, we will talk later when all of you available."

"You said no one died, yet. Why don't we talk now?" Ghost's knuckles were white from holding his west so hard. Something bad happened, he knew it.

Price stared at him again, a little longer than a second. "It's nothing out of ordinary. Just our everyday madness. You look like shit, and Soap looked like shit. If the only sane one is Gaz among you, I fear everyone will die. So, go rest. I will call you when you can open both of your eyes at will."

Ghost couldn’t sleep. It was expected, after how Price teased him with an apocalypse. In his mind, at least. If he didn't think the worst could happen, he wouldn’t be Ghost. He was so tense that Ghost thought his skin was gonna tear apart. His headache from the explosions was worse, and every single one of his muscles were hurting.

All stopped when he saw Johnny sitting at where Ghost was usually sitting. It was his secret place, a tiny corner with no noise and just darkness. The place he would come when the sleep didn't.

"Why are you here?" Ghost would love it if he didn't sound like a goddamn incubus.

Soap jumped, expectedly. Turned to him sharply, then took a deep breath when he saw who was it. "You almost had to file a suspicious dead report on me. Stop creating work for yourself."

Ghost snickered, that’s how his Johnny was. He was acting like a class clown, but Ghost wasn’t believing in that. All that laughing and joking, it was almost impossible in this job. When all you could see was the dead, your voice was turning into a whisper.

It was sadness that consumes you.

"It would take a lot more to kill you, Johnny." Ghost's voice was always deep, but for some reason it deepened. Like he was sharing a secret. Almost a whisper.

Johnny's eyes shimmered under the dim lights. They looked like stars for a moment, then Ghost corrected himself. Not stars, explosions. Fireworks.

"Is everything okay? Why don't you sleep? Were you thinking about something?" Johnny was looking up to him from where he was sitting, and Ghost was looking down. He wanted to take Johnny's face between his hands and brush the stubble at the corner of his mouth. He wanted to crash into his lips, taste him with his tongue, just sweep it across Johnny's lips and inside his mouth, feel the hot wetness of his saliva around his own tongue, to get Johnny's tongue in his mouth and crowd him in, to be able to get a fistful of Johnny's stupid mohawk while kissing with a lust that would shame Jesus himself that he would have to look away, he wanted to touch Johnny's every bit on his back and kiss him from his neck to down his happy trail, he wanted to be able to touch at the tip of him with just only a finger and make him moan for more-

"I was thinking about you."

Rest is on ao3:

#ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #mw2 #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod ghost #cod soap #simon riley #simon ghost riley #john mactavish #john soap mactavish #fanfic #fanfiction #fiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

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catherinetheprincessofwales · 1 day

Text

James Middleton: Kate, William and the dog that saved my life. The younger brother of the Princess of Wales was so depressed he came close to killing himself. Then Ella, his faithful cocker spaniel, stepped in — and even found him a wife. He tells Matt Rudd about his ‘waste of money’ education, family therapy and the help Prince William gave him. The Sunday Times, 22 Sep 2024.

I’m in a cottage on a farm with the brother of the Princess of Wales and his eyes are filling with tears. He has a cocker spaniel called Luna on his lap and I have a cocker spaniel called Inka on my lap. Both dogs are looking anxiously at their owner as he tries to tell me about the death of their mother, Ella. It could be a bit awkward when a man you’ve only just met starts getting very emotional about a dog that died nearly two years ago. Instead it’s the moment I realise James Middleton isn’t exaggerating. A dog really did save his life.

On a winter’s night in late 2017, Middleton climbed a ladder to the roof above his parents’ flat in Chelsea and contemplated suicide. Overwhelmed by feelings of failure, he had decided that the labour of living was no longer worth the effort. As his thoughts spiralled, it was only the sight of Ella, watching him carefully through the skylight, that gave him pause. How could he leave her, he wondered.

Over weeks and months Middleton had isolated himself from family and friends, ignoring increasingly desperate phone calls and texts. When his sister Pippa came to the door, he would hide in his room. When he tried to go to work, he got as far as the car park and then drove home again.

