#homestead reader

[my-writings-and-musings]

Earthspark Breakdown x Reader x Bumblebee

Anybody want some fluff of Breakdown trying to be smooth while getting a date for Bumblebee only to crash and burn on his own feelings? Too bad, here it is! I can't be the only one that would love to be in a throuple with these two absolute dorks, right?

"I bet I could get you a date."

"Don't you fragging dare."

Breakdown considered the laugh he'd gotten from the exchange well worth the dent Bumblebee had left in his shoulder, and the fact that he had every intention of carrying out his promise was simply a pleasant bonus. His old friend would thank him in time; the lovestruck Scout was absolutely helm over wheels for you, the Maltos kind neighbor, he just didn't have the gears to initiate much more than an occasional conversation. Breakdown hardly blamed Bee for his attraction, as you were quite easy on the optics and he found the brief interactions he'd shared with you more than enjoyable, but he knew his friend didn't have it in him to ask you on anything even adjacent to a date. For the sake of you both, he was willing to use his skills as an exceptional wingman and break the ice. He was certain he'd be thanked in good time.

Finishing the short drive up the road to your property, he turned into your driveway with a drift that was equal parts showy and loud, wanting to announce his presence before traveling up the winding dirt path. It wasn't the first time he'd done as much, though this was his first time visiting alone. Ordinarily he tagged along with the group to watch Bee get adorably flustered every time you looked his way…

Slowing down as he approached your house, he scanned the homestead for you, being careful to avoid clusters of chickens pecking about your property. Driving up to your main barn, he parked and transformed once he was sure there were no other humans about, catching the sound of approaching footsteps just before he saw you emerge from behind the barn. You were obviously surprised to see him, but your smile told him it was not an unpleasant surprise.

"Oh, hi Breakdown! I thought you guys were training the Terrans until this afternoon?" you asked with mild confusion, referencing your visit to the Malto residence that morning. Breakdown recalled how disappointed Bumblebee had looked when you had regretfully informed the group you were too busy to hang out that day thanks to a number of jobs that needed to be done on your property, and thus you'd be unable to watch their training as planned. His friend's painfully obvious longing as you drove away had ultimately been what spurred him to try to secure a date between the two of you, but he had to play it cool while he prepared to make his move, not that he was expecting much difficulty. He had good reason to believe you returned the Scout's affection.

"Bee is showing them scouting and stealth tips today; not really my area of expertise." he explained, trying not to chuckle at the idea of himself tagging along on such a lesson. Primus, Bumblebee probably would have to unteach every bit of advice  Breakdown would give on the subject, so he really was better off here. Keeping to what he was actually good at, he put the first part of his plan into action, knowing you'd be much more receptive to a date with Bee if you weren't overworked. "But I thought I'd use my free time to help out with those chores you mentioned. Got anything you need an extra hand with?"

You were once again surprised by the Stunticon, and once more it was quite pleasantly so, your shoulders relaxing as his offer took a load off them. 

"I do, actually." you confirmed, approaching him and continuing with some hesitation even though he'd made the offer. Breakdown couldn't help but smile at your politeness. Most humans didn't hesitate to use bots for their own ends, yet you were courteous enough to ensure he was alright with something even after he'd offered, your reluctant expression making it clear he'd have every right to refuse with no hard feelings. "My biggest headache is a fallen tree I need to move to the chopping block, but it's a bit on the bigger side, so I understand-"

"Shouldn't be a problem." he confirmed quickly, freely puffing out his chassis as he disguised a flex as a stretch. Hoping you caught just how impressive his broad shoulders looked in the bright sun, he smirked at the ease of the task ahead, planning on showing off a bit while he put his plan into motion. As he took care of this chore he'd be free to drop hints about Bumblebee and gauge your reaction, and if he was as correct about your feelings for the Scout as he was certain he was, it wouldn't be a challenge at all to drive out of here with a date for his best friend. This wasn't the first time he'd been his wingman… "Just point me in the right direction."

"Really? Thanks!" you said enthusiastically, beckoning for him to follow as you started heading past the barn. Finding the energy adorable, he followed eagerly, thoroughly grateful he'd decided to give this plan a try. There was something about you that made him understand just why Bee was so deeply besotted, and once everything worked out he'd be glad to spend more time with you, perhaps even just the two of you.

Breakdown caught sight of the problem tree as soon as you rounded the barn and he got a clear line of sight to the edge of the yard, where a once proud oak had snapped at the base and smashed into the earth to leave a shallow crater in the grass. Estimating the trunk to be at least twice his height, he whistled as he imagined what a sight the fall must have been. It was just a good thing it had fallen so far from your very crushable house…

"You weren't kidding about it being a big one." he marveled, looking over the trunk and doing a quick estimate of its weight. While it certainly didn't look like what he would call light, he was more than confident in his ability to handle the burden, especially with an audience to impress.

"I know, right? I got lucky it wasn't near anything, but it's huge. Even a chainsaw would take an eternity on that thing." you remarked as you hopped over to the other side, stepping back and scanning your eyes along the once towering oak. He realized you were measuring him against the tree and trying to do some form of your own math, but judging by your expression you were less than optimistic about his odds. The uncertainty in your tone confirmed as much, and he got to proving himself before the first word left your mouth. "So really, if it's a problem-"

"You just tell me where you need it, hngh…" he declared, pausing his sentence to secure his servos under the trunk. Digging his digits in to the bark and heaving, he bit back a reflexive sound of strain to keep up the illusion of effortlessness, not struggling but certainly using a considerable amount of his strength. Seeing your eyes widen and your jaw go slack gave him all the motivation he needed to heft the entire oak onto one shoulder, the massive amount of momentum teetering it precariously back and forth before he secured it with both servos. Not even allowing himself a sigh of effort, he finished his sentence with a grin. "...and in how many pieces."

"Oh!" was all you said at first, the feat of strength and the speed at which he'd pulled it off briefly overwhelming your ability to speak. Breakdown felt his spark surge with pride at your reaction, enough that he had to remind himself he was here to make Bumblebee look good. Not that there was much harm in showing off to a cute friend…

Catching yourself, you turned on the spot and pointed to a flat area of land with a sturdy shed. "Well, uh, right over here!" you said quickly, moving fast so he didn't have to carry the burden for long. Breakdown had to appreciate the consideration, as the effort was admittedly very draining, enough that he could feel his actuators starting to ache by the time he caught up with you. Following your instructions to drop the oak beside a chopping block, he set his dentae tight to once again avoid any obvious sounds of strain as he hefted the tree off his shoulders, making sure you were clear before he let it more or less roll off his servos and slam into the earth with enough force to shake the surrounding dirt. 

"There we go, didn't even break a sweat." he declared as soon as the ground became still, doing a fantastic job covering up how much the effort had taken out of him. Somehow, even if his end goal was getting a date for Bumblebee, it was very important to him that you knew how strong he was. Confident he'd shown off his impressive prowess, he dusted off his servos in preparation for the next step. "Now, how do you want it broken up?"

The question caught you a little off guard, and you had to think before replying, a pause he dared to think came from being utterly starstruck by his abilities. "Uhhh… I need the pieces to be about this size for firewood…" you said after you recovered, picking up one of the chopped chunks as an example. Breakdown tilted his helm in thought, figuring the amount of work it would take to divide a tree of such magnitude into as many pieces of such a size might take until sundown. He halfway considered running back to the Dugout for a weapon before you jumped in with a far more workable solution. "But if you could get the trunk into sections, I can store that as is. Do you think you can break it up?"

Breakdown brightened at the question, finding it easy to ignore fatigue if he was given a chance to impress you, and you had unknowingly given him quite the opportunity. Kneeling beside the base of the trunk, he secured his servo a short distance above the jagged edge, testing the resistance before turning to you for approval. It took a great deal of willpower to hide how eager he was to show off. "This a good size?"

"That's perfect, yeah!" you agreed eagerly, going quiet after it occurred to you that there wasn't any practically obvious way to get the wood to that size. Glancing at the ace and chopping block that were comically undersized for the job, you blanked on a possible solution but still offered aid to be polite. "Do you need any help?"

Breakdown grinned, barely keeping the expression from deepening into a smirk before he replied simply, "Nah."

Using one servo to twist and the other to pull, he tore the appropriately sized chunk free with only the tiniest sound of effort slipping past his lips, one that was covered by the cacophonous crunch of timbers being shredded by sheer might. Actuators running at full capacity, he needed only a few seconds of work before he ripped the section of tree off and had it resting in his palm, which he held up for your approval. Seeing your eyes as wide as saucers once more had him nearly giddy with delight.

"Holy moly." you said after a moment of stunned silence, shaking your head to clear some of the shock before you let out a chuckle of disbelief. "Any chance I could hire you? I know farm work isn't quite as glamorous as racing, but you're very good at it."

"I'm happy to help whenever I've got the time, maybe I could swing by here on the regular." he replied quickly, finding himself eager to spend more time with you however he could. It wasn't until he'd set the piece of wood down that he remembered why he was here, and the realization sent a wave of embarrassment through his spark, which he hid with a polite cough as he considered how to change the subject. Bumblebee wouldn't have minded him flirting with you as he was hardly the possessive type, but Breakdown was set on his original mission, and knew himself well enough to be certain he wasn't the type to get crushes. He was as smooth as they came, and needed only to get back on track for success to be all but assured. 

"But uh… you might have better luck with Bumblebee. He's actually way better at this kind of stuff, loves lending a servo whenever you need it." he said, gaining confidence as he went on. He knew you liked Bumblebee and that made it all the easier for him to gather himself, even as he busily shoved down the flutters in his spark that were growing more frequent every moment he spent in your presence.

"Really?" you inquired as you moved to start chopping some of the more manageable logs into firewood, unintentionally drawing his optics to your arms as you hefted your ax. 

"Definitely, that bot lives for helping out." Breakdown continued as he followed your lead, getting into position to tear off another hunk of timber in part so you couldn't distract him further. "If you've got any other big chores that need doing after today, I can pass along the word."

"I'd love that, especially if you both could come over." you answered eagerly, pausing to split a log and once more making his spark surge for reasons he refused to contemplate. Pausing to give him a smile that he refused to believe was anything more than polite, you continued giving the Stunticon an impossibly hard time, every word breaking down his defenses and tearing away his cool, indifferent persona. "I think it'd be really nice to spend some time with you both, just the three of us."

Oh, Primus.

"That'd be uh… pretty nice." he replied lamely, losing ground so fast he had to think quickly to try and save any semblance of the mission he set out to accomplish. Somehow, despite being a fraction of his height, you had the same power over him that had always had Bumblebee stuttering in your presence. Though he'd never admit as much, he resolved that he would stop teasing his friend after all of this was over… "But you know, Bee is the hard worker between the two of us. You'll be able to cut through your chores in no time without me distracting him."

Slicing through another log with a thunk that made his pump skip a few beats, you chuckled at the sentiment, fixing him with a wink that acted as the first half of a one-two punch you finished with a single sentence. "I'd say you're cutting through my chores pretty quickly yourself, imagine what I could get done with two big handsome mechs?"

The entirety of Breakdown's charisma evaporated in a single microsecond at the word handsome, only to be replaced by a flood of bashful giddiness so overwhelming not even all the self preservation his ego could muster was able to halt the blush that bloomed around his cheeks. The thick oak in his servos shredded like paper without him even noticing it, as he was far too busy grappling with the realization that Bumblebee was not the only one hopelessly infatuated with you. Unable to think of any response, let alone one that was remotely clever, he merely bowed his helm and mumbled something to the affirmative.

"How about this Friday? I'll be free all day." you offered, the knowing tone of your voice making it obvious you knew exactly what you were doing. Breakdown couldn't even be sure when the conversation had flipped so drastically, but it absolutely had, and for all of his embarrassment he simply couldn't be upset about it in the slightest. Technically, he had accomplished his goal with a bonus…

At least, that's what he told himself the remainder of the time he spent helping you finish up the tree disposal, as well as during the entire shameful drive back to the Malto residence. By the time he returned the Terrans were free of their lessons and his friend was relaxing by himself in the shade of a nearby apple tree. As he approached with most out of character sluggishness, the Scout turned to greet him with an expression that was guarded and concerned in equal measure. Transforming into bot mode upon approach, he couldn't keep the sheepish feeling in his spark from showing on his face.

"Breakdown, where have you been?" 

The question made him want to blurt out just what a fool he'd been, but he remained somewhat calm, optics downcast as he nudged a fallen apple with his pede. "At the neighbors…"

Bumblebee tensed but said nothing, crossing his servos and leveling his friend with a heavy stare before he pressed for details. "What did you do?"

What did he do? Get in way over his helm, he wanted to say, with absolutely wonderful and disastrous consequences. Unable to put it all into words, he focused on the most important detail of the day, still uncertain how it had all gone down.

"I uh… I got us a date with Y/N."

"You did what-?!" Bumblebee exclaimed, grabbing him by the shoulders and halfway slamming him against a tree before the word choice hit him. "Wait; us?"

Breakdown could only bow his helm as his blush returned, and their longstanding friendship did the rest. 

"Oh, Breakdown…" Bumblebee sighed as he released his equally lovestruck friend, realizing that both of them were now thoroughly stuck in the same boat. Pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge and closing his optics, he sighed again before offering the only admonishment fitting of the utterly ridiculous situation they'd just ended up in. 

"You reckless fool…"

[harryspet]

homestead [masterlist]

[warnings]dark!rafe cameron x pregnant!reader, farmer!rafe, obsessive rafe, pogue!reader, jj x reader, kidnapping, NONCON/DUBCON

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

Summary: In which you reach rock bottom after your baby's father, JJ, gets arrested and your first love, Rafe Cameron, returns to save the day.

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[the-writer-in-the-winter-forest]

I've been fiddling around with a character creator, struggling to get down the look of two of my core alien characters.

I've kept details kinda vague so far on their appearance.

It's kinda like Mary Shelly's Frankenstein and how she kept the description of the monster very vague.

The only reason the monster looks the way he looks today is thanks to famous monster makeup artist, Jake Pierce.

Sadly, I lack a Jack Pierce, so I'm working on what I have. 😁

I'm not sure yet about this one. There are aspects that I like, though.

[famousnerdtragedy]

The Homestead of Willow Creek

Chapter 1: The Decision

Under a twilight sky, Evelyn Harper stood at the edge of her new property, gazing at the vast, untamed land that would soon become her sanctuary. The rolling hills, dense forests, and babbling creeks of Willow Creek had called to her like a siren's song, promising solitude, peace, and a life of self-reliance. At thirty-five, Evelyn was ready for a change. The fast-paced life of the city, with its constant noise and ceaseless demands, had drained her spirit. She yearned for something simpler, something that would connect her to the earth and its rhythms.

Evelyn had always been an independent woman. Raised by a single mother who had taught her the value of hard work and perseverance, she had learned early on that life was what you made of it. Her mother had passed away when she was just twenty, leaving her with a small inheritance and a wealth of wisdom. Evelyn used the money to put herself through college, where she studied environmental science. After graduation, she had taken a job with a prominent environmental consulting firm, but the corporate world left her feeling empty.

Her decision to leave the city had been a long time coming. She had spent years dreaming of a life where she could wake up with the sun, tend to her own garden, and breathe in the fresh air without the stench of pollution. When she found the listing for the 50-acre property in Willow Creek, she knew it was the sign she had been waiting for. She sold her apartment, packed up her belongings, and drove halfway across the country to start a new chapter.

Chapter 2: The Land and Its Challenges

Willow Creek was both beautiful and challenging. The land was fertile, but it hadn't been worked in years. Overgrown fields and wild woods stretched out as far as the eye could see. Evelyn knew she had her work cut out for her, but she was undeterred. She had always been handy, having learned carpentry from her grandfather and gardening from her mother. She had also taken up beekeeping, herbalism, and basic mechanics as hobbies over the years, skills that would prove invaluable in her new life.

The first task was to clear a section of the land for her garden. Armed with a chainsaw, a machete, and sheer determination, Evelyn spent weeks cutting back the underbrush, felling trees, and preparing the soil. Her muscles ached at the end of each day, but the sight of the cleared land filled her with a sense of accomplishment she had never felt in the city.

Evelyn built raised beds and filled them with rich, dark compost she had ordered from a nearby farm. She planted rows of vegetables—tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, beans—and a variety of herbs. She had also set aside a portion of the garden for medicinal plants, a nod to her interest in herbalism. As the days grew longer and warmer, she watched with pride as the first green shoots pushed through the soil.

Her next project was to renovate the old farmhouse that sat on the property. The house had good bones, but it needed a lot of work. Evelyn rolled up her sleeves and got to it. She replaced the leaky roof, repaired the creaky floors, and installed new windows to let in the light. She even built her own furniture, crafting sturdy tables and chairs from the wood she had harvested.

Chapter 3: The Animals Arrive

With the garden thriving and the farmhouse becoming a home, Evelyn turned her attention to the animals. She had always loved animals and dreamed of having a small farm of her own. She started with chickens, building a sturdy coop and a large, secure run to protect them from predators. She ordered a dozen heritage breed chicks and cared for them like they were her own children. She knew that in a few months, they would reward her with fresh eggs, and perhaps later, more chicks to expand her flock.

Next came the goats. Evelyn had always been fascinated by these hardy creatures, known for their milk, which could be turned into cheese, yogurt, and soap. She built a shelter for them and fenced in a portion of the land where they could graze. She adopted two Nubian goats, Hazel and Willow, who quickly became her companions. Their playful antics and gentle nature brought a sense of joy to the homestead.

Evelyn also acquired a pair of honeybee hives, placing them at the edge of the garden where the bees could pollinate her crops. She had learned the art of beekeeping years ago and was eager to put her knowledge to use. The bees thrived in the rich environment of Willow Creek, and by the end of the summer, she had harvested her first batch of golden honey.

Chapter 4: The Community

Though she had moved to Willow Creek for solitude, Evelyn soon discovered that she was not alone. The small town nearby was home to a tight-knit community of farmers, artisans, and homesteaders who welcomed her with open arms. They were impressed by her skills and determination and were always willing to lend a hand or offer advice.