“I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t sleep, I was constantly agitated,” he says. “If I sat down I had to stand up again immediately. I couldn’t eat because I felt constantly as if I were about to throw up. What was most challenging was that I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. It wasn’t living, it was just existing in this awful state of anxiety.”

As his mental health crisis deepened, it was only Ella and the routine of looking after her that kept him going. “I was never alone in a time when I felt very lonely,” he says, stroking Inka’s ears. “I’m surprised there weren’t marks on the carpet from the laps I was doing, but she would sort of get in the way. It was a silent interruption, but for a fraction of a second it would stop the spiralling. “Something was taking over my mind, but not knowing what it was made it very difficult to talk about. And I didn’t feel as though I had a right to be depressed because I’ve had everything, because I am privileged.”

We are meeting today, I should mention, at Bucklebury Farm Park, a genteel sheep-petting outfit plus farm shop (excellent organic pesto) at the more desirable end of Berkshire. It is owned by his sister Pippa Matthews née Middleton and her hedgie husband, James, who is, among other things, the next laird of Glen Affric. Carole and Michael Middleton, parents to James, Pippa and Catherine, live in a manor house a stone’s throw away and Middleton’s own farm, which he bought from the parents of a prep school friend mid-pandemic, is a mile over there. It’s quite the empire.

Now married to the French financier Alizée Thevenet and father to 11-month-old Inigo, Middleton is happy to talk about his annus horribilis and his dog-assisted recovery. He does so at book-length in Meet Ella: The Dog Who Saved My Life. But it’s a good question: what does someone born into such wealth and privilege have to be depressed about?

The roots of his 2017 crisis can be found, like most roots of crises, in childhood. Born in 1987, the same year his mother set up the mail-order company Party Pieces, he followed his two older sisters to Marlborough. If the prestigious boarding school demanded academic excellence and his parents expected it, both were to be disappointed. Diagnosed with dyslexia then, and with attention deficit disorder when he finally sought help in 2017, he struggled where his sisters had excelled.

“School is about comparing yourself to others,” he says, recalling how he would avoid friends phoning to compare exam results in the summer holidays. “I didn’t feel despair when I failed because it happened so often, but I was embarrassed. I felt let down because I didn’t think that those results properly represented me.”

In the early chapters of the book he charts his struggles with expectation — his mother is frequently in tears, his father just as frequently exasperated. Even without VAT, it must have taken a large chunk of the trust fund established by Michael’s grandmother, the heiress Olive Middleton, to put his son through Marlborough. When that son had to spend a gap year retaking his A-level chemistry four times, a “humiliating record” for the school, he tells him his education was “a waste of money”.

Although today Middleton studiously avoids criticising his school or his beloved parents — he learnt valuable survival skills at Marlborough, he tells me, and “Mum and Dad just wanted the best for me” — the pressure was clearly intense. He sought escape from that pressure in nature and in dogs. “I was an outcast … alienated from my classmates,” he writes. “But dogs never judged me. Mum asked repeatedly if I wanted to bring friends home to stay at weekends. But truthfully all I wanted to do was to see Tilly.”

Tilly was the family’s golden retriever, but from an early age Middleton was desperate for his own dog. His parents, on the other hand, continued to be desperate for him to succeed. And so, after that long summer of resits, he squeaked into Edinburgh University, choosing criminology, environmental studies and geography modules because he was “pretty certain they would all be multiple choice”. They weren’t, of course, and he failed his first-year exams. More crying from Mum, more exasperation from Dad, more solace from a dog, this time his own.

“For all my reservations, I shall be eternally grateful for the time I spent in Edinburgh because it is thanks to Ben, a university friend, that I find my adored dog Ella,” he writes, introducing us to the dog that saved his life. Despite his best efforts, puppies and student life are not compatible, and when he was banned from bringing Ella to lectures he finally abandoned his studies. “I knew that if I left university I’d be responsible for that decision,” he says. “It was a big step, but I had Ella with me, as my companion and my responsibility.”

Middleton’s story is not exactly Angela’s Ashes. When he announces that he is ditching his degree to become an entrepreneur in London, he is cut off, he tells us, from the Bank of Mum and Dad, but he can still move in with his sisters at the family’s flat in Chelsea. His uncle Gary Goldsmith, he of Celebrity Big Brother 2024 notoriety, is also on hand to invest in his cake kit start-up. Nobody in this story is going to find themselves on the street.

But cynics desist! Don’t underestimate the impact of parental expectation, nor of not conforming to the traditional model of success. Middleton, anxious and increasingly socially uncomfortable, had left his friends in Edinburgh and washed up in London with his dog.

“She was my shield,” he says. “Through her I could enjoy things. I could take her for a walk and see what she was seeing. I process a lot of things in my mind and that can be overwhelming, but she helped me open my eyes and realise everything was OK.”

There are, I’m sure, many advantages to being royal adjacent, but when his sister Catherine started dating Prince William in 2004, Middleton found the level of media interest “shocking”. A young man who used his dog as an excuse to leave parties early was not equipped for the spotlight, for stepping out of the flat into a sea of flashing cameras.

“I’d never seen a royal wedding,” he says, rather sweetly. “There hadn’t been one in my lifetime. Not a big one anyway. I wasn’t aware of the scale or the global interest. I just felt privileged that my sister was asking me to do it, and it meant something to her. I wanted to make sure I did it.”

His description of the intense amount of practice he put in to the reading is like a potted version of The King’s Speech — he stutters, he stumbles, he takes lessons with the voice coach Anthony Gordon Lennox, he reads nervously and then more confidently to an audience of one dog — Ella, of course — in Chelsea Old Church. And then it’s the big day. “Really, the build-up to Catherine’s wedding was no different to Pippa’s or other friends’ weddings,” he says, unbelievably. Just the family, 1,900 guests, Her Majesty, an archbishop and a few world leaders. Watching the recording back today, there’s no hint of nerves — Middleton, 24 at the time, gives a bravura performance. Afterwards an American production company wrote to ask if he’d like to star in his own film — their opening offer was $1 million.

“They even ventured,” he writes wryly, “that members of my wider family might like to take part.” Middleton is not unaware of how everything is distorted by his proximity to royalty.

On the surface the next few years of Middleton’s life read like a Hello! magazine special — parties, holidays on Mustique, holidays in the Alps, a blossoming relationship with a glamorous older woman (the actress Donna Air, about whom his parents were hesitant because of the eight-year age gap), weekends at Sandringham (“Did you get my message, James?” the Queen asked the first time he visited. “Ella is welcome to stay in your room.”) But then came the night of despair in pyjamas on a Chelsea rooftop. Long sessions of cognitive behavioural therapy followed with a psychiatrist who was happy for Ella to attend too. She was, Middleton says, the only reason he kept going.

In December 2017, his mental health still fragile, he left London without telling anyone and holed up in a remote cottage in the Lake District. While his family grew frantic with worry, much to his irritation (“I’m a grown man”), he describes three days of elemental existence — fetching firewood and water, heating soup, walking Ella and her two pups. For the first time in a year he enjoyed a deep sleep and, in front of the fire after a wild swim with his dogs, he felt fleetingly happy.

“Dogs are amazing,” he says and all five of the dogs in the cottage with us — three spaniels and two beautiful golden retrievers — look delighted. “They do just sense things. Ella had been with me in every therapy session, she was always with me. I think we can learn from dogs. They’re not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. They’re not even thinking about the next couple of hours. They’re thinking about right now. I’m here, they’re here, in the moment.”

As Middleton’s recovery continued, he says his sisters understood — they both had friends who had depression — but his parents struggled. “They were uncomfortable with the fact that I’d been labelled ‘clinically depressed’,” he writes. “To people of their generation, I can understand why it was concerning. Society was only just starting to break through the stigma.”