Evelyn made friends with a local blacksmith who helped her repair old tools and taught her how to forge simple items. She learned to spin wool from a neighbor who raised sheep, and in return, she shared her knowledge of herbal medicine and beekeeping. The community thrived on mutual support and the sharing of skills, and Evelyn was grateful to be a part of it.

As the seasons passed, Evelyn's homestead grew and flourished. The garden provided more than enough food for her, and she began selling her surplus at the local farmer's market. Her goats produced rich, creamy milk, and her chickens laid eggs that were in high demand. The honey from her bees became a sought-after commodity, and she even started making and selling herbal salves and tinctures.

Chapter 5: The Peace Within

Evelyn had found what she had been searching for all those years. The homestead gave her a sense of purpose and fulfillment that she had never experienced in the city. Each day brought new challenges, but also new rewards. She had learned to live in harmony with the land, to respect its cycles and rhythms, and to appreciate the simple joys of life.

As she sat on the porch of her farmhouse, watching the sun set over the hills of Willow Creek, Evelyn felt a deep sense of peace. The life she had built with her own hands was more than she had ever dreamed of. She was no longer just a single woman searching for something; she was a homesteader, a gardener, a beekeeper, and a friend to the land. She had found her place in the world, and it was right here, in the heart of Willow Creek.

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[rafecameronssl4t]

Officially your bitch || Rafe Cameron x Thornton!reader

Summary: basically what happened in s1 ep 2 when Sarah is getting a teddy from the boat with Rafe, Kelce, and Topper watching but obvs slightly different. (you being the one faking being hurt)

Warnings: swearing, mention of gun,

Word count: 977

A/n: canon fics are so fun to write 😫

MASTERLIST (rafe x thornton!reader au masterlist)

Divider by @yoonitos

mood board here

"Jeez, man, this is nuts." Topper lets out a low whistle, staring at a boat nestled in someone's garden bed. "Agatha's a bitch," Rafe mutters. "Damn right, she is," Kelce adds as the three boys gape at the sight.

"I can't get it outta my head. It's on repeat. 'Your move, broski.'" Topper repeats JJ's words from a couple nights ago, when a gun was pointed at his head. "Bro, he had a semiautomatic pointed right at you!" Kelce chimes in.

"That's what I'm saying. It's insane!" Topper scoffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Safety off!" he emphasizes, his voice rising. Kelce shakes his head, his expression a mix of disbelief and disdain. "That pogue," he mutters, his tone dripping with contempt.

Rafe, who had been staring intently at the waterline, snaps back to the conversation. His gaze sharpens as he looks at his friends. "They're freakin' pogues, man," he declares, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and exasperation.

"You know, you should get a piece," Rafe suggests, his voice steady as he looks at Topper. The gravity of his words hangs in the air. "What do you mean?" Topper asks, a puzzled expression crossing his face as he turns to Rafe.

"You gotta fight fire with fire and defend the homestead," Rafe replies matter-of-factly, as if it's the most logical solution in the world. "Better than being caught without one," Kelce shrugs, offering his own brand of nonchalant support. Rafe nods in agreement, his gaze unwavering.

"Listen guys, I'm gonna get him back, all right? I'm making it a little project of mine," Topper reassures them. Rafe hums approvingly, patting his friend's back. "Yeah, you should," he affirms with a smirk.

Kelce suddenly taps Rafe's shoulder. "Yo, that's y/n." Rafe and Topper turn their heads in unison, their curiosity piqued. They see you kneeling on one knee, talking gently to Joy, your mum's best friend's little daughter.

"Oh, so you left her in the boat?" you ask softly, your voice filled with understanding. Joy nods, her eyes wide with worry. "Okay, can you tell me what she looks like?" you stand up, smoothing down your shorts. Joy looks up at you, her face serious. "She has a trunk and blue eyes," she replies, her small voice clear.

The three boys watch intently as you smile reassuringly at Joy. "Okay, I'm gonna get her for you," you say, turning towards the boat. "Be careful of the electricity," Joy quietly warns. You smile to yourself, touched by her concern, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you carefully step onto the boat.

"Don't worry, I'll be okay. It's really dangerous, so stay there, okay?" you reassure Joy with a confident smile. Rafe, standing a few feet away, removes his sunglasses, his eyes narrowing as he watches your every move. "What's she doing?" he mutters to no one in particular, his concern evident.

"Watch her fall and make a big drama out of it," your brother scoffs, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed by your antics. Rafe glances at Topper, eyebrows raised. "Hey! There's 14,000 volts in those wires," Joy's mum calls out urgently from the porch, her voice filled with anxiety.

You take a slow, deliberate step onto the plank, feeling it wobble slightly under your weight. With a mischievous grin, you glance back at the onlookers, enjoying the attention. A quiet shriek escapes your lips as you pretend to lose your balance for a moment.

"Hey, y/n, be careful!" Rafe hollers, his voice louder and more urgent now. He takes a step forward, his body tense with concern. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," your mum mutters as she walks out onto the yard, her face a mask of frustration and fear. "Y/n, get down now!" she shouts, her tone a mix of anger and desperation.

"Mum, calm down. I'm an athlete. I got this," you reply playfully, flashing her a reassuring smile as you continue your careful approach toward the boat. Your confidence does little to ease the tension among the onlookers. The plank creaks under your weight, but you maintain your balance,

"You're gonna get electrocuted! Get down!" your mum screams, her voice trembling with panic. You ignore her, your focus on the gentle sway of the boat as you step onto it. "She just wants attention," Topper mutters, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Are you kidding me?" your mum persists, her tone growing more frantic. You turn to face her, a playful grin spreading across your face as you shimmy your shoulders, teasingly.

"Oh my—no. When I tell your dad about this, y/n!" Your mum exclaims, her voice a mix of exasperation and genuine fear. "Y/n, that's not fucking funny," Rafe yells in annoyance, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He watches you with a mixture of concern and irritation, unable to shake off the worry that gnaws at him.

"Little fried y/n," Topper comments, a smirk playing on his lips as he observes the scene unfold. Kelce looks at him, puzzled by the comment, but Topper simply shrugs it off. "Top, your sister's crazy, man," Kelce remarks, shaking his head in disbelief as Topper snorts, "Tell me about it."

With a knowing smile, you reach the boat and spot the disconnected wire exactly where you expected it to be. "I see her!" you call out across the yard as you place a steady hand on the boat.

"Y/n!" your mum's voice echoes for what feels like the hundredth time, a mixture of frustration and genuine concern laced in her tone. "When I tell your dad—" Her words are abruptly cut off by your convincing scream as you pretend to slip into the boat. "Fuck—" Rafe's reaction is immediate, his instincts kicking in as he rushes forward.

After a few seconds, you grab the cord, swinging it in front of you with a smile. Kelce breaks out in laughter at your prank, the sound mingling with the collective sighs of everyone watching. Rafe's face fills with relief and annoyance as his tongue pokes agains this inner cheek. "It's disconnected!" you announce with a laugh.

"Holy shit!" Kelce smacks Rafe's shoulder, his eyes wide with amusement as he looks at you, clearly annoyed and unimpressed. "For the love of God," your mum mutters as she slips her sunglasses back on and strides away, clearly needing a moment to recover from the prank.

"She got you good, man," Kelce snickers, unable to hide his laughter at Rafe's bewildered expression. "Absolute suckers!" you crow from the boat, your laughter ringing out triumphantly. "Babe, you should see your face," you giggle, retrieving Joy's teddy bear. "Yeah, okay, yeah, I'm sorry that I care. All right, guilty," Rafe throws his hands up in mock surrender though his face expression remained annoyed.

As Rafe stands there, still trying to process what just happened, he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Congrats, dude. You're officially her bitch," Topper says with a smirk, offering his congratulations in his own unique way. Rafe rolls his eyes at the jest.

"Alright." Topper gives Rafe a hearty pat on the back. "Officially, did you know that? You're officially her bitch, alright?" Topper's laughter rings out as he teases Rafe, but Rafe isn't having any of it. With a swift motion, he slaps away Topper's hand. "Shut the fuck up, dude," he grumbles, shaking his head in annoyance before striding over to you.

"See! Just further proved my point, bro!" Topper yells amidst his laughter, clearly enjoying the reaction he's getting. Kelce joins in, chuckling at the playful banter unfolding before him.

Rafe reaches you, offering his hand despite his lingering annoyance. You giggle at the exchange, finding his frustration amusing. "Are you fucking crazy?" Rafe spits, his irritation evident, but you can't help but laugh at his reaction.

"Aww, I love you too, babe," you playfully pout, quickly kissing his lips before turning your attention back to Joy, handing her teddy bear over with a smile. Rafe stands there with a defeated look, unable to stay mad for long.

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part I

(unofficially: Brother's Worst Enemy)

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Alrighty y'all, this is for everyone who has so patiently waited for me to make this a thing XD Not sure if I could squeeze a whole series out of this one but we shall see. Maybe at least a part 2. Enjoy!

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

The mission is simple. Collect Seresin Junior from the train station near the main gate of the base and deliver said cargo to the Seresin homestead in Eastern Texas on his way to Atlanta, Georgia for a long overdue visit with his grandparents. It isn’t rocket science. It sure as hell doesn’t hold a candle to the canyon run he pulled off just the other month. And yet, Bradley’s drumming his fingers anxiously on the hood of his Bronco as he leans into its frame, waiting on the trolley from downtown San Diego.

While Jake and Bradley have recently made peace after their longstanding cold war, Bradley isn’t exactly thrilled to meet another one of his kind. Besides, he isn’t one for small talk, and the prospect of spending the next two days with a complete stranger is downright daunting. He prefers music to conversation and he’s hoping that his road trip companion won’t be offended when he turns up the radio and forgets there’s anybody else in the car.

When Hangman had asked for the favor, he assured Bradley that he was his last choice – which wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Bradley appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. By the end of the term, there was nobody from their squadron left on base except Bradley, and he would be heading east anyway, might as well provide shuttle service while he’s at it.

As the trolley whistles into the station, Bradley pushes off his car and straightens his back, watching the tinted windows as they zip by, a blur at first and then gradually separating as the trolley comes to a stop.

Bradley leaves his car to walk around the fence, not quite sure how he’s going to be greeting a person he’s never before seen, but it’s not like he’s going to fashion a sign for the occasion. He sticks his hands into his pockets, the breeze picking up his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt like a parachute before it starts whipping around his torso in the wind tunnel on the platform.

He glances around at the commuters stepping off the trolley, trying to pick out the blondes that might resemble his colleague, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, just as you say, “Rooster, right?”

He blinks at you, slightly disoriented. You look nothing like Hangman, thank fuck, because Bradley can’t take his eyes off you and, as inappropriate as this reaction is, it would make it that much worse if you did. He gives you a sideways grin. “What gave me away?” he says.

“My brother told me to find the dorkiest guy at the station,” you respond, grinning at him.

Bradley chuckles. “So, you’re walking to Texas, then,” he says, stepping around you.

You laugh, struggling to redirect the wheels of your suitcase.

Bradley bends down to grab the handle. “I can take that,” he says, tucking away the retractable bar and lifting it off the ground by the strap.

“Thanks,” you say, cringing slightly as Bradley lifts the luggage as though you’re embarrassed by its weight.

But after the countless exercise drills over the years, Bradley hardly notices that it’s heavy. In fact, he could probably carry it over his head. He eyes you inconspicuously as you fall in step with him, wondering if perhaps that might impress you – not that he wants to impress you.

“Actually, he said I couldn’t miss you because you’d be a head taller than everyone else, and probably wearing a very bright shirt.”

Bradley looks over at you with a grin. “Hopefully I didn’t disappoint?”

You eye his shirt flapping in the breeze. “I found you, didn’t I?”

Bradley lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car and walks around to open your door for you.

You give him a suspicious look. “Thanks,” you say.

Bradley nods at you, offering a hand to help you in. Once you’re seated, he shuts the door behind you and exhales unsteadily the kind of sigh that often accompanies a guilty conscience. There’s no way he could possibly get entangled in a mess of this magnitude. And a colossal mess it would become if he were to develop any sort of soft spot for his recent enemy’s baby sister. Bradley, being a sensible, mature adult, understands this unequivocally. But, when he rounds the car and climbs into the driver’s seat next to you, the notion that he’s not allowed under any circumstances to find you attractive flies right out his rolled down window.

This is because you’re already tuning the radio like you own the place and because you smell like a goddess. Bradley has no clue whether it’s your hair or your perfume or your goddamn essence that’s permeated his upholstery in under ten seconds, but whatever it is, he certainly wouldn’t mind smelling it on his sheets in the morning.

Fuck. He’s fucking fucked.

“This alright?” you ask casually, as if you didn’t just hijack a stranger’s radio.

He cringes at the stereo; he’ll have to work on your taste in music. “Got your seatbelt on?” he asks as he pulls out.

You turn around in your seat and pull on the seatbelt.

Bradley promptly hits the breaks and you lurch forward slightly, the seatbelt in your hand getting stuck on its way out. He looks over at you with an air of seriousness despite the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The seatbelt should be the first thing you do when you enter a vehicle.” Not fiddle with the radio, he adds silently.

You raise your eyebrows at him in amusement. “Okay, dad.”

Bradley nearly shudders at your response. He’s probably a good ten years older than you, so, really, while dad might be stretching it, you’re not too far off. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll be listening to Metallica the whole way home.”

You smirk at him. “I like Metallica, so joke’s on you, bud.”

Bradley starts driving again. “If you like Metallica, then why are we listening to this trash?”

Your jaw drops and you reach for the volume dial to turn up the song. “How dare you?”

Bradley rolls his eyes. Something tells him he’s in for a wild ride.

…

About two hours later, Bradley pulls into a small gas station just past the border into Arizona.

“Want something to eat?” he asks, leaning across the console to pop his glove compartment and pull out his wallet. “Or drink?”

You purse your lips. “I could go for a coffee.”

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“With a pinch of salt.”

Bradley gapes at you. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

You snort. “I’m not joking. You should try it! Cuts the bitterness in half, my friend.”

Bradley cringes. “The bitterness is why I drink it.”

You shake your head and declare wisely, “You’ll see.”

“That you’re a nutcase?” Bradley mutters under his breath as he exits the car. He jogs over to the convenience store, determinedly blocking out the seductive quality of your persuasive tone. You could probably convince him to drink a pint of his own urine if you set your mind to it.

Bradley drums impatiently on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish restocking one of the shelves with chips. While he’s waiting, he glances out to check on you as if you’re a child under his charge. You’ve stepped out of the Bronco to stretch your legs and Bradley doesn’t like the way the two guys in the convertible in behind are eyeing you.

Bradley cranes his neck to check on the clerk’s progress and lets out a stifled sigh. When he looks back outside, he sees that one of the men has approached you and, well, Bradley isn’t about to wait to see what happens next. He drops a bill on the counter and calls out, “Keep the change,” to the clerk before practically slamming his way through the doors with the coffees in his hands.

Why it bothers him that some random dude might want your number is not of consequence. What matters is that Bradley gets rid of this asswipe before you start enjoying his company.

He strides confidently past the man chatting you up and stops right in between you and him, handing you a coffee.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he cautions moodily, not entirely sure how to go about handling a situation in which, objectively speaking, he has no real authority.

You meet his gaze with a small smile. “You don’t say,” you respond with all the sultriness of a blazing, desert sun.

Bradley’s gaze remains unwaveringly on you as he unhooks a pair of Ray-Bans from the neck of his muscle shirt and slides them over his eyes. “Ready to go?” he asks in a level tone, hoping he can avoid what is bound to be an unpleasant interaction with the man still standing behind him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man speaks up. “Didn’t realize you were with someone, honey.”

Bradley keeps his eyes on yours for several moments longer, trying his best not to show the irritation he feels at the way this rando just called you ‘honey’. Reluctantly, he turns to face him, wondering what in the world he could say that wouldn’t make him sound jealous as fuck.

But before Bradley could speak, you slide casually into his side, leaning on him like it’s the most natural thing. “That’s just fine,” you say to the man. “No harm, no foul.”

Bradley looks down at your head as it nestles into his shoulder and then lifts his arm to let you move in closer. Trying to play it cool, he skims the tips of his fingers across your lower back, which is warm and feels like the perfect place to rest his hand.

Convertible guy promptly departs, and Bradley is left standing in an embrace with the one person on the entire planet for whom he should never catch feelings, at a derelict gas station on the outskirts of arid Yuma, Arizona, and the heat is really starting to get to him. Slowly, you start to peel yourself away and Bradley, sensing your withdrawal, drops his hand and recoils from you like you’ve burnt him.

Did it feel nice pretending you were his girl? Sure did. Is he going to erase it from his memory and never let himself so much as shake your hand again? Absolutely.

Read Part 2

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments probably tomorrow!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@toomuchfluffs

@wintercap89

@lonelywitchv2

@callsign-jupiter

@rosiahills22

@olliepig

@coffeeaddictedmay

@boringusername3

@ratedtvpg

@mak-32

@annedub

@jules-1999

@black--lightning

@j-velvet

@xoxabs88xox

@cyanide-cryptid

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@ijustwantedplums

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@avengersfan25

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@lovingperfectionsblog

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@SometimesAnAlice

@risingtripletaurus

@adaydreamaway08

@mattyskies

@desert-fern

@catsandbooksandstuff

@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

[nickfowlerrr]

sit me on your throne.

pairing: geralt of rivia x curvy!reader

warnings: i don't know what i'm writing about but if you're here for smut, there's smut. 18+ only. probably ooc - i've only seen season one. if i'm missing something that needs to be tagged please let me know.

words: 4.3k

notes: i really truly do not know. forgive me not.

thank you in advance for reading! any thoughts, comments, and reblogs are so appreciated. let me know what you think. (unless its mean then pls don't).

"You kneel before me?"

Your question is born of nothing but pure confusion as you tilt your head in bemusement at the bulking behemoth of a man before you.

He hadn’t done as much when he first arrived, not to your displeasure, so it was odd to see him do it now - especially after the battle he has just fought.

He is at your feet, his long white hair darker and dingier now, dirty as his clothes and skin; marred with caked mud and what you can only assume is the blood and guts of the beast he has defeated.