The solution, in the end, was to invite the family to the therapy sessions. “I felt guilty because I knew they were worried,” he says. “They felt guilty because it’s really hard if you’re not able to help the people you love the most. I was finally understanding how I felt but I got nervous trying to translate that to my family without the help of an interpreter. When they came into the sessions they had the opportunity to ask questions that I couldn’t necessarily answer.”

In the 13 years since Catherine’s wedding Middleton’s hair has receded a little, but he now has a beard for balance — a little twirl of his moustaches and he could be a not-too-distant cousin of Tsar Nicholas II. He probably is — this generation of Middletons is not the first to hang out with royalty. He looks less bright and bushy-tailed than he did in 2011, but that might be fatherhood or the weekend with friends he has just returned from in Norfolk. Or it might simply be the passing of enough eventful years.

Whatever it is, he tells me he is now happy, which, given the depths of his depression, he still finds extraordinary. His idea of what constitutes success has changed — he is no longer motivated by money but by the things in life about which he is passionate. He doesn’t even like the word entrepreneur any more.

Having stepped away from Boomf, a marshmallow delivery company (Boomf is the sound a marshmallow makes falling from a letterbox), he started James & Ella, a “premium freeze-dried raw dog food” company in 2020. He clearly finds it easier to be passionate about dogs than marshmallows. But it’s in his personal life that the change has been most dramatic.

“I remember sitting in the therapist’s chair with Ella’s head on my lap, wondering how long it was going to take to get better,” he says. “But within a year I had met my future wife. And we’re now here with an 11-month-old son, living on a farm with six dogs. If someone had told me that would happen, I’d have been annoyed. It would have just seemed so ridiculous.”

He met Thevenet, 34, at a members club in South Kensington, west London, in 2018. Ella, having actively disapproved of several previous girlfriends, broke the ice by going over to her table. They married in the south of France in 2021 (a Hello! magazine world exclusive, naturally) and Ella was a flower girl. And everyone lived happily ever after.

Except, alas, the dog. It is one of life’s cruelties that man’s best friend has a much shorter life expectancy than man. Just asking Middleton about the death of Ella, early one Saturday in January 2023, makes him emotional. Despite being given two weeks to live the previous September, she had made it through Christmas, perhaps buoyed by the thought of one final week in the Alps. Of course Middleton was with her when she took her last breath at 3am. The whole family, including William and Catherine, gathered in his parents’ garden for what sounds like an extensive memorial on the Sunday.

“Saying goodbye to Ella was not just saying goodbye to her as a dog,” Middleton says. “It was everything I’d been through with her. She had arrived just as I was starting out in my twenties and she was leaving as I’d finally figured things out in my mid-thirties. She put me on the right path and I didn’t want another day from her. I didn’t want another hour. I would have loved it but I didn’t need it. “She was sent to me before I even knew I needed her, but she chose me. She was able to transform my life better than any human could have done and then she put me in the capable hands of someone and together we’re now raising our own family.”

Eight days after Ella was buried in her favourite sheepskin, Alizée interrupted Middleton’s mourning to announce that she was pregnant. He is convinced Ella knew and that her death was a kind of passing of the torch. His son, Inigo, was born last autumn. “I hope there’s an Ella who will find Inigo, if there’s a time in his life when he needs it,” he says, as one of the golden retrievers has a long stretch.

If you’re not a dog person, you might find this cosmic canine intervention a bit much. Whether Ella was the ultimate therapist or a very effective placebo, it worked for Middleton. His sisters’ families are also fully invested in the joys of cocker spaniels — Pippa has one of Ella’s sons and Catherine, whose announcement of the end of her chemotherapy treatment comes a few days after this interview, now has one of Ella’s granddaughters — no corgis to date. Middleton himself now regards his mental health crisis as a blessing. “Although I would never wish it on anybody and I would never want to go through it again, I’m pleased it happened. It was an opportunity to recalibrate and to re-evaluate what matters.” Happiness, he says, is what matters. Happiness and lots of dogs. Meet Ella: The Dog Who Saved My Life by James Middleton (Radar £22).

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