The stench he carries with him is pungent, nothing but putrid, and yet that somehow doesn't take from his striking good looks; those paired with his brevity and bluntness have held your attention from the moment he stepped foot in your kingdom.

He is a man of little words, this Geralt of Rivia. His jester of a companion having done much of the speaking - perhaps too much - for him since they arrived.

Geralt says nothing still, only meets your gaze as he takes steady breaths. His yellow eyes, feline and harsh, cut through you in a number of ways - none of which you'd care to share aloud. You have a feeling he knows, however, just how affected you are by him no matter how well you think you hide it.

You are alone together, no guards at the ready, no advisors by your side. Most of your kingdom is now quiet and abandoned, including the halls of your once flourishing and lively home. The halls of this castle have been eerily silent since the night your men went on their mission to save their homestead. You had already sent word for The Witcher, you implored them to keep safe indoors until his arrival. They did not listen. Most of them still having seen you as the young princess you once were, the others simply following the orders of their leaders. You may have been their "Queen", but their faith in their commanders was stronger.

Those commanders who led them to their deaths... You still sigh at the loss.

Those who were not taken, slain, by the beast have long since fled for their lives. You cannot blame them. But you certainly could not join them. Your castle once held many souls, but now it is only you and a handful of others. Titles of servants, but you really never were one for titles.

"Your friend?" you wonder.

"Somewhere," he answers shortly, his voice low and deep as he speaks.

You quirk a brow, "Safe?"

"For as long as he keeps himself from trouble."

You hum, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Their relationship amuses you, you must admit.

"You needn't kneel, Witcher," you implore as you sit back on the throne. It is yours in name alone. It has never felt right to sit in. He seems to sense your unease, but he doesn't speak it. You continue, "You have done what you said you would, I will do the same."

Still, he doesn't stand. Not until you flick your eyes and move to stand yourself. He rises easily as he stands before you still. There is not much distance between you, and the stench of him stings your eyes and threatens to gag you. Your face scrunches in disgust as you turn it away from him, grimacing.

"I've had a bath readied for you, and new clothes set aside," you inform him, moving to pass around. He follows you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze as his eyes cling to you. "Your meals will be served as soon as you're done. I don't imagine anyone would be able to stomach a bite with that smell coming off of you."

He says nothing but lets out an amused "hm" at your words, still following as you lead him to the bathing room.

You thank Amaleah as you enter and she leaves with a nod to you, her breath catching when she smells Geralt enter behind you. It's as fast an exit as you've ever seen.

You move toward the bath and wade a hand in the water. It's a bit hot for your preferences but it should get him clean. You ensure the soap Amaleah brought in is fragrant enough and still look for some nicer oils to add to the water; when you turn around to ask your guest his want, you find yourself stunned silent as you're met with the sight of his broad, bare chest. His muscles flex under his pale and scarred skin as he moves, his solid chest is covered in dark hair, trailing down his torso. His arms are strong and big and a thought at the back of your mind wonders how comfortable he must be to lie with.

You blink, mouth parted slightly as you take a breath. You watch his clothing fall as he discards them and your gaze follows his hand as he begins to strip himself of the rest of his garments.

He is completely shameless as he watches you watch him. You feel as if you are in a trance, you cannot bring yourself to look away despite the heavy weight of his gaze assuring you he sees you staring.

It’s not an act of brazenness, truly you would look away and leave him at once…if you could.

“I’ve slain your monster,” he speaks and your eyes rise back to his chest, trying to ignore the heaviness of his thick cock as it hangs so temptingly before you. No, not temptingly…Shamelessly. He has put himself entirely on display before you, without an ounce of shame or concern, and you are still frozen to your spot. “Was there something else you required of me, Your Highness?”

The title gets your attention, the breath caught in your chest finally flows and your eyes flick up to meet his. You can't tell entirely if he meant it as an insult or if he thought you'd prefer it to Queen.

You remain quiet for a moment as you try to gather a response. Either way...

“I told you that wasn’t necessary, Witcher.”

“Geralt.”

You swallow hard as he takes a small step forward, and you will yourself to not break his intense gaze.

"Geralt. I thank you, for saving what was left of this ruined kingdom, but I consider myself not princess, nor Queen, any longer."

"Did you ever?" he asks, staring into your eyes a moment longer before he steps closer still, looking you up and down then nudging you aside, eliciting goosebumps along your skin, rising under his touch.

You glance over your shoulder as he continues past you, lowering himself into the tub.

You think.

You know your answer, but you won't say it aloud. Clearly he knows it, too.

You can hear the water sloshing with his movements as he begins to clean himself.

You take a deep breath.

"The clothes will be brought in shortly. You might tell Jaskier when you're done that the food is ready."

"Ah," he says amid his washing, "so you do know his name."

"Of course I do. I've grown quite fond of the bard in the week since you've arrived."

"I couldn't tell," he says plainly, yet still biting - his words sharp with sarcasm.

You furrow your brow at his meaning and then there's a laugh at the door and you look to see Jaskier as he leans on it. "You sound jealous, there, Geralt," he taunts, holding folded clothing in his hands as he pushes off the door to saunter in. "I wouldn't worry. I don't believe I'm the one who's caught her eye." He looks to you with a smirk, bowing before you, "Your Majesty."

"I am no longer queen," you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

"My Queen, none the less," he simpers before standing to his full height.

You smile tightly, eyes narrowed playfully at him before you finally move to exit, leaving them to their inevitable quarreling. And trying not to focus on the tingling still affecting you between your legs.

--

You eat with the women in the kitchen; the dining hall one of your least favorite places to be.

There is a calm yet solemn energy around you all. A peace in the slaying of the monster who took your kingdom, and still the grief from the loss of it all, your people, their families, friends...

Calliope readies the plates for your guests as you bid them all a goodnight, kissing Amaleah's son on his head on your way out with a 'sweet dreams'. Since his father was killed, the poor thing has nightmares recurringly. You only hope with the monster's demise, they might ease for him some. He is far too young to be in such pain...

You think to pass by the dining hall on your way to bed to thank Geralt once more and wish them both a goodnight as well but think better of it.

You will see them in the morning before they set off. You still owe him his coin and you know he won't be leaving without it.

--

You open the heavy door of your chamber and once you are inside, begin to undress.

Slipping into your shift, you swiftly make your way into bed. You thought you'd fall asleep quickly, but as you lay there, your mind wanders to thoughts of only one.

You have one hand on your lower belly, the other resting on the soft skin right above it.

You sigh and close your eyes, but all you see when you do is his built form. His dark, firelight stare set on you. His clothes left on the ground as he stands strong in his glory.

You breathe deeply, your hand starting to slowly drift down your stomach as you tickle yourself. You're so tempted to touch where you want it most, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not just yet.

You slip your hand between your spread thighs, softly running your fingers across the sensitive skin you find there.

It'd been a week of torment, having Geralt so close and not being able to act on your most base feelings. You know he knows what you think when you look at him, if Jaskier can see it, surely, he can too.

You might feel embarrassed but with the way he's managed to get closer and closer to you with each passing day as he awaited the beasts' return, you would wager he feels similarly.

It feels like an age that you lie awake. All the noises about the castle, not that there were many, have settled and it assures you everyone has retired for the night.

Sleep begins to nip at you but the stronger pull is to the dissatisfaction that weighs on you. The emptiness that echos through your body and soul.

Your fingers twitch, and you begin to glide closer to your uncovered core, the need to be touch too much to be ignored for much longer. Your eyes are closed and you imagine it isn't your hand running over your skin, but rather his large, rough palm feeling you, teasing you just so...

Just as you inch closer, your eyes snap open in the dark as a heartbreaking scream cuts through the night air. You sit up, pulling your hands off of yourself. You know immediately where the sound comes from and who it belongs to.

You get out of bed, intent to make sure Hartley and Amaleah both are okay.

You open your door just as the one across the wide hall does the same. You frighten at the unexpected movement but are then unsurprised to be across Geralt.

He is shirtless again, and his eyes are wide as his chest rises and falls with his heavy breaths.

"Are you alright?" he asks, voice hard.

"Yes, I'm fine. It was the boy, Hartley. He has nightmares," you explain, keeping your voice quiet as to not disturb the renewed peace of the night.

The flick of the flame that lights the hallway allows you both to see one another. You say nothing for a moment as your eyes fall to his bare torso.

"Did the clothes not fit?"

He looks down at himself briefly, then back to you. He shakes his head, "I prefer to sleep naked."

You burn at his words, swallowing hard. "Oh. Well, I- I'm going to check on them, make sure they're fine."

"I'll go with you."

It's not a question, it's a statement. You stop in your start, turning to look at him. You say nothing, just blink and quickly carry on as you were.

You make your way down the stairs and down the hall until you see the flames licking at the end of the hallway.

You follow the glow to Amaleah's room and knock gently as you look in the open door.

She turns and looks to you, her eyes tired and cheeks damp as she rocks her toddler in her arms. He is sleeping again as she rubs his back gently, more to soothe herself than anything.

She sniffles, "Your High-" she stops herself, "sorry, forgive me," she whispers.

"Don't apologize. Please," you implore her. "I know it's habit."

"Are you two alright?" Geralt asks from right at your back.

"We are, thank you. Just another nightmare," her voice gets thick at the explanation. You know it hurts her that there isn't anything she can do but be there to comfort him when they come.

You smile sadly and nod. "We'll let you be, then. Do try to get some rest. He'll be okay," you reassure her.

You pull the door nearly closed and wind up with Geralt firmly at your back.

You turn into him but he doesn't seem to mind as he just looks down at you nearly pressed against his chest. You try to budge him to turn and move back down the hall but he doesn't waver. After a second, he relents and steps to the side, allowing you to go back down the hallway first.

It isn't until you come up on the throne room that Geralt speaks again.

"Might I have a word with you?" he asks.

You stop and turn to eye him as he stands at the entryway of the door.

"Now?" you question.

He nods once, "Now."

You approach him trepidatiously, and as you near, he gestures you in the room before him, extending his arm, "Princess."

Your eyes narrow again. And you turn on him, watching as he enters the room behind you. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"What am I doing?"

"Princess? Your Highness?" you quote him.

"I assumed you preferred it to your true title," he tilts his head at you.

"True title," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "I prefer no title at all."

"And what shall I call you then?"

You remind him your name, not that he really needs to be reminded. You know he knows it full well.

He considers you, then closes in on where you stand in front of the throne.

You don't move back, no, you quite like the closeness when he doesn't reek of death and innards.

Geralt seems to appreciate your resolve, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile as he studies your face.

"It's a beautiful name," he speaks lowly, taking another step into your space and raising his hand to gently caress your cheek before he leans in to speak against your ear. Your hands touch his solid stomach in an attempt to keep yourself upright, you can feel the muscles as they flex under your delicate graze. "I think I might prefer princess," he husks.

He slips away from you, turning to take a seat on the throne instead. You follow his movements and turn yourself to face him. You're stunned and completely set ablaze all at once.

"Well I don't."

"No," he smirks, agreeing with you, one large hand settling on his thick thigh as he spreads his legs, "you don't."

"It's too bad," he tsks, his voice a smooth rumbling. "No title, no throne."

"I don't want any throne."

Your eyes are glued to his thighs as he brings attention to his lap by rubbing the muscle there.

"None?" he asks before his gaze shifts directly on you, his mesmerizing stare burning into you. His voice lowers deeper than you've ever heard as a desperate longing shoots through you once again, resounding deep in your core. "Not even mine?"

Your mouth goes dry and your brain fuzzy as you take in his meaning.

Unthinking, you step toward him closer.

"You mean to defile the very one you sit on?"

"You don't seem to care for it much anyway."

Another step.

You are nearly stood between his spread legs, carefully you reach out a hand, your fingers light on his thigh. You feel his muscle then, flicking your eyes up. His gaze is dark and heated.

"That's true enough," you say, your voice breathy in a near whisper.

You gasp as your suddenly pulled closer by Geralt's rough hands around your waist. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your shift and its only then you realize how much of your figure he has seen thanks to your nightwear.

"Truer still," he speaks, "I don't mean to defile this throne." He squeezes your plush waist, groping you through your shift as your hands latch onto his solid shoulders. "I mean to defile you."

He manages to pull you onto his lap with little effort, leaning in to crash his lips into yours.

You kiss him back hungrily, chasing his lips as you settle on his lap. Your fingers wind in his hair and you can feel his cock growing beneath you through the material of his pants.

His hands slide down your waist and over your wide hips, reaching for the hem of your shift and pulling it up. His tongue slips past your lips and you moan, shifting your hips atop him.

You pull away, reaching for your dress and pulling it over your head, discarding it behind your back.

Geralt holds you closer, letting his lips explore your heavy breasts as you allow your head to fall back in pleasure, your hands returning to his hair.

"Geralt," you breathe, pulling him off you after a moment.

"Mm," he hums, kissing the swell of your breast once more before he moves to free himself from the restraint of his pants. He knows what you’ve both been wanting for days. What you need.

One heavy hand returns to your back, holding you by your waist while his other grips his red, throbbing cock.

He moves his tip up and down your slick center, making you whimper as he teases you - his cockhead rubbing delightfully against your sensitive clit.

He watches your face scrunch in rapture and holds you tighter to stop your wiggling about as you whimper.

He smiles smugly to himself and when you're just about to open your mouth to protest his teasing, he finally pulls you down on top of him. The sound that escapes you is music to his ears as you grasp onto him, your nails digging into the muscle of his back as your walls squeeze and stretch to accommodate his thick length, the size of him almost too much for you to take.

"Fuck," he groans as your walls tighten around him. He gives you a moment before he begins to urge you to move. He guides your hips, slow and sensually. The feeling of his hands on you motivates you to try and ride him yourself. And you do try, but you cry out again at how big he is, how fully he is stuffing you. You can barely move.

Geralt kisses you as he holds you closer, taking pity on your tight cunt and instead he moves his hands to your soft hips again. He holds you on top of him securely before he begins to fuck up into you.

You mewl as he jostles you, bouncing you up and down his cock, your breasts moving in time.

You pull on his hair, forcing him to look up from where his gaze was fixed, watching his own cock as he stretched you out for him, watching as your cunt took as much of him in as she could, up to your hooded lust filled gaze. You lean into him, chest to chest as you kiss him fervently. His lips follow yours as you taste one another. You nip at his lip and he growls, his hands gripping the ample flesh of your ass, "Keep that up," he snarls.

"And you'll what?" you breathe heavily, eyes screwed shut, jaw tight as you deadbrain on the pleasure coursing through you.

Your answer is a harsh thrust of his cock inside of you, stealing your breath while he slaps your ass, your flesh stinging from the force.

"Oh, fuck," you whimper debauchedly, your velvety walls squeezing him ever tighter as you feel yourself growing closer with every bounce. The tip of him hitting exactly where you need it to. Your body is on fire and you are loving every second of it. The feeling of him inside of you, of his hands squeezing and caressing you everywhere he can, of his lips demanding yours for more.

His grunts are growing louder and his thrusts more powerful, you kiss him hard in an effort to quiet him some, but you can feel what is coming.

Geralt is near slamming you down on top of him, the sound of your ass slapping against his thick thighs mix with the salacious sounds coming from you both and of your slick wetness as you're worked up and down his shaft, your cunt taking him better and better with each thrust.

Your hands move to hold his face, your noses brush as you breathe each other's air, lips touching just slightly.

"Geralt, I'm,"

"I know," he pants harshly, concentrated before taking your lips in his. You whimper pathetically as the coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter. He keeps you moving a top him, your clit being stimulated with every brush of your hips over his, and then with another deep thrust it snaps before you can speak. Your voice is an empty high then silent squeak as your legs tremble and your eyes roll back. Are you even breathing? Your walls clench down on Geralt's cock and he finally allows himself to reach his own high as your tight walls flutter around him, squeezing him perfectly. You ride the waves of ecstasy as his come spills inside of you. You feel him shudder beneath you and it only adds to your feeling of weightlessness, stars in your eyes as you feel, think, breathe nothing but him.

You part from his lips and your bodies are slick with sweat as you both pant heavily. Geralt holds you to him as he softens inside of you, his forehead pressed to yours as your hand comes behind his neck, holding him to you in kind.

Your lips mimic a kiss but neither of you lean in close enough to actually do it. You work to catch your breath and settle for a minute before you finally break the quiet.

"Do I still owe you your coin?" you breathe, smiling when Geralt laughs in your face. You reach to move a stray strand of hair from his face, holding his cheek gently once you do.

Your stare into one another's eyes for a long moment, just breathing and being close.

"Where will you be off to in the morning?" you ask, hoping your solemn tone isn't as audible as it sounded to you.

"Don't know," he shakes his head, eyes straying to your lips.

You take a breath and pull his face closer to kiss him softly.

"I envy you, you know."

"Don't."

You huff a humorless laugh, readjusting yourself on his lap. "Not because you're a witcher. You may not have the most enviable life, but at least you have one. I've never made it past the most exterior gates," you smile sadly, playing with the hairs on his chest as you avoid his eye now.

"I suppose I'll have the chance, now, though. Thanks to you."

"And where will you go?" he asks.

Your gaze floats up to his and you repeat his previous answer. "I don't know. But I won't stay here. This kingdom is..." you shake your head. "I don't belong here. Never felt like I did. But I made a promise to my mother when I was young, and another to my father before he passed. I know I've let them down," you swallow the rise of emotion threatening to overcome you, "but alas, the fall of a kingdom is ever inevitable. Especially under such rule as my own."

"I've heard word of your rule from many. You're known to be kind. Caring. Protective, even. I don't believe you've failed. I think you were exactly the kind of ruler you should have been, who you needed to be. But perhaps it's a good thing you won't be forced any longer into holding power you don't desire. You're now free to do as you wish."

"I am," you nod lightly in agreement. "If only I knew where to start,” you muse with an uneasy laugh.

His hand runs up your back comfortingly; he's pensive, deep in thought for a long moment before he speaks.

"If you ready your things, I don't think Roach would mind a travel companion of her own. She seems to have taken to Belfast… I'm not sure she'd be ready to part with him so soon, anyway."

"Is that so?" you ask him, faux curiosity playing in your voice.

"And Jaskier is easier to take when I'm not the only one he has around to bother."

"Right," you nod, fighting your soft smile.

"And of course your coin would be useful as well."

"Of course," you exaggerate your agreement. "…Geralt, are you getting at something here?"

"Just that, if you want to join us…you might."

You lean into him again, thumb rubbing along his stubble lining his cheek, and this time he kisses you first. More gently than you expect. You can’t help your smile now.

You part lightly and breathe,

"I hope you mean that, Witcher. Because I just might."

[my-writings-and-musings]

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW LONGG I WAS WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO WRITE BB X READER X BD AND I GIVE YOU MY UTMOST THANKS FOR IT 😭😭

It was so fun to read! The darling being a flustered mess was sooo adorable to read! YOUR WRITING OS SO NICEEE I LOVE ITT :DDD

Flustered breakdown will now be living rent free in my mind for some time

NO PROBLEM I'VE BEEN CRAVING IT TOO AND SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD BECAUSE WE NEED MORE OF THESE DORKS

Asdfghjkl thank you so much though, I had a blast writing that fic and I'm so happy people enjoyed it! I hope you're ready for Breakdown to be living there for a while, because you inspired me to write some more...

Please enjoy Breakdown being sleepy and bashful along with some cows.

Few people would have ever believed you without seeing it for themselves, but you knew the truth from increasingly ample experience; Cybertronians were utterly adorable when they slept, cuter than any human could ever hope to be, anyway. Even the surliest bots in existence turned to snoring kittens when in a much needed power down. 

You freely expressed how much you appreciated said cuteness to the two most important mechs in your life, and while Bumblebee didn't mind being referred to as such (if anything he seemed to brighten every time you said as much), Breakdown made quite a point of denying that he could ever be referred to as anything short of "badass". He insisted that he didn't take "cat naps" as you'd teasingly observed, but that he instead powered down only when necessary, and that he looked anything but cute while doing so. His determination for you to see him as cool and smooth went in direct contrast to reality, where he was an adorable nerd who grew easily flustered in your presence and napped often where he thought you wouldn't notice, but on most days you were happy to pretend for his sake. 

Today, however, you had stumbled upon something far too sweet to ignore. After coming home early from errands you'd been too tired to finish, you'd expected Bumblebee to be gone as he was conducting a training exercise, but the unexplained lack of Breakdown had compelled you to search your homestead when he didn't answer his comm. You hadn't needed to search far, as the sizable mech wasn't hard to spot in your cow field even at a distance, but it had taken a moment for you to believe your eyes. 

Beneath the broad branches of an apple tree, Breakdown was snoozing in the picture of absolute contentment, his servos folded behind his helm to keep it steady against the trunk at his back and his long frame stretched out in the shady bed of grass. That alone would have been precious enough, but his company of a half dozen dairy cows snuggling against him to share in the nap almost made your heart implode. Considering his chosen task for the day had been securing the weak posts of their fence, you could surmise that he'd taken a break beneath the tree afterwards only to drift off surrounded by his newfound friends. 

Quietly opening the gate and approaching the group, you were quickly noticed by the ever-alert herd, who lifted their heads as soon as the lock clicked shut behind you. Eager to see you as always, the heffers abandoned their nap and Cybertronian sized heat source to happily trot to you in greeting, mooing out their delight but thankfully not waking Breakdown in the process. You smiled as you were surrounded by happy cows, and when broad snouts started sniffing for treats you rewarded them with pats and a playful quip. "Hey girls, sorry to say he's spoken for." 

Conversational moos told you there were no hard feelings, and the group remained clustered around you as you entered the shade where Breakdown was still fast asleep, your smile softening as you felt the gentle stirring of his peaceful ventilations. You might have been content to let him finish out his power down and pretend you hadn't seen a thing, but one of your herd had other plans. The smallest cow let out an insistent moo at your side, one which quickly proved too much for the big mech to sleep through. Snapping open his optics with a start and instinctively ready for a fight, Breakdown sat up and looked around in a hurry. He looked far more mortified by the sight of you than he would have for an army of enemy bots.

"You having a good nap there, big guy?" you asked playfully, petting the head of a cow as she bumped against you for affection. For a solid few seconds the mech was silent and frozen before you.

"Don't know what you're talking about." he said suddenly, finding his voice in a rush and clearing his vents to keep it from cracking. Leaning back against the trunk and resuming a relaxed posture, he did everything not to appear concerned, fooling only himself as he tried to play the cool guy. "Just resting my optics after a long day…"

"I can see that." you replied playfully, smiling as a few cows left your side to return to his. Breakdown frowned to the point of pouting as the animals did little to help his case, setting themselves down on the grass at his sides to once more snuggle against the warmth of his frame. As displeased as he looked about the gathering, the mech didn't try anything to disperse the herd, and you chuckled as an especially affectionate cow laid her head on his pede. "Looks like you picked up a few admirers while fixing that fence."

"Yeah, uh… don't really know why they won't leave me alone." he said awkwardly, keenly aware the gathering of sleepy bovines was not helping his image. Still, he didn't dare move in any way that would disturb them, something you noticed even as he tried to puff up and revert to his chill persona, voice deepening as he smirked and gestured to the fence. "But you don't have to worry about any more escapees, I got that section of fence nice and secure."

Following his point to the poles it would have taken you an entire day to mount, you recalled the aforementioned escape that had sent you, Breakdown and Bumblebee halfway across the county on a cow wrangling escapade. Genuinely relieved that you no longer had to worry about a repeat incident, you moved a little closer to his upper body and put an appreciative hand on his arm before returning your gaze to his face. "Thanks, Breakdown. I really appreciate that." you said with genuine appreciation, cutting right through his charade and sending a blush blooming across his cheeks.

Coughing again, Breakdown pretended to be occupied brushing a few stray leaves off his broad shoulders, keeping his helm turned away while he willed his visible bashfulness to fade. "What are you doing back so early, anyway? I thought you'd be running errands all day."

You shrugged and watched the remaining cows cluster about the mech for warmth, their wide eyes closing peacefully as they tucked their legs beneath their broad bodies. "I'm pretty beat, I figured I'll take care of the rest of it tomorrow." you explained just as a yawn rose up from your chest, compelling you to stretch your arms above your head. It had been a long few days on the homestead, and even if the day was young you were absolutely beat, the residual sleep debt weighing down your body after so much excitement. Being so close to a big comfy bot in the shade didn't help, and in your exhaustion the solution seemed obvious, enough so that you weren't hesitant at all as you spoke your mind. Another yawn slurred your words as you stepped over a snoozing cow. "Speaking of which, these girls seem like they've got the right idea. Mind if I join them?"

The question took a moment to register, and when it did Breakdown briefly appeared to short circuit, expression going blank before it shifted to bashful uncertainty.

"Uhhhhhh…" he said with a stare, one you returned with a good natured smile to make it clear your request was sincere. Breakdown gulped, something he did often when your lingering touches or flirts proved too much for him in the moment, then regained enough composure to speak in a murmur. "Sure."

Taking the lead, you climbed atop his chassis and stretched out over the broad, flat expanse of his chest where he was warmest, earning a tiny gasp of surprise but feeling no kind of resistance to your presence. The spark beneath his armor went from humming to singing at your proximity, and as you got comfortable a glance at his face revealed an expression of dumbfounded but delighted overwhelm. Laying down and getting quite comfortable in the dappled light, you folded your arms to act as a pillow, able to feel the tug of sleep after only moments of respite. The mech had a wonderful habit of helping you relax even if the inverse didn't apply to him.

"Bee should be back in a few hours, he'll wake us up when he gets here." you said sleepily, loving how he melted beneath you and seemed to go from hulking speed machine to a staticky mess of want every time you overwhelmed him. Still, your presence was far from unwanted even if you cut right through his facade, as was evidenced by his frame leaning into every bit of your touch. Bright yellow optics looked over you with barely hidden affection in their depths before you closed your own eyes. "See you then, Breakdown."

Pretending to drift off rather quickly, you didn't move when a tender servo brushed over your forehead before settling over your hand, his broad digits forming a tent over your fingers as he whispered just loudly enough to be heard.

"See you then, Y/N…"

[harryspet]

Fic or Drabble whichever you wanna do.

Dark bsf Rafe taking advantage of vulnerable pregnant reader. Maybe her parents kicked her out? Or her baby daddy left her. Or whatever u see fit.

(Sorry if that sucks I just love ur work sm 🩷)

homestead | r. cameron [p.1]

[warnings] dark!rafe cameron x pregnant!reader, farmer!rafe, pogue!reader, implied jj x reader, kidnapping, future NONCON/DUBCON, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

word count: 3.6k

In which you reach rock bottom after JJ gets arrested and your first love returns to save the day.

main masterlist

A boy. 

You looked down at your eighteen-week ultrasound picture and smiled weekly. You and JJ were having a baby boy, and you’d found out completely by yourself. Pope had offered a million times to attend one of your appointments, practically begging a few times because he didn’t want you to go alone. You always rejected him, as the idea of going with someone else never felt right. 

The Heyward’s had already done so much for you by letting you live in their spare bedroom for, basically, your entire pregnancy. No matter how much Pope tried to tell you that they didn’t mind at all, you saw in their eyes that the last person they wanted their son to be friends with was JJ Maybank’s baby mama. You promised them you’d be able to save enough money to get your own place by the end of your pregnancy. 

So far, your day job at a retail clothing store and the late shift you worked as a waitress at The Wreck made you enough to keep you afloat. Pregnancy check-ups and ultrasounds were an expense you weren’t initially expecting and you hated that you were contemplating skipping the next few visits to save money. Besides that, appointments meant you couldn’t work and you needed all the hours you could get. 

The picture reminded you of how much hard work was left, but the feelings were bittersweet. You were so excited to meet your little boy, no matter how small he was at the moment. If JJ’s case would move a little bit faster through the system, he could be there for the big day too. Everyone in Kildare was biased against him, knowing his father too well, and you knew the system would be biased against him as well.  

You were grateful for Pope and for knowing someone else loved JJ as much as you did. JJ wasn’t hard to love, but he was a complicated person, and your relationship seemed to bring out the darkest parts of him. Pope saw his dark side, but …he wasn’t there the night he got arrested. 

You didn’t know someone could yell so loud or be so angry. The two of you were living with his Dad, and the first few months were relatively peaceful, mostly because Luke would usually go out at night, get wasted, and crash on some other part of the island. You and JJ usually played house, taking turns making dinner for each other and sleeping together side by side. 

A week before you realized you were pregnant, Luke came around asking JJ for money that JJ “owed” him, and of course, JJ refused him. You knew he’d been saving for months to take you off the island for your birthday, and he wasn’t giving that up. The fight escalated, with both sides verbally tearing each other down. As soon as Luke mentioned JJ’s mother, there was no stopping JJ. 

The fight had already moved from the bedroom to the kitchen to the porch, and then the men wrestled in the yard. JJ would’ve killed Luke if the police hadn’t come. When he got taken away in cuffs, he was a bloody, swollen mess that you didn’t even recognize. 

It became even messier when Luke decided to press charges against his own son even though they’d both been arrested. You then decided that Luke Maybank was heartless and wouldn’t ever see what you saw in his son. 

It was the weekend, your one day off, and you’d chosen to spend most of it walking to the nearby department store after your trip to the clinic. The Heyward’s wanted to spend the day out on the water but rides on the boat were starting to make you extremely sick. Besides that, you hated fishing and It was one of the hotter days of summer but you’d chosen a lightweight t-shirt dress. Well, dresses were starting to be the only thing that you fit correctly with your growing stomach. 

You tucked the picture you were holding into your purse as you made your way inside. For the past month, you’d been working up the courage to go down the baby aisles. Yet another thing that felt completely wrong doing without JJ. Cara had also offered to help buy you things but you told her every time that you were waiting until you were closer to your due date. You’d hold off from nesting until you were sure that JJ wasn’t getting out. 

Slowly, you looked over every item. Cribs, diapers, breast pumps, baby formula, bottle warmers, and bibs. It was all so overwhelming and you knew getting everything would be expensive but the price tag didn’t quite register to you until now. You had no idea how you were going to pay rent one day and afford all of the things your baby needed. 

You picked up the cutest crib mobile decorated with rocket ships, stars, and planets, and your heart skipped when you realized it was over a hundred dollars. You’d have to work an entire shift to earn that. 

“Y/N?” 

You turned towards the deep voice and the mobile tumbled from your hands, “Shit,” You cursed as you went down with it, hoping you hadn’t broken it because you couldn’t afford to buy it. Rafe Cameron pushed his cart to the side and hurried to help you, “I got it,” You said quickly as you turned away, handing it back on its display. 

Then you really looked at him. The boy you’d been so obsessed with in highschool was not a boy. His light brown hair was longer than you remembered but was tamed by a baseball cap. His white t-shirt and jeans didn’t match the version of him you had in your head, but, honestly, he looked better than you remembered. 

He smiled, rubbing the stubble on his face, as he seemed to take you in. If Rafe looked ten times better, you probably looked ten times worse than you used to. You felt huge although people just started taking note of your bump a couple weeks ago and your hair was messily gathered away from your face. Your dress was not name brand, in fact, you remembered buying it from the exact store you were standing in and you wore boots that used to belong to JJ now that your feet were starting to swell. 

“Hey,” He said.

You breathed out, “Hi.”

“Congratulations,” Rafe glanced at your belly and you wanted to crawl inside your own skin, “I guess?”

“Thanks,” You nodded, “It’s . . . complicated.”

The sad part about being pregnant, unmarried, with your child’s father sitting in jail was that people had no idea what to say to you. 

“How are you?” He asked after you went silent.

“I’m good,” You forced a smile, “How are you?”

“Better now that I’ve ran into you,” His smirk was the exact same as you remembered, “You shopping for the little one?”

“Browsing,” You said, “Didn’t quite realize how expensive all this stuff is.”

You looked at him for understanding before you remembered you were talking to – Kildare’s richest bad boy, “You still keep all your little friends around?”

“Yeah, we’re all a bit spread out now, though. I’m staying with the Heyward’s right now.”

You weren’t quite sure why you were exposing your life to him, but part of you wanted him to know that you were fine, that you had made the right decision choosing JJ over him, and that you were still figuring out life, but you’d be happy. 

“Oh, so it’s Pope’s baby?” The smug look on his face made you realize he was teasing you. 

“You know exactly whose baby it is, Rafe,” You shot back, your eyes rolling back.

You turned to walk away but he grabbed you by your arm, “Y/N, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I’m sorry, Honey.”

You quickly pulled your arm away from him, folding your arms in front of your chest. You looked over his cart, seeing it was filled with miscellaneous things, but the only thing you could recognize was a massive back of dog food, “You got a dog?”

 “A few,” he said, placing his hands in his back pockets, “I use ‘em for animal herding. Wrangler, Sadie, and a few puppies.”

“Animal herding?”

“Yeah, I got this place on the mainland. I just came through to see Wheezie. I promised she could have one of the puppies before I sold the others.”

“You got a place on the mainland?” Your eyebrows raised, and you tried to keep your mouth from gaping, “Puppies?”

He nodded, laughing lightly, “Had to get my shit together after I got out of rehab and living with my Dad and Rose, it was just never good for me. Still working for him, but I’m just better on my own, you know?”

“I didn’t know you went to rehab,” You said quietly, still trying to process the information he was relaying. 

“A few times to be honest but I’ve been clean for a year,” He admitted while looking a bit closer at you, “Is there anything you need right now? I can help.”

“No, I couldn’t let you do that,” You shook your head quickly, “I’m fine.”

“You never like to accept help, do you?”

“I don’t need anything right now,” You assured him. 

“Hmm,” Rafe huffed, “Can I at least give you a ride, Y/N?”

“How do you know I don’t have one?” 

He gave you a knowing look that made you want to punch him. He was new and improved Rafe, but he was still an asshole, “Well, I also came to look for a new living room rug, and I could use a woman’s perspective. Help me, and I’ll give you a ride back to the Heyward’s.” 

“Whatever,” You shrugged before you began walking, “Fine.”

In his eyes, you could tell he thought he’d won. 

This was so wrong. So, so wrong. JJ would kill you. JJ would kill him. This wasn’t high school anymore, and you weren’t the insecure girl vying for the rich bad boy’s attention. Besides that, you’d always been an option for Rafe. JJ always chose you despite where you came from; now you might have a real chance of having a family. 

You blamed the way your body heated up when he spoke your name on your racing hormones and on the fact that you’d been separated from JJ for months. 

Rafe said he only came to main island to visit Wheezie, but as the weeks passed, you realized he’d found a new reason to visit. At least two times a week, he came in to the Wreck to order food and talk to you. Not only that, he practically texted you daily checking in on you. 

“Why the sudden change?” You asked him one night when closing time was closely approaching and you’d served all your tables, “I mean, I know you hated JJ but I didn’t think it would get in the way of, you know, us.”

“It’s my biggest regret after getting to know you again,” He admitted and the look in his eyes made your heart sink, “But I didn’t really know what I was doing when I was younger. I was so stupid, all I cared about was getting my Dad’s approval and I spiraled when that inevitably didn’t happen.” 

He had a way of making you question all of your own decisions. 

“Ward definitely wouldn’t approve of me now.”

“I told you I don’t care what he thinks.”

“Or what the entirety of Figure 8 will think?”

“Not at all,” He said.

“I care what my friends think.”

“You’re different than them now,” Rafe reached across the table to grab ahold of your hand as his blue eyes stared deeply into your eyes, “You have a great responsibility on your shoulders now. You have to do what’s best for you and the baby. That’s it, fuck what they think.”

“They do want the best for me,” You whispered, tears stinging your eyes.

“They want JJ for you. And he’s sitting in jail right now.”

You pulled your hand away, looking out the onto the dock and dark water. 

“You don’t even know how you should be treated,” Rafe said mostly to himself.

“What does that mean?”

“It means–” He stopped himself, but his skin was flushed with red and you sensed he was calming himself down, “I just think you deserve better.”

“And you’re going to walk into my life after all these years and save me? I can do this by myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Rafe leaned in, “JJ’s going to get out but things aren’t going to get better.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s true, he’s a fuckup. He won’t get a good job and there’s a good chance he’ll go right back,” That tipped you over the edge and your chair scraped loudy on the ground as you stood up, ‘“I’m sorry. Look, I’m sorry. I can drive you home.”

“Pope is coming to get me.”

You didn’t spare him a second look as you walked to the back of the kitchen. Until now, he’d refrained from putting all the weight of his judgement on you but you knew all a long he thought you were making a mistake. He’d been through a lot but he’d never struggled like you and JJ had. At the end of the day, he’d always had Ward’s money to fall back on. 

He just hated JJ and he was doing his best to get in between the two of you. 

Two weeks later, you were standing outside the Kildare County Jail, not because you were visiting JJ but because he was being released. Luke dropped the charges against him, and they released lower offenders due to overcrowding. You watched a few reunifications and waited on a cold bench in the lobby; blue hydrangeas in a small bouquet sat neatly in your lap. Your dress was also blue and printed with daisies. He had no idea the two of you were having a boy, and it was your sweet idea of telling him. 

You’d blocked Rafe’s number just that morning after ignoring his messages and calls. He was wrong. Even if he was calling to tell you that, you didn’t want to hear it. They never specified how long it would take to process him but you started to doze off after waiting for two hours. An officer in beige uniform tapped your shoulder lightly to wake you.

You were still hopeful and you expected to see JJ right behind him, “Hello, ma’am. Unfortunately JJ Maybank cannot be released today.”

“What?” Your eyes widened, “Uhm, why?”

“I was informed that additional charges have been filed against him.”

“What do you mean additional charges?” You asked, concern raising in your tone, “Who can I talk to?”

You when through every channel of communication possible, searching for answers. They couldn’t possibly expect you to leave like nothing happened. You found out from another officer, after heavy begging, that they filed another battery charge against him involving another inmate. Somehow, in the two days that he knew he was getting out he managed to catch another charge. 

“Could I at least visit him?” You’d asked and they told you he was in a segregated unit now and not allowed visits. 

You felt your heart physically break. When it fully started to sink in, you left to get fresh air. You walked for a long while until you started to panic. You sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and through teary eyes you tried to search for Pope’s number. What would you do now? Go back to the Heywards and continue to accept their charity? You were kidding yourself thinking you could do this alone. 

It felt like a rejection. You’d never had a real family. JJ knew that and yet he’d left you all alone again. 

You let your phone fall to the side, deciding you wanted to be miserable by yourself and you didn’t want to burden his family any longer. You threw the flowers into the street before your head fell in your hands and you finally let yourself cry for the first time since JJ had gone away. 

The bouquet you’d carefully put together lay discarded in the street and you had no care about the mud that was probably staining your dress now. Just as your chest started to tighten unbearably, you heard the low rumble of car engine and a shadow seemed to drape itself over you. You heard someone calling you, telling you to breathe, but your body wouldn’t obey the instructions. 

Your baby needs you to take a breath, you told yourself but the thought of your baby only made your guilt worsen, “I’ve got you,” You heard that familiar voice say. Being in his arms was far from familiar but your body didnt protest when it felt itself lifted in the air and placed on soft leather. 

The next time you looked up, you felt the car moving, and you saw the sun setting through the window. You felt a hand on your thigh rubbing soothing circles but you felt more paralyze than anything, “Try to take deep breaths,”  You heard him say but your body wasn’t yours to control, “Everything’s gonna be okay now. I’m going to take care of the two of you.” 

You were not in the squeaky twin bed at the Heyward’s house when your eyes peeled open the next morning and you realized that quickly. You saw wooden beams overhead and walls painted a soft cream color. You turned your head to see sunlight coming through lace-curtained windows. As fast as you could move with the extra weight, you pushed the comforter off of you and moved over to the window. It offered a view of rolling fields and distant trees, the greenery stretching as far as your eyes could see.

Looking back around the room, you saw a sturdy, antique bed with wooden nightstands on either side. A handmade quilt with vibrant patches of red and blue sat on top of the bed. Plush pillows piled at the head of the bed. On top of one nightstand was a well-worn book and a framed photo of younger Rafe with a blonde woman beside him. 

On the other nightstand was a vase of freshly picked wildflowers. You remembered your blue hydrangeas, and yesterday’s events came flooding back to you, “Fuck,” You cursed, and your eyes found the bedroom door. Before thinking about walking towards the door, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the large mirror, sitting on top of a wooden dresser. You were dressed in a white silk pajama top and bottoms, a tiny sliver of your belly poked out the bottom of the shirt, but otherwise, they fit you perfectly. All you could do was curse, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You moved quickly towards the door, but it opened before you grabbed the handle. You covered your mouth as a shriek left your lips.

Despite your startled appearance, Rafe appeared calm. His hair looked like it had just woken him up, and he wore a simple T-shirt and gym shorts. He closed the door behind him, acting as another barrier to your escape, “What the fuck, Rafe?”

He shushed you, “You need to stay calm,” He warned you, “There’s no point in getting riled up.”

“I was having a panic attack and . . . and you–”

“You needed to get away,” He raised his hands as if to show he wouldn’t cause you harm, “I took you home with me.”

“You took me home with you?” You spoke back to him, “I have a home. Why didn’t you take me back to the Heyward’s?”

“That’s not your home, Honey, and you know that.” 

You shook your head, “You don’t get to decide that. Where’s my phone?”

“It’s wherever you left it,” Rafe shrugged, “You know, when you were having a panic attack on the side of the road. Alone and pregnant with absolutely no one looking out for you. Imagine if it wasn’t me who found you.” 

Rafe looked annoyed like it was you who was crazy in this scenario. You tried to ignore the thought of him undressing you and putting you in these new clothes. The idea of that became harder as you watched his eyes trail from your feet, higher and higher, “Jesus Christ, you don’t even know how precious you are,” He came closer until you were stumbling back onto the bed, “I want you to stay here with me.”

“And if I don’t want the same?” You looked up at him. 

“I’ll let you think it over. Give it some time,” He nodded to himself, “Are you hungry?”

You didn’t answer, only stared back, “I’ll make you something. I’ll be right back.”

He turned on his heel, and as you realized what he was doing, you hurried after him. He closed the door, and as you furiously turned the knob, you realized he’d locked it, “Rafe!” You screamed as you pounded on the door, “Rafe, please don’t do this!”

You felt your tough exterior melt away. This was serious. He was completely serious about keeping you here. 

You rushed over to the windows next, throwing open the curtains, and found that they didn’t budge even as you pushed at them. You kept yourself from another panic attack, knowing that Pope would be looking for you right now. You never told him about Rafe … you were so concerned about him judging you that you next rold him. But if someone found your phone, they would know … but you had no idea what really happened to it.

As you started to pace, you suddenly felt a fluttering sensation. You stopped as you felt a tiny kick inside of you, an unmistakable movement that echoed throughout your whole body. Gently, you caressed your stomach. “I hear you,” you said through heavy breaths as your eyes moved around the room. It’s okay. I’ll figure this out. Don’t worry.”

Please let me know what your thoughts and predictions are! Reblog with a comment to be added to my taglist!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone. 

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night. 

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash. 

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up. 

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods. 

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain. 

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches. 

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.” 

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow. 

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed. 

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall. 

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor. 

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood. 

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression. 

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale. 

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.” 

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years. 

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.” 

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood. 

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten. 

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal. 

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest. 

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin. 

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art. 

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons. 

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling. 

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out. 

You ease at that. 

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.” 

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?” 

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips. 

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding. 

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap. 

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs. 

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?” 

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in. 

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door. 

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside. 

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches. 

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides. 

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs. 

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.” 

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly. 

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.” 

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.” 

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb. 

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver. 

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all. 

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him. 

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle. 

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth. 

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it. 

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut. 

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger. 

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.” 

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all. 

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off. 

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material. 

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows. 

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head. 

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing. 

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him. 

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man. 

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into. 

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.” 

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display. 

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important. 

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern. 

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet. 

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids. 

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.” 

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh. 

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure. 

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?” 

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek. 

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord. 

That was really all that matted. 

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night. 

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug. 

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward. 

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?” 

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree. 

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes. 

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger. 

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

TAGS:

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[sprout-fics]

Yarrow in Bloom

(Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Rating: Explicit (MDNI) Wordcount: 13.5k Tags: Angst, Fluff, Female Reader, Flashbacks, Blood/Injury, Vaginal sex, Slowburn, Hurt/Comfort, Happy ending, The only thing I'll write for RDR2 I swear, (doesn't post for months, drops 13k, leaves)

Summary: You lose him. He finds you. Despite everything, you still love him.

The sun sets quickly north of Annesburg, golden resplendent twilight of the mountains soaking your lonely mountain cabin in long shadows of citrine and amber where the evening wind sweeps through the aging firs. The old creak of wood floorboards under your feet is a familiar echo to the solitude of your existence, here on the fringes of the rapidly dwindling frontier you call home. The logs in your fireplace crack, the stew inside offering a slow simmer of venison and wild carrots that curls through the air of the cabin in a beckoning whisper.

You ignore it, instead standing by the window and watching the long shadows of autumn dance through the clearing outside. Quiet, you listen to the bird calls of a wilderness tamed by human hands.

There’s something about evenings like this that invoke memories of the past, have them wrap their slender arms around your shoulders and murmur through your thoughts with the aching sound of regret, of a hope since lost.

It’s in your reverie you spot the shadow that flickers through the underbrush.

Your heart doesn’t hammer as you set down the tin cup in your hands, gently deposit the shawl from your shoulders on the back of your chair. Rather, it’s with practiced ease that you reach for the rifle next to your door, slinking against the wall next to the window and carefully peering outside to watch the creeping intruder who dares to sneak up on your isolated homestead.

It’s minutes before he emerges, slowly, like a panther creeping through the brush. All muscle and subtle movement, crouched low and placing every footstep carefully, deliberately against the fir needle earth. There’s a kerchief drawn up over his mouth and nose, a tightness to his shoulder that speaks less of rigidity and more of decades of experience, a life hard lived and a youth far gone. He moves quickly, silently, moving from the underbrush to the side of your stable, and from there you watch him peek his head out from behind the corner.

Then, he lifts his eyes to the fading light.

and you know.

Like the thunderclap of gunfire, the air in your chest is punched from your lungs in one solid exhale, legs weakening as the ghosts of years past stalk and whisper at the surface of your mournful soul. In your memories the blue of his eyes sparkles like the sky over the Heartlands, a cloudless joy of something hopeful, intangible, looking ever west towards a distant future he holds cupped in his palms.

The front door of your cabin creaks loudly as you step outside, your voice carrying like a clarion across the clearing.

“Are you here to rob me, Arthur Morgan?”

- - -

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You eye Hosea uneasily as he sits next to you at the saloon in Armadillo, where the dry desert heat bakes the back of your neck and the sun carves scorching paths into the dusty ground outside. The cash from the bounty you turned in but an hour ago burns in your pocket- a fact not unnoticed by the gunslinger beside you with gray dotting his temples.

Still, he’d been kind enough to buy you a drink upon spotting you, and rather than arouse suspicion you accepted his offer of conversation with the both of you seated towards the back of the saloon. He’d told you of his travels, sparse in details in a way you’d come to recognize from conmen. Yet underneath there lay a sincerity, a gleam in his eyes that spoke less of sinister intentions and more of genuine curiosity.

“That so.” You drawl, finishing the warm beer in your hand and setting it back on the table with a thunk. Hosea huffs a laugh at you, bemused if anything else, but makes a low hum of assent anyways.

“I’ll compensate you for your time, of course.” He goes on, eyes remaining focused on you even as you avoid his gaze. “Simply to hear us out. If you decide you’re not interested, then at least I have had the pleasant experience of your company.”

Spinning a yarn. Silver tongue. A viper hidden in the underbrush.

You open your mouth to say you aren’t interested when the saloon doors swing open and Hosea sits up to regard the newest guests.

“There they are!” He crows triumphantly, beckoning over the two men who catch sight of their companion instantly- pausing to eye you over from a distance with an equal amount of suspicion. “Gentlemen, come meet my new friend here.”

The older one, a man with slicked back, jet hair and a curling smile is the first to speak.

“Hosea.” He greets before turning his attention to you. “and...?”

His smile only broadens when you mumble your name, and for some reason it reminds you of a wolf lingering at the edge of a campfire. Hungry. Watching.

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” He offers smoothly, easing into the seat on your other side even as the younger man behind him lingers, standing. “Arthur, take a seat.”

It’s only then that you turn your attention towards him, pausing, blinking as you catch sight of his glinting steel gaze. He’s young. Slightly younger than you, perhaps. Yet there’s a set to his jaw that speaks less of boyishness and more of persistence, a stubbornness that comes with youth as much as it comes with the lives you both lead.

He’s handsome.

“Arthur Morgan.” He tells you, voice firm but eyes locked on yours. Unblinking. Blue like a Sunday morning where the missionary church bells ring.

- - -

“I’ll be damned.”

Arthur lowers the kerchief from his face as he stands from the bushes, hands above his head and holding his pistol in an open grip. He doesn’t seem to look at the rifle in your hands, looking past its sight with wide eyed, astonished wonder at your face.

When he says your name, it feels like the first time.

Your chest aches.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure if you can. What do you say to someone you lost? Someone you loved, only for them to leave?

When Arthur looks at you, his eyes are sad. You watch his lips part, words forming on his tongue, before his jaw flexes shut and he decides against it.

The setting sun catches on his hair. You remember the sensation of it between your fingers when you kissed him.

You lower the gun. There’s a scrape in your throat when you speak.

“You can hitch your horse inside the stable there.” You offer quietly, turning so he can’t see the bitterness in your eyes. “There’s...soup on the stove.”

You feel his eyes burn into your back as you turn away, leaving the door open behind you and waiting just inside. There’s a moment where you think maybe he’ll go back the way he came, will mount his horse and ride off into the setting sun the way he did all those years ago. Maybe that will be the end of your story, maybe then your ghosts will be put to rest.

There’s a whistle as he calls for his mare, a jangle of reins as he leads it to the barn.

You swallow the sob in your throat.

- - -

It’s late. Midnight engulfs the camp seated outside Armadillo, where the endless expanse of stars glimmers above the dark desert. The distant, pale light of the moon rises over distant bluffs just as coyotes raise their wayward cries towards the open skies. You’ve never had a home, not truly. On nights like this, it feels pretty damn close.

The firelight dances against your features as you sit at the scout fire, crackling low as cottonwood smoke curls upwards. You huddle under your jacket, the night breeze slithering across your nape as you idly read the book before you. The pages are frayed, torn at the edges with dog-ears that speak of the years spent lost in the words between.

Across from you sits Arthur. Watching. Contemplating. Neither of you lax enough to sleep in each other’s presence just yet. Gazes glinting, shoulders stiff- two wild animals at the same watering hole, waiting for the other to give an excuse to bare your fangs. You hear the howl of wild creatures in his flinty stare.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, but given that everyone else is asleep you find yourself unable to tolerate his terse silence for long.

“What?” You sigh at last, closing your book to scowl at him. Arthur only shrugs noncommittally.

“Nothin’.” He grumbles back despite his crossed arms, and avoids your eyes as they lock on him. It’s strangely petulant, his jaw set tight despite his feigned nonchalance.

In the silence that follows, you spot the journal by his side.

Your eyes flick to his fingers tapping on the inside of his elbow, and inwardly you feel something clever curl inside your stomach.

“Is that a journal?” You ask, watching him stiffen imperceptibly. Yet his eyes glance at you, glinting from the flames.

“...Somethin’ like that.”

You feel a smile tug at the corner of your mouth, bending towards your saddlebag beside you to withdraw a worn, leather-bound notebook. When you look back at Arthur, he’s leaning forward with interest.

“Funny.” You offer, and rather than display your notebook’s contents you lean back smugly and begin to write to yourself, enjoying the look of perplexity that flashes across his features.

“Are you...writing about me?” He asks, baffled.

“Mhm.” You chirp pleasantly. “All the horrible, nasty things I thought when I first laid eyes on you, Morgan.”

He barks a laugh loud enough to make you jump, and it sounds like the howl of coyotes singing to the moon.

- - -

The door creaks as he stands on the threshold, and the autumn air sweeps inside to tickle the flames in the hearth. You stand before it, quiet, faced away from him so he can’t see the heartache in your eyes.

There’s words on your tongue that you refuse to speak. Anger, betrayal, hurt, and most of all heartache. You want to go to him, to fold into his chest and beg to know why. The cold, bitter wind of growing winter has frosted over your heart long ago when you made a vow to live the life you always wanted- a life of peace.

You only thought maybe it would have been with him.

When he says your name again, it feels like an arrow piercing your soul. You remember the way he whispered it against your skin, the way he bellowed it amidst a hail of gunfire, the way he spoke it against your lips like the confession of a sin.

“You must be hungry.” and oh how you hate the way your voice trembles, the way your hands shake as you fetch him a plate. He stands unmoved, as if torn between staying and retreating. You feel it the same inside you. Begging him to remain, to give you just a few more minutes of his presence in hopes you can once more feel his love for you. Chasing him away, screaming, crying, the wild animal he loves in you, saying goodbye for the final time even though you know it will break you.

Yet when you look at him at last, when you look into those beloved blue eyes, you see the pain there, the regret, and you know.

He loves you even now.

- - -

“You can do better than that, Morgan, c’mon!”

Your knife finds the tree trunk just as John hollers from his seat behind you two, Hosea and Dutch leaning not far from him. If you were to turn, you’d see the broad smile on his sunburnt face shaded by his hat.

Arthur ignores him pointedly, focusing instead on the ‘WANTED’ poster of his likeness pinned to the tree in front of you both. Two of your own blades stick from it, while only one of Arthur’s lodges itself near the bottom.

“He’s right, Arthur.” Hosea calls, lifting his coffee back to his lips. “Don’t take it easy on her.”

“I’m not!” Arthur snaps back over his shoulder, before turning and throwing his knife, only for the handle to bounce off the trunk. Behind him, John whistles.

“Gettin’ sloppy Morgan.”

“Says the man who can’t keep it in his pants.” Arthur grumbles lowly beside you, and you laugh before raising your own blade once more and throw your blade forward with devastating accuracy- landing square between his eyes on the poster. Dutch’s laughter erupts behind you.

“If I hadn’t known better, I’d say you had a vendetta against our sharpshooter here.”

You twirl another blade in your grip, shooting a cat-like grin to the outlaw beside you, who levies an even gaze at you. You can see his eyes sparkle. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest.

“Y’know Dutch? I’m inclined to agree with you.” Arthur voices, and this time his knife finds a notch just behind his throat.

“There we go!” John shouts, leaning forward in his seat. “Didn’t think you’d let a girl beat you, Arthur.”

This time, your knife lodges itself into the earth at his feet, and John yelps and curses before looking down towards the dirt. A scorpion lays pinned under your blade, inches away from his boot.

Dutch explodes into laughter behind him, clapping loudly enough to make the horses startle.

You grin at Arthur, who dips his head respectfully. Even then, you see the mischief playing on his lips.

Distantly, you wonder what they would feel like against your own.

- - -

There’s silence as you both sit at your table.

What words are there to say? How do you say ‘I still love you’ to the person you lost, to the person you have said goodbye to? All these years you’ve done your best to forget him, to start anew, to convince yourself Arthur was dead and to mourn him. Even when you’d seen news of the gang in the papers you’d told yourself Arthur was not among them, that he was out west where he belonged, to the place where he always felt free.

Arthur sits with his hands folded, head tilted down so you can’t see his eyes past the brim of his hat. He’s less clean shaven now, rugged and older in a way that becomes him. Handsome still, you think with your chest aching. Hollow, just like the life you once led.

“I thought...” He says at last, voice tight, refusing to look you in the eyes.

You remember that night on the mountain, in the forest. You remember the smell of blood, the pain, the tears and the barest whisper of your voice when you called for him.

He looks at you at last, eyes sad.

You remember when he left you.

- - -

He catches you at the riverbank at dawn.

You sneak away from camp before sunrise, tiptoeing past the scout campfire and down the hill towards the river before anyone else can wake. The water is still, tenebrous and velvet as you slip bare into the gentle current, shivering as your arms wrap around your naked form. Smoothed pebbles knock against your feet as you wade deeper, soap in hand as you try to accustom yourself to the chill.

You vanish under the water for a moment, holding your breath down in the dark, liquid silence as the water closes in overhead. For a moment you’re buoyed gently by the river that washes over your limbs with a tender grazing touch, your heartbeat the only melody to your quiet existence. You emerge only a moment later with a gasp, shivering and hugging your arms tight around yourself to retain a fraction of warmth.

You rub your eyes clear of water, glancing back to the shore-

and find Arthur staring back at you.

The scream that erupts your throat is silenced by your own hand, and in a flash you vanish back up to your chin, ignoring the cold water and staring venomously at the gunslinger who immediately coughs and averts his eyes.

“Heard uh...uh commotion.” He tried to justify, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the scout campfire where he’d been dozing. “Thought maybe-”

“-That you’d what? Come sneak a peek?” You snarl, and you expect him to flinch, to bow his head, to look even mildly ashamed. Instead, Arthur smiles.

“Only if you’re offering.”

You feel your face warm, and quickly you send a splash of water that falls just short of his feet.

“Woah there.” He chuckles, holding up his hands placatingly. “I thought maybe some bandit was tryin’ to steal you off. Didn’ expect to find myself a mermaid.”

You snort. “What, you thought you’d come and rescue me?”

“Depends. You need rescuing?”

“Do I look like I need rescuing?”

Arthur’s smile tugs further at his mouth. “Not necessarily.”

“Then piss off, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs a laugh, and in doing so he shows his teeth. A coyote baring its fangs.

“Pardon me then, ma’am.”

You glower at him as he retreats a short distance, posting up by a tree nearby before lighting a cigarette. The match flame dances across his rugged features.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur doesn’t glance back at you, but flicks the match off into the bushes. “Still bandits about. Can’t have them stealing one of our best shooters bare-ass naked.”

You huff. “I think bandits are the least of my concern.”

Arthur puffs on his cigarette. “Course not, not while I’m here.”

“That’s my point.”

You can see the grin tug at his mouth, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn. Eventually, when he doesn’t go away, you’re forced to go back to scrubbing, never once letting your eyes dart away from him. Yet when you dunk underwater once again to rinse the rest of your suds away and surface once more...

He’s gone.

- - -

“The others?” You ask, voice hoarse, and Arthur flexes his jaw. There’s an apology, or something akin to it building on his lips. You aren’t ready.

“We...lost some a few weeks back.” He begins. “We had a job in Blackwater that...”

You know how it goes. Dutch’s ambition was too great for his execution. You knew there would come a day when the gods of fortune would disown him. You never knew why he couldn’t see it, too blind, loyal to a fault.

“Pinkertons chased us over the mountains. Somewhere along the way we lost Davey and Jenny.”

You close your eyes at that. You’d liked Jenny, for the scant amount of time you’d spent with her in the gang. She was a sweet girl, too soft for the life you had lived then.

“John?” You ask quietly. Arthur pauses before he huffs a mirthless laugh.

“Bastard nearly got himself eaten by wolves. He’s alive. You should have seen the way Abigail tore into him. For a minute I thought it would have been better to leave him out there.”

You smile at that, the first smile you’ve had for a long time.

“Hosea is gettin’ on, but he’s as whip smart as ever.” Arthur goes on, and you see the tension begin to unspool from his shoulders. The love he has for his family is real, his loyalty to them more sacred than anything else.

Even you.

“and Jack- he’s growing so fast. He was just a baby when-”

He stops. Dares not echo the sin he’s committed. You don’t look away from him, refuse to break away from his blue eyes. The truth of the past, of what he did, of the oath he broke to you is etched across your face, in the bitterness in your eyes.

You wonder if he went back, if he would do it all over again. If he would leave you for this life of his, if he would break his promise to you one more time. This life of his, the life that was once yours, so full of violence and pain that in the end it left you alone, dying and wishing for him to return to you, begging God for the moment where he would kiss you once more.

You suppose, in the end, it was how it was supposed to be.

- - -

Whiskey stings against your tongue, the bite of it like teeth against the soft flesh of your throat. It feels like wood smoke and embers, a bite of rawness that your savor just like the untamed wilderness you’ve come to imbue inside your soul. You’ve yet to fully scrub the blood from your jacket, and if anything it adds to the flavor of violence, of brutality that marks the nature of this life you lead.

Yet Arthur’s laughter beside you fills the emptiness, brings with it the sound of rain against parched earth. It fills your soul, lifts you, and you hold it secret lest it be mistaken for weakness.

You look at him, at the way his mouth pulls sideways when he laughs. Lopsided, boyish, alive in this life without apology. Your heartbeat pulses low in your ears, a distant drum over the prairie where thunderclouds roil against the horizon. Fear is a thing that’s always existed inside you. The shadow of it drove you to a life of savagery- freedom as Arthur would call it.

In the firelight of his smile, you feel it wane low against your heart.

- - -

“I guess nothing has changed much then.” You offer in the silence that follows, your words layered with a meaning that has Arthur’s eyes flickering. “Trying to find the next big score, chased by the law, living life the way it’s supposed to be.”

“We’re living.” Arthur snaps back, shoulders tense once more, like an animal you’ve wandered too close to. Your mouth is a firm line when he looks at you, and he softens once more.

In the silence, multitudes remain unspoken.

There’s a part of you that wants to scream still, that wants to shriek like a wild thing, ignoring the tears that build in your eyes and curse him to the grave. The ghosts that linger beneath your gaze howl for reprieve, but in the end all you see in Arthur is a despair, a pain more alive than he is. It’s mirrored in your soul, in the ghost of you, the shell of yourself you’ve kept alive these years without him.

You want to kiss him, to let his arms wrap around you as you sob into his chest, in the only place that’s ever felt like home. You want to beg and plead for him to stay, to go back to that moment on that stormy night if only for the chance he would not abandon you once more.

You wonder, why despite it all, you still love him.

- - -

Fresh flowers, tucked into the bag of your saddle. You blink at them, feeling heat rush to your face just as John whistles beside you. You shove at him a little too hard- embarrassed, annoyed somehow at him witnessing the gesture, and John curses at you under his breath, bad tempered and juvenile. You don’t hear him, fingers tracing the red button blossoms.

Yarrow. You’ve seen Hosea put it in his mortar and pestle, grind them into a paste he swears does good for his heart. You wonder if Arthur knows as much, knows that the flowers he’s chosen convey so much without words.

You hide them before anyone else can see them, face warm and heart fluttering. You hide your smile when Dutch calls to you, tells both you and Arthur to ride over the horizon in sight of your next target. Even when you and Arthur mount up, your horses’ hooves thundering against the ground just as a storm brews on the horizon of the prairie, you hide the smile blossoming against your lips. You see his smirk tugging his mouth as he rides beside you. Knowing, mischievous.

While he sleeps, you press the flowers into your journal.

- - -

So what now?

Now that you’re both here, alive, regret the only thing you own in the presence of each other- what path leads forward? Is this a greeting, or a goodbye? Maybe it’s both- a chance to finally close the door on the person you were before, a farewell to the man you know will not change.

“I thought you were dead.” Arthur breathes at last, eyes full of emotion you dare not name. “I went back to look for you- nearly got shot more times than I could count. I took weeks to look for you but I never...”

He swallows, throat bobbing.

“Dutch told me to give up. They needed me. I wanted to keep looking but we had to move east. I told myself I’d go back but-”

The same as you, you think. Convincing yourself the other was dead just to avoid the heartache of a life apart from each other.

“I got picked up by some missionaries.” You mumble, looking down into your hands to avoid Arthur seeing your wet eyes. “They took care of me, nursed me, didn’t ask any questions or anything. When I finally was healed I-”

I couldn’t bear to look for you. Not after you left me.

“Sweetheart, I-”

“Don’t.” You snap sharply, emotion cracking at the cage of your ribs, and when you look up the tears finally spill over, eyes brimming with the anger and despair that has haunted you all these years. You stand sharply, the chair falling behind you so loud it sounds like thunder. “You don’t- don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.”

Arthur looks wounded, and there’s a sick curl of satisfaction inside of you at seeing his pain, at seeing the guilt you wish he’s always had for what he did. Yet his eyes are open, the color in them a touch darker, like a summer thunderstorm like washes the earth clean.

When he speaks, it’s scarcely a whisper. A confession you’ve hoped for all these years, and now rings hollow inside your chest.

“I never stopped loving you, darlin.”

- - -

“Stay still.” You snap, and Arthur hisses through his teeth as you dab at the wound with alcohol, like the snake that bit him. Venom in his veins, cured only by a tonic of wild yarrow and ginseng that blossoms bright in the summer sun. He’s broken out in a cold sweat as his body fights the poison, face ashen and shivering as he clenches his jaw tight enough to pop.

He clenches and unclenches his hand, sitting wide and forcing a breath through his shivering shoulders. You raise a hand to wipe sweat from his brow and he catches it on instinct when you get too close, like a bear trap springing closed. You’re ready to snarl back at him, all teeth and fangs, when Arthur pulls you closer instead.

You think it’s the venom that has his eyes dancing with a strange sort of light- a coyote snapping its teeth at something in the tall grass. He licks his lips as he leans closer, wound forgotten as he bends towards you.

Poison, you think, as he kisses you for the first time. Poison of the sweetest kind, aching and open and desperate as he shivers fully against you- as you knock the hat from his head and loop your arms around his neck as if he’ll dare to part from you. You swallow him down fully, heedless of the venom, of the fever he possesses just for you, of the starving thing that hollows out both of your souls, only to be filled by the other.

- - -

Despite yourself, despite everything, you fold.

It begins like a distant rainstorm, the soft mist of rain against the earth. You swallow a sob despite the tears against your face, despite the urge to hold it all in. Showing weakness was how this story began. It was how he left you.

Your weakness has always been him.

A sob startles loose from your chest, and you vainly press your palms to your eyes as if it can contain your tears. Anger, despair, hopelessness but above all else longing for the things you lost, for the time you had with him, for the things you did just to stay with him.

You hate him, hate yourself, hate the things you both lived for even if it kept you alive just to be with each other. You want to go back to the sunny day where he kissed you under the open sky and confessed his love for you against your lips. You want to banish him and scream into your solitude, you want to go back to a time where you never knew him. You want him to never leave you again.

Wordless cries, desperate noises from the broken thing that’s resided in you all this time, and all at once you’re swallowed up by his arms. He presses you to his chest and you try to fight him, you do, but Arthur holds you despite your struggles, hushes you as he hugs you to him like he’ll never let you go again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers against you as you fall apart, as you shatter into pieces that have been held together by string all this time. It’s the words you’ve wished for all this time but it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s here, and you hate yourself for allowing yourself to weep into his arms despite your promises you never would again.

Then again, you’ve both been fools from the very start.

- - -

You don’t see the third coach guard crouched on the floor.

Wet, warm breaths cling to the fabric against your nose and chin, sweat beading your forehead as you peek out from behind the tree to check for any remaining gunmen. Corpses litter the ground on the country road, the horses whinnying frantically as shouts call out between the group of you. The scent of blood, of gunpowder is a familiar aura to you by now. It cloaks itself around you, drapes its skeletal arms about your shoulders and whispers a tender embrace of death.

You stare into the barrel of a rifle, eyes wide.

Death does not lend itself to you when the shot rings out- not his.

From the tree beside you, Arthur’s pistol smokes, the bullet having found its mark.

Your heart hammers too loudly, too close to keep it silent from him you think. It feels lodged in your throat, something akin to a scream, a sigh stuck there unable to release. Arthur’s eyes are flinty from above his bandanna, steel blue like platinum, like a blade so sharp it slices through your ribs and inward towards your soul.

You try to speak, all you can manage is a nod.

“You okay?” He asks, breathless, weapon still raised. Your hands shake.

“Fine.” Your voice is calmer than it should be. “...Thank you.”

Arthur shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave you, not for a long while.

“Let’s get this done!” Dutch calls, voice cracking with his volume as he darts towards the lockbox. You wait until Arthur goes after him to follow, unsteady on your feet.

You pass by the guard in the coach, halfway hanging out of the window, a red dribbling from the center of his head.

His eyes reflect you.

- - -

“I waited for you.” You sob, fingers gripping his shirt and bunching the fabric between your fists. “You told me you’d come back. You said-”

“I know.” Arthur soothes, voice cracking as you sniffle into his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I told myself you were dead. When you didn’t come back, I told myself you died if only to spare myself the pain. I wanted-” You sob.

I wanted you to be dead rather than live a life without me.

There’s an ache inside you fit to burst, a seed planted the moment he kissed you goodbye with false promises of a reunion. It blossoms scarlet in eulogy, painting your remembrance in washes of crimson cast aphotic upon your soul. You want to burrow yourself inside its thorny stems where he can’t touch you, resign yourself to solitude in vain hope it will dull the pain.

Yet Arthur holds you, cradles you in his arms like a fawn hidden in the goldenrod where you empty yourself of cries, confessing to him the seed of grief he planted all those years ago.

“You’re okay.” He whispers into your hair, and his embrace nearly squeezes the air from your lungs with how tight he gathers you close to him. “I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

- - -

You awake with a gasp, back bowing off your bedroll and eyes wide with sightless terror. Your fingers curl into your blanket, a whimper bubbling up your throat. In the vision that plagues you, your hands are dipped red, holding a bloody rifle pointed at the eyes of the stagecoach guard. He reaches for you with a wet gurgle, offers a damnation that shivers under your skin and sinks into your bones.

His eyes reflect you.

Hands land on you, press your shoulders back against the ground and you struggle against them on pure instinct, throwing out your curled fist only for it to meet empty air.

“Hey- hey!” A voice whispers harshly above you, weight settling over your hips to pin you down. “Calm- calm down!”

It takes a few moments for the voice to register, and in that time Arthur wrestles your hands above your head in one gloved grip, the other holding your face with a gentle shake until your eyes focus on him.

“It’s me.” He breathes, shoulders heaving, eyes glimmering like stars in the darkness. “Just me.”

You’re shaking, trembling from head to toe as the scent of iron clogs your lungs and you try to think through the haze of terror gripping you. Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog, and you go lax under him. Trusting, sincere, knowing that of all the people in the world, it’s Arthur who will guard you- keep you safe.

“I’m here.” He whispers, softer, dropping his head towards you as you shudder. “You’re okay.”

- - -

“Why did you have to die, only to come back to haunt me?” You ask hoarsely into his chest, nose pressed against his shirt. You remember the feeling of the hair underneath as you traced it under the pads of your fingers.

Arthur is silent, one hand slowly tracing the curve of your spine as long shadows dance through the small, dim interior of your cabin. A single oil lantern casts you both in a yellow glow as sienna fades against the sunset fading west to the place where you both belong. Open, wild, free.

“You’re the ghost I never wanted to see.” You whisper, and Arthur stiffens. Yet you nuzzle closer into his chest. He still smells the same. Tangy sweat, acrid smoke of gunpowder, and beneath- something unshakable, tender, something that feels like home.

“Tell me to leave.” He tells you at last, and he sounds desperate in a way you haven’t heard in so long. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go and never come back.”

His hand cradles your head, presses you closer, and you melt further into his hold, into the thing you’ve hated yourself for ever wanting, and you go willingly.

“Tell me.” He says again, voice all wood smoke and pine, a forest campfire against a glimmering expanse of stars.

Yet you’re silent. The voice that holds your protests, your anger feels weak in his embrace, tendered by memory and the touch of him. The rational part of you knows you should, that you should let go of him forever and try to live a life free of violence in pursuit of glory. You know hanging onto Arthur means anchoring yourself to a ship destined to sink to the bottom of the ocean, but the part of you that remembers what it meant to kiss him, to be held by him, to be loved, doesn’t seem to care.

So instead the word that falls from your lips is:

“Stay.”

- - -

“Stay.” You ask him quietly, gripping at his sleeve as if you were a child. Arthur seems frozen to the spot, unbalanced and unsure. His own bedroll lays a short distance away, at the edge of the fire that licks warm against your bare arms. You half expect him to gently withdraw your hand from him, whisper a goodnight and turn with his back towards you. The taste of his lips upon yours those weeks ago lingers, and you wonder if the poison inside of you both has finally quelled the gnawing hunger inside both your souls.

Arthur turns to you, lips parted. You want to steal another kiss from them just as you live your life on thievery- this treasure more precious than all the others. You want to wrap yourself in him like smoke, bathe in the moonlight waters of his gaze and burrow deep into his chest where you’ve made your den. The wilderness of his soul feels inherent to yours, alight with the misty green valleys and towering, ancient forests of which you find yourselves in.

“Stay.” You say again, quieter. Softer. Pleading.

He goes to you, and it feels like a dream of a different nature. It feels like something from a vision, the way he bends to you, raises you to his lips and breathes whiskey onto your tongue.

“Sweetheart.” He whispers there, and you shudder at the slow, sweet drip of his voice onto your tongue. You crane towards him, shivering, too warm, wanting to burn alive in the cinders of his touch.

He kisses you again, harder, more forcefully, a low groan spilling past his lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, drag him down with you into hell, where the sins of the lives you’ve led taste just as sweet as the other upon your tongue.

- - -

“Just for tonight at least.” You whisper hoarsely, fingers gripping at his jacket, nose buried against the worn cotton of his shirt. You know from experience that Arthur’s loyalty runs deep, far too deep for even you to conquer. To ask him to stay is like asking a wild thing to release dying prey from the clutch of its maw. Even if you pry at his jaws and make your fingers bleed he won’t relent. Red from your palms blooms like yarrow under sunlight, and all it does is make his eyes glimmer with an unquenchable hunger.

“I just...you owe me that much.” You go on, and it’s a low blow, one he doesn’t deserve after the time he spent trying to search for you, but you’re selfish just as he is. In this moment you need him, you need him to stay just to call him yours for the scarce time you have together.

Arthur’s arms are still around you. You can hear his heartbeat thump against your cheek as you nuzzle against him. You can hear the hesitation held between his breaths just like the calm before a thunderstorm before it slaps against the space between sky and earth. Silently, you beg whatever god has not deserted you that you can be afforded this much, that you can close your eyes and pretend just for a moment he won’t leave you again.

Finally, Arthur breathes. Rather than speak, you feel the moment he surrenders with the tension bleeding from his shoulders, reaching to tip your chin upwards into his waiting mouth. You go without an ounce of resistance, too tired to fight, to scream, to even feel the tear that escapes the corner of your eye.

“Alrigh’.” Arthur sighs into your lips, and swallows your shuddering breath.

- - -

You’re drunk on the taste of him, on the low moan that rumbles from his chest. You taste endearments on his tongue as he whispers them with low, sinuous tones that make your toes curl. To kiss Arthur is to feel the vibrancy of life itself against your lips. Living without regret, without fear, reckless as he smiles to hail of gunfire and glinting knives. Alive, wild, untamed in a way you can’t seem to manage but want so desperately to be.

Arthur kisses you without any hesitation, without a sense of gentleness. Desperate, wet, noisy as he laps at the inside of your mouth, feeds on the mewl that bubbles up your throat. His teeth find your bottom lip, your jaw, your breast. He finds the pulsing vein of your throat and you wonder if he’ll bite down on that too, let red gush into his mouth if only to quench the hunger inside of him. It’s not enough- it never is. The very act of living isn’t nearly enough for his soul- as endless as the map of the world itself. Neither is the sensation of your blunted nails digging into his shoulders, crawling beneath his shirt and tracing through the coarse hair of his stomach just as his muscles jump under your touch.

The desire of being wanted, of being found, of belonging here is enough to make you fall apart in his arms, where he feasts upon the sin of your flesh. Into your neck he whispers “Darlin’.” Against your bared breasts he growls “Sweetheart.” Between your legs, where his tongue laps against your glistening folds he breathes. “Mine.”

All your life you have wandered in search of somewhere to rest the empty fringes of your heart, to lose yourself in someone else just as the horizon swallows up the setting western sun. If Arthur asked you to open yourself to him, to swear yourself to just him, to follow him into hell itself, you think you would follow just as long as he held your hand.

He kisses the tears of overwhelm from your eyes, and you taste the salt of them upon your lips.

Arthur devours you, and you allow him gladly.

- - -

He takes you to bed, gentle in a way that feels unfamiliar. A younger version of him would have met you with clacking teeth and a bruising grip- overeager, hungry and ferocious all at once. Now Arthur is softer, dulled at the edges like a worn knife. Still sharp enough to leave a jagged wound upon your heart. Every slow, languid kiss melts away at the loneliness that has kept you as your only companion for years. His hands pull carefully at your shawl, your shirt, popping each button with nimble hands trained from years of violence.

He tastes like bourbon, like cigarettes, like sweat and gun oil. Traces of the life he lives beyond the bounds of laws. Your fingers tangle in his overgrown hair, drag him down so he can lick inside your open mouth and pour careless whispers onto your tongue. You want him to surround you, to be inside you, to crack open your ribs and make himself home in the place where he’s always belonged no matter how much it might hurt you.

There’s a need inside you unlike anything else. To call it hunger would be to call a wolf tamed. It cannot be fed no matter how much he indulges you, and with every second he parts to breathe it howls with something primal and ferocious that threatens to bleed him dry. Your teeth snag on his bottom lip and Arthur growls in return, a low rumble of warning you dare not heed.

“I want you like you used to have me.” You pant, bracing his forehead against yours, feeling the sweat build against his nape as he presses you into the wall with his bulky frame. “Like we had nothing else to live for.”

You feel Arthur pause, feel a fission of tension run through his shoulders, his hand curling as it braces on the wall behind you.

“My girl.” He offers then, in a voice that haunts your waking dreams. “Mine.”

- - -

He’s looking west.

The sky arches over both of you, cloudless, azure, open to the horizon in any given direction. Prairie grass tickles your cheeks as you lay beside him, your hand trapped beneath his gun calloused palm. The wind ruffles his hair and in this moment you can’t help but think how alive Arthur looks- sunburned but smiling, wistful in his eyes as he stares at the western sky. Hoping, longing, desiring something you both will never reach.

You reach for him, and wordlessly he goes to you, breathing against your lips as if he would a prayer. Without words you understand each other, through touch alone you convey symphonies of the endless sky and all the hopes wished to it. Arthur kisses you like the wind that carves through the bluffs- wild and beautiful and home.

“My girl.” He rumbles from above you, braced on his elbows as he gazes down at you. You trace the growing lines on his face, of age that finds you both. Proof of the life you’ve both lived, of survival despite brutality and violence for the sake of this thing called freedom.

He is no longer the young man you knew when you found him all those years ago, and you find yourself have changed as well. You’re softer now, aged by the blood on your hands that sinks into your veins and transforms you. Guilt and regret are things that are not allowed to you, not with the sins engraved into your soul. You think the longing for peace is the same thing Arthur feels when he looks west. Freedom of a different kind.

Yet you know too that you’d do it all again for him, for this moment where he kisses you under the beautiful blue sky the same color of his eyes looking ever towards the horizon. In this moment you are happy, you are loved, and you would gladly drown yourself in sin if it means you can stay with him for just a moment longer.

- - -

The scars on him are different now. You trace them under the bare pads of your fingers as he pauses to hold his own between his bared teeth and pull off his gloves. Under him, you lean back to admire the strength in his bare shoulders, the sinewy muscle that lays under a thick thatch of curls that you trace down to his stomach. Arthur shudders above you, braced on his forearms, panting, hair falling into his wild, flinty eyes.

Arthur looks at you like he’s seen a ghost, too transfixed to look away. For a moment his eyes are distant, and you know where his mind goes, to that stormy night atop canyon bluffs where he had held your limp form and begged you for something you could not give.

“Arthur.” You whisper, and the light in his eyes changes. You watch his throat bob, his jaw tighten for a moment before he shudders into you, the bulge in his pants nudging insistently at your thighs, which you spread to either side of him with open invitation. “Arthur.”

He leans down to kiss you again, groaning openly into your mouth. It’s messy- wet and slick as he sucks at your tongue. Brow scrunched, he lets himself fall into you, allows himself the cardinal sin of remembrance amidst betrayal. You welcome him with open arms, knowing despite your fruitless efforts that you were meant to be here, in his embrace.

“You’re going to haunt me for the rest of my days.” He murmurs as his hand strokes the bareness of your inner thigh.

Outside, coyotes howl at the moon.

- - -

The golden glow of the fire casts him in resplendent light. Bare chested, sinewy with taut, lean muscle. His hair has gotten longer, clinging with sweat to his nape and brushed from his eyes. You follow the silvery skin of an old wound from his rib to his side- a shallow knife slash you stitched yourself. As he bends forward you long to knead the soft flesh of his stomach under your palms, trace the line of hair from his navel downwards into his lap where the worn, leather-bound notebook resides under his palms.

You lay on your side, bare under his draped bedroll, watching him sit beside you. He traces your likeness into the pages of his journal, eyes flickering like flames as they dart from you to the paper as if he can’t entirely trust himself to remember the vision of you. The spend of his leaks between your wet thighs, and you know by night’s end he will have added to it, so ravenous is his hunger for you.

“Writing about me?” You ask as he glances up at your face, a knowing smile on your lips.

He hums a low note, raspy in his chest as his mouth tugs into a smirk.

“Horrible, nasty things.” He muses, and you snort.

Your hand travels from under your chin, southward to cup the swell of your breast under his hungry gaze. You catch your lip between your teeth as you moan, watching his eyes glimmer and his hands pause over the pages. Temptation, bait for a wild creature who crawls towards you, over you, smiling into your purring mouth.

“Again.” You tell him without preamble, and you taste his smile against his lips.

- - -

He settles himself above you, all musk and smoke as he rolls his hips against yours in languid, slow thrusts. You feel his shoulders shiver under your bare hands, forehead pressed to yours and every rattling breath fanning across your skin. He’s indulging, gentle, remembering what it was like to have you as his. You wonder if he’s lost the memory of every scar, every dip and curve of your body against his.

The stretch is uncomfortable at first, larger than you remember as you whimper into his neck. A hand braces at your hip, rubs soothing circles into your skin as he angles with slow, powerful motions that drag at the burning need inside of you like a riptide. The tip of him nudges something deep inside you that’s remained untouched since you lost him, and the aftereffect sends coiling pleasure fissuring out along your limbs like gunpowder igniting under your skin.

Your need dribbles out around the plug of his girth, stretching you until your toes curl and you moan openly, baring your neck to his ravenous gaze. Arthur is loud above you, an endless stream of words and noise that burrows warm and viscous into your veins.

“Yeah, that’s it. Fuck- fuck. That’s my girl. So damn pretty.” He huffs, voice catching something low and rough in his chest. He moans long and loud as you clench up around him, gritting his teeth as his hips stutter for a moment- exhaling long through his nose. “Not gonna last if you tighten up like that, sweetheart.”

Cheeky, you flex down on him again and the noise that drops from his mouth is sinful. It only lengthens his thrusts, bracing himself so he can fuck down into you, his tip nudging your slick walls that grip him with every retreat. The pace is enough to drive you mad, gripping at him until bruises are sure to form along his skin. You want to leave a memory of you there, want to mark him so that when he leaves he’ll remember you for just a little longer.

and quietly, despite yourself, you hope he stays.

- - -

On the third dawn of your long ride with Arthur, you awake tangled in his arms, legs entwined with his as the low, blue glow of sunrise softly colors the sky above. The fire has burned down to cinders, and the cool bite of morning against your bare skin has you cuddle all the closer to him, listening to his sleepy groan as he rouses.

He whispers good morning against your soft lips, and in return you smile against the corner of his mouth. Arthur tastes like sweat and sunshine, like something wonderful and wild that you can never truly wrap your hands around despite the yearning inside you.

You should rise along with the sun, should pack up camp and continue on this scouting mission Dutch has sent you both on. You’ve taken long enough, should have been heading back days ago, but instead you find yourself here, tangled in each other's arms as the low, azure hues of dawn settle over your bare forms.

Arthur seems to think the same, because when you try to wiggle out of his arms, reach for your haphazardly shed clothes, his arms only fasten around you all the tighter, nose buried against your collarbone.

“Stay.”

For him? Always.

- - -

There’s tears brimming in your eyes. From the overwhelm of sensation as Arthur gently tugs one of your nipples between his teeth, from the sharp stab of memory between your ribs, you aren’t entirely sure. They well hot in your eyes, your voice caught between a sob and a moan, legs trembling as you press your heels into his back.

Arthur’s blue eyes fasten on you, look up at your knotted brow and trembling lip as he softens at the seams, takes your face in his hands and turns you up to him.

“Darlin’.” He rumbles, syrupy and sweet like the warm bite of bourbon. His lips descend to the corner of your fluttering eyes, drinking in the salt from your wounds laid bare beneath him.

“Arthur.” You whisper, voice cracking on the sound. It hurts, you think, somewhere deep inside of you, but the pain is buried by the sensation of him inside you, above you, around you, engulfing you like a tidal wave out to shore where all your reservations drown in the deep.

You kiss him, salt upon his tongue, melting into him. It’s what you’ve always wanted. It’s the place you thought you belonged for so long. In this moment, it’s the only thing you’ll ever have.

Arthur’s gun calloused hand slides down to the meat of your thigh, hauls you up so your calf is pressed against his shoulder and you moan, the new angle allowing him to press deeper inside you. It’s all you can do to cling to him as Arthur resumes his pace, whimpers bubbling up your throat as he leans back and begins to truly fuck you, grunting and groaning, words incoherent.

“Fuck- fuck beautiful. Feel so fuckin’ good, so pretty.” He pants, pausing to suck a bite into your calf which has you bow off the bed with a yelp. “Yeah, that’s it. Lemme hear you, honey.”

“Arthur-” You moan in return, and if it’s a plea or a prayer you aren’t sure. Everything feels too warm, too bright, nerves narrowing down to the feeling of him inside you, the press of his public bone into your clit as he claims you like you’re his.

You remember this. You remember the snarling, wet kisses and bruised lips and the feral sensation of it all, two wild things in the wilderness lost except for each other.

and, quietly, you find the words within you to say:

“I love you.”

- - -

He takes you there under the open blue sky, tucked away in an aspen grove where a vixen barks nearby. Sunshine fills your head, golden and honey-sweet as you laugh under him, his teeth nibbling against your neck where you can feel his smile. You’re wasting time, laying in the sun bare and uncaring, wrapped in each other, and you can’t think of any place you’d rather be than here.

Arthur braces on his arms suddenly, twisting off to the side and hauling your bare leg over his hip. You think for a moment he’ll slide inside you again, but instead Arthur pauses. Thinking, eyes distant.

“I...” he tries at first, suddenly hoarse. There’s an emotion in his stare you don’t have words for. His scraped knuckles brush your cheek. “I love you.”

You blink, caught off guard, eyes wide with wonderful realization that blossoms like yarrow under rising summer sun.

“You...I...” He tries again, at a loss. “Hell, I’ve never been good with words sweetheart, I-”

You lean forward, brush your lips with his. It silences him with a little noise of surprise, a breathless sort of shudder that trembles through the sinew of his shoulders.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” You whisper, fingers stroking through his sweat damp hair. “I love you.”

He grins, and you feel your chest flutter helplessly, surrendering completely to him.

“My girl.” He rumbles, lips descending to yours again as sunshine abounds inside your heart.

- - -

“I love you.” You say again, holding his face as Arthur pants into your mouth, chasing his release just as he chases yours. “Despite everything, I love you.”

His forehead drops to yours, tongues entwined as he groans into your mouth, lost in the haze. You can still taste the salt of your tears, and you wonder if Arthur allowed himself, if perhaps he’d cry too. For the regret of leaving you, for the pain of losing you, for the years spent without you, for this moment where you both pretend like this will be the rest of your lives.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls, teeth catching on your lip. “Let me. Let me, please darlin. I want-”

“Tell me you love me.” You manage between gasps, hands tangled in his hair, hauling him down against you, legs locked around his hips to prevent any thoughts of escape. “Say it.”

“I love you. I love you. Fuck, honey- I love you. I’ve wanted you all this time, needed you-” Arthur babbles, hips stuttering. You can feel him twitch inside you, and you cant your hips up to meet him just as Arthur curses, leans back to rub a calloused thumb over your clit and your body sings. Lightning fractures your spine, the pressure building so fast and overwhelming you can hardly choke out a warning of your impending orgasm before it begins to crest.

“Cum fr’me, c’mon.” Arthur growls, jaw grinding as he thrusts into you with the beginning throes of his release. “C’mon sweetheart lemme feel it, need to feel it, c’mon- oh fuck-”

You sob as you finally cum, legs shaking as the pressure recoils taut through your muscles and spreads warm along your limbs. Your ears are ringing from the force of it, so severe and sudden it’s all you can do but to hang on to Arthur as he grinds his thumb into your clit, working you through it, punches the final few thrusts inside of you with a whine bitten off at the back of his throat.

“Good girl- damn. Good girl, my girl. So good fr’me.” He slurs, feeling the ricochets of your release ripple down over his length just as he empties inside of you, shuddering and grinding his release into you. “That’s it. My girl. Feels like heaven darlin.”

He cuts himself off with a low, shuddering groan before dropping his weight onto you, cock twitching still. You pepper his face with kisses. His mouth, his nose, his eyes, his cheeks and knotted brow. Arthur pants against you just as you catch your breath, skin damp with sweat and sex, the cabin too warm now in a way that makes you want to wrap yourself in him all that much more.

“I love you.” Arthur says again, but this time it’s aching, tender, and you hear the years spent without saying it in his voice. “Never stopped lovin’ you.”

He pauses, and you feel him swallow with his head dropped to your shoulder so you can’t see his eyes. “I tried. I tried to stop but...”

You raise his face to yours, and feel his confession upon his lips.

- - -

“I love you.” He says again, as the stars glimmer above, as the fire crackles beside your tent. Here in the middle of everything you are the only two creatures to exist, away from violence, from machinations and savagery and the curse you’ve both gained through the weight of your sins.

The fire catches golden against his eyes, his hair, his bare chest as he braces above you. Sweat beads his brow as he rolls his hips against you, your heels pressed into the small of his back as you swallow his confession with a breathless gasp. The dizzying intoxication of him glows warm in your veins, thrums under your skin and electrifies you. Pleasure curls hot and liquid below your belly but it doesn’t compare to the warmth in your chest as he echoes your name again, braces his forehead on yours.

“I love you.” He tells you, and it’s desperate somehow, as if he thinks you haven’t heard him, as if he’s never said it before and will somehow lose the chance. You kiss him, swallow his moan with your tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair to drag him impossibly closer. “My girl. God-”

He sits up, hauls you with him so you’re braced into his lap. You loop your arms around his neck, bounce on his lap and feel the smile he presses to the corner of your lips when you giggle. His hands splay against your back, cup the swell of your ass just as he nips at your collarbone, knowing the mark he’ll leave there for the others to see. You don’t care. Let them know, you think, that the things you fight and kill for, the murders you commit, the lives you ruin, are for this- for the freedom he loves so much.

Freedom, if only to love him in return.

- - -

He lays with you tucked in his arms, fingers tracing along your nape, legs tangled. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel the desert stars above from all those years ago. It’s warm here, and your home is finally complete with him in it.

Yet the unspoken lingers, the whisper of goodbye both past and future quiet ghosts to this moment of peace you wish you could stay in. You cling to Arthur like a life raft amidst stormy seas, knowing at any moment he can be torn from you, that you’ll be cast into the cavernous depths below.

“I don’t want to be alone again.” You whisper to nobody but yourself.

Arthur’s fingers pause, and with his heart below your cheek you feel him shift, tip your face towards his.

Blue eyes. The color of a Sunday morning where missionary church bells ring. The color of skies promising rain, of the oceans you never got to see, of the waves that threaten to rip him from your hold.

“I am never leaving you alone again.” Arthur whispers, and the fierceness of it startles you, makes your heart leap in your chest. It would be a snarl if it weren’t for the tender caress of his hands against your bare form, the way his thumb presses down on the soft bed of your lip.

When he kisses you, it feels like a vow.

- - -

You stand atop the valley at sunset. Orange bleeds across the sky, where the train station waits below. Smoke curls up into the heavens from the steam engine, and you watch the distant glimmer of gold from high above as it’s loaded onto the train.

Beside you, Arthur whistles low and long, lowering his binoculars. There’s a telltale glimmer in his eyes, the kind you see only when he’s sizing up a score. Grinning, all teeth, fangs bared. If he had a tail, he’d be yipping at the sky.

A thief, through and through, even though you’re the one that stole his heart.

“Think we can manage it?” You ask, and your horse seems to sense your trepidation, pawing at the soft earth anxiously.

Arthur hums low, considering. “Need to do it smart, but with Dutch and the others I’d say so.”

Smart. You’ve known Dutch to be clever, wily, but smart...

You can’t shake the dark cloud that looms inky over your thoughts like distant thunderclouds, the feeling that this isn’t as easy as it looks. There’s something off here, and you can’t seem to place it.

Above, a vulture circles.

“Might get away with enough for me to buy you something.” Arthur murmurs, shooting a sidelong smirk at you. You huff, trying to cover the doubtful flicker of your eyes.

“Like what?”

“A ring?”

You stare at him, slack jawed, the wind whistling between you the only sound on earth. Flabbergasted, you try to speak, to question him, anything, but Arthur leans forward out of his saddle, uses his gloved knuckle to close your mouth.

“Gonna catch flies, sweetheart.”

You splutter, reaching for him, but he darts away. In fact, he urges his horse about, turning on his heel and racing back down the trail as your voice echoes after him indignantly.

Arthur laughs upwards towards the setting western sun.

- - -

He falls asleep holding you, arms wrapped around you as if he’ll never let you go, just as he says.

It takes effort not to cry.

You tell yourself you believe him, that this time he’ll stay. You tell yourself he loves you more than he loves freedom itself, that all that glitters is not gold. For the briefest, fleeting moments, you allow yourself to dream of him growing old by your side, of getting to watch the grays dot his temples, smile lines etched into his face. You think about what it would be like to watch the setting sun with him as you both slowly fade away.

You think about how you asked him to leave with you once, how you’d quietly confessed to him that you could no longer live this life but were unable to part from him.

You think about the heartbreak in his eyes.

and you know, deep inside yourself, here tucked in his embrace...

That it is better to think of this as just a dream.

- - -

You don’t feel the bullet. Not at first.

You hardly hear it above the din, the echo of gunshots all around you. Yelling, gun smoke, the shriek of horses as you try to out-ride your pursuers suffocates the world around you. Your mare stinks of foamy sweat as her legs pump under her, trying to carry both you and the bags of gold dust secured behind your saddle. The whites of her eyes show, wild as you race alongside the others, turning to fire behind you as gunfire glints in the darkness.

You can hardly tell the difference between the whistle of bullets and the slicing wind, the rain that drives hard against your skin, leaks into your eyes so you can hardly see.

It’s only after you raise your gun arm again, feel it fall limp and weak to your side that you notice something’s wrong.

As the world tilts, you hear Arthur scream.

You’re still trying to raise your gun when you slouch sideways in the saddle. Your mare races onward with you as her limp passenger, blind with fear and twice as fast.

Arthur is yelling as you fumble for the reins, as you finally notice how the rain seems to seep below your clothes, how it feels warm against your skin.

You focus on trying to sit up, trying to breathe against the blinding pain that erupts from your shoulder. Your ears are ringing, trying to discern the thunder from the eruption of guns behind you. There’s voices, muffled as you try to focus on them, movement on either side of you as John and Davey drop back to cover you. You try and urge your mare faster, spurs digging into her sides, and she only squeals.

All at once, arms fasten around your middle and you feel your body hauled abruptly sideways, off balance. They cradle you to his chest as you slouch sideways in his saddle, blood trickling down your arm and onto his.

“C’mon.” Arthur grits, trying to shake you before his voice goes breathy, desperate.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

- - -

You wake to an empty house, and a note.

Sweetheart, it reads, and you graze the torn edges of the paper, fresh from his journal

I’m sorry. There’s things I need to do, debts I need to settle. I’ll be back for you. I promise.

I love you.

- - -

“We need to draw them away. Keep them on our tail and then shake em.” Dutch announces, voice low and grim. You feel Arthur’s arms tighten around you. It feels as if you can barely grip his jacket. The fabric slips under your fingers, slick from the rain. The grove at the edge of the valley rise is dark in the rain. You can hardly see Dutch beyond the darkness. No lanterns lest your pursuers spot you. Even now, you can hear them in the distance. Hollering, searching.

“We can’t just leave her-” Arthur tries to protest, voice bordering on a snarl and-

“Arthur.” Dutch says, voice ringing deep with his baritone, and you hear Arthur’s jaw click shut almost instantly. Duty bound. Kept at heel.

There’s words then, quieter, more grim that you can’t make out. You drift in and out of awareness. The world around you feels too cold, the grip on the pistol in your hand too loose in a way you can’t seem to tighten. Blood oozes steadily from your wound, dresses you in a blossoming red of yarrow flowers laid upon your grave.

Then, Arthur.

“We gotta go darlin.” He breathes, voice tight, and you are awake just enough to try and shake your head no. Not like this. You always thought he would be here at the end. “Just- just stay alive. Please.”

“Arthur.” You wheeze, gripping at his coat, his arms, anywhere you can reach. Pistol forgotten so you can touch him. Just him.

He presses kisses to your scrunched brow, bloodied hands cupping your wan face as you whimper. You can feel the warmth of his breath spill across your skin as he speaks. It smells like cigarettes, and where you usually wrinkle your nose now it feels like the only tether to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon. Stay here.”

Your protest is a dull, groaning sound in your ears as you try to grip at him, weak and exhausted as you are. You try to form words on your leaden tongue. Please, please. Just a little longer. Stay, until the end.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Arthur kisses the corner of your eyes, warmth beading in your liquid gaze. There’s a hiccup forming in your throat, and it clogs the words you want to say to him, a plea to stay just a little longer until you fall asleep forever.

“I’ll find you.” He promises, voice catching in his throat even as he begins to pull away. “I will. I promise.”

“No-” You try in one last, feeble attempt. “A-Arth...ur.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth. “I love you.”

When he pulls away, the cold is all you feel.

- - -

Just like that, you’re back where you started. Except this time, it’s so much worse.

There’s traces of him everywhere in your home. The scent of him clings to your sheets, his empty dinner plate on your table, a stubbed cigarette burn on the porch outside. Undeniable, painful. It hurts to see the ghost of him after he had held you, told you he loved you, and promised to never leave again.

You should have known. You should have never allowed yourself to think even for a moment this could end any other way. Arthur could never be tethered down, could never be tamed by your gentle hands seeking his bloody fangs that squeezed tight down onto something he could never let go of. To think otherwise was beyond foolish, and yet you’d allowed your heart to open for a fleeting moment in which he nestled between your ribs, only to leave something bitter and rotten in its wake.

In the end, you try to convince yourself it was just a dream.

Even if you do wish it was real.

The seasons change. The golden afternoons of fall fade to winter. Snow blankets your homestead in silence, and you pretend not to notice the chill of tears against your cheeks as you stand on your front step and try not to look down the lonely road where you dare to hope he’ll return from.

You tell yourself he died, if only to make it easier.

As spring blossoms new life in the valley you think more about moving west again. It’s been years, and you know whatever life you lived there is long gone. The lives that stained your hands, the sins you committed, the person you were, died on the night Arthur left you. Nobody would recognize you now. You could tell them you’re a widow, say the man you loved died and you’re there for a new start. Folks would believe you, if only for the way your eyes always look a little lost, distant, looking for somewhere to belong again.

You think about Arthur riding up onto your empty home where the only thing left behind is the yarrow flowers you’ve kept pressed in your notebook all this time. You wonder if he’d hurt as much as you do.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself. Arthur was never going to change. He was never going to be the man you needed, but maybe that’s why you loved him so. You loved Arthur because he was intangible, yours but never truly there, his eyes always looking west, his gaze glimmering in a way you wished so dearly would be only for you.

You pack your things, quietly tell your neighbors you’ll be leaving. They wish you well, buying your meager belongings so the only things you have to your name fit on the back of your horse. It’s achingly familiar, living just from your saddle bag and satchel. You tuck your rifle along the saddle of your mare and pray you don’t need to use it, and make plans to head west.

The night before you leave, you cry until you’re hoarse.

and come dawn, he comes to you.

You awake to the sound of a horse neighing, and you know it isn’t yours. Your feet carry you to the porch before you even know you’re there, heart leaping wildly as you watch him quietly ride up to you. Slowly, each hoofbeat slower than your racing heartbeat, and when Arthur looks up at you from beneath his hat, you sob.

It’s the heartache that keeps you rooted to the spot when he dismounts, removes his hat to his heart. You want to laugh at the gesture, so unlike him, but the sadness, the plea in his eyes makes the air in your chest so thin it hurts to breathe.

You stare at each other. Words alone are unable to convey the depth of emotion shared in your gazes. Everything inside you screams to race down the steps, fling yourself into his arms, cry until you're empty and welcome him home to the place inside you that’s always been empty in his absence. You want to scream, to yell, to curse him, but the only sound that you can summon is simply: “Arthur.”

You watch his throat bob, at a loss for words before he finally speaks.

“I’m not going back.”

When you say nothing, he goes on.

“I...I’ve done things, bad things. I’m not a good man, that I know. I’ve made my peace with that. Even if I try, I’ll never...”

He pauses, and you see him struggle. You stand firm, unmoving, scarcely breathing as he offers himself to you.

“We...I-” He falters, and there’s an emotion that flashes over his face that you don’t recognize. A compass broken, his axis failed under him. Arthur stares through you towards something you cannot see, another future that plays out before his eyes with horrifying viscera that paints his gaze.

“I tried to settle debts, make things right. But Dutch-” His voice cracks. There’s something caught inside of him, guilt torn between devotion and realism that changes the polarity of his wayward path. “Dutch isn’t the man I thought he was. I shoulda seen it sooner but I’ve been so blind. Blind to...a lot of things.”

Arthur looks at you, looks at you, and for the first time you feel like he sees you.

“Things went down. The others, they’re fine. Hosea is lookin’ after em now. Gave me his blessing. I rode out of camp. Didn’t look back. I...don’t fancy myself a traitor but for the first time I managed to...to see things for what they were.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move away, don’t move towards him, but you feel the tears overspill against your too-warm cheeks.

“There is a price on my head, and there will be until the day I die.” Arthur declares softly. “But...if you’ll have me, then I’ll stay. For good.”

You stare at him through the tears, try to school your face into a valiant attempt of passivity, of anger, of righteous fury, anything. Your fists sit clenched at your side. When you try to speak, the only thing that comes out is a hiccup.

Arthur takes a step towards you, eyes crestfallen, and it takes every ounce of strength in you to not fall apart at the seams.

“Why should I have you?” You demand at last, voice thick with tears. “You...you’re a no good, rotten bastard Arthur Morgan. You think you can be an honest man for me, hmm?”

Arthur looks wounded, but he takes it. He takes your anger, purses his lips and it makes you angrier.

“How the hell are you going to earn a living, huh? You only know how to kill and steal a-and-” You break off, scrubbing furiously at your face.

“I...” Arthur tries. “I can read, and write. I can...I can hunt and I’m good with horses-”

“and you probably don’t even have a penny to your name-”

“I can...I can ranch I suppose, but-” Arthur breaks off with a muttered curse. “Goddammit woman, will you have me or not?”

You stare at him, face wet, chest clogged with your cries...

...and you launch yourself down the steps and into his open embrace.

“Ride west with me.” You tell him as he parts from your kiss, his arms fastened around you, blue eyes sparkling. “They way I’ve always wanted.”

“West?” He breathes, breathless. His smile is so radiant it almost burns. “Where?”

“Past new Austin. Out towards Montana, or...I dunno, California. Past the mountains. Back to where it all started and then some.”

Arthur kisses you again, and again. You feel fit to burst at the seams, so outdone by joy and hope that you think you’ll float off into the dawning blue sky above.

“Anywhere.” He promises you. “I’ll buy you that ring, and I swear to God I’ll marry you.”

“You think I’m going to marry a no-good outlaw?” You ask him, tears overflowing.

“I’ll earn some money somehow, even if I have to pan it from a spring myself.”

You laugh, kiss him, hold his face in your hands and dare to dream of the future.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan. I will never stop loving you until the day I die.”

Arthur’s eyes glimmer, and even without words you know the truth that lies in his gaze. Arthur will never leave you. Never again.

“Let’s go.” You whisper against his lips. “Let’s go be free.”

You ride west. In the empty house where he found you, yarrow blooms red in the sunlight.

[the-writer-in-the-winter-forest]

Homestead Journal Entries: 1.0

Nicholas Romano Entry

If you were to ask anyone exactly what they were doing on October 14th, 2051 when the news of extraterrestrial contact had spread across the globe, they'd be able to recall every detail.

Seems like everyone knew exactly how to feel and what to think of it all at the time.

All I could think about was how excited I was.

Jennifer Kelly Entry

The Streets of Austin were filled with crazed people forming groups huddled into any store, bar, or restaurant that had a Tv or radio broadcasting the retrieval of an alien craft that had crashed out in the pacific ocean.

I had been in town meeting friends when Maizah called Nicky shortly after.

They both told me to stay safe.

How the hell is anyone supposed to do that now?

Maizah Bashir Entry

I was visiting family in Mecca when we heard the news. My siblings and I sat in silence and shock my aunties were praying feverishly as we all watched the live broadcast at the crash site in the Pacific.

I remember how tightly Baba was holding Ammi's hand. Children never forget the looks on their parent's faces when they see how afraid they are.

My family and I didn't know what to think let alone what to do.

Looking back on it now I think that's what scared me the most, not knowing what would come next.

Even now, that fear hasn't completely gone away.

Theodore Sullivan Entry

I always push through fears when regarding the unknown. I was always taught that there is nothing to fear once you understand it.

Science is always rooted in facts. Truth.

The same can be said for someone's emotions and instincts.

Everything about this crash in the Pacific is making me question if the unknown, in this case, is worth the risk of looking into.

I mean, every discovery comes with the chances of unavoidable dangers.

And once you open those gates they aren't so easy to close again.

Zander Khale Entry

I know that years from now I'll never forget the thudding in my chest when the coast guard and I inched closer and closer to the ship that crashed out in the Pacific.

I'm still amazed that I hadn't blacked out from the sheer amount of overload that my mind was experiencing.

Millions of questions that I wasn't sure I knew how to ask let alone to whom.

I kept thinking about my parents, and my siblings. What would they do if they were in my position? Would they be thinking the same things, feeling the same things?

Venette Izen Entry

My light within has always been a comfort for me. Always constant, always growing with me. But I feel it dimming more and more every day.

I've hidden it well, and with the empathic abilities of my species, that is no simple task.

The physicality of the effort is exhausting as well as an emotional toll.

I feel out of place, wrong, fading.

Gaana'Kosh Entry

I have seen countless buildings across Tholme in ruin, and yet seeing the remnants of my dear seminar halls is what causes me the most heartache.

I once expanded minds in this very room. Provided countless answers to questions or at least ponder and discuss them with my students until we come to a suitable answer.

Papers and texts lay in tattered ruins. The presentation slate at the front of the room still held a few smudged scribbles from the very last lesson I gave.

I search the room for anything else salvageable though I only use the excuses to visit this spot when I can.

Despite the pain, it brings I still visit, I reminder of what once was.

My time to leave becomes clear when I feel the ground beneath me tremble. Time to return to my family.

Survival doesn't wait for anyone.

Peth'lyn Entry

Evolutionary renewal

An occurrence that happens every dozen thousand years or so. They are very few, in the billion years of our home's existence, only three have taken place.

Events brought on by natural occurrences bring about an excision event that devastates Tholme and its populists.

I fear however that this civil conflict is what will be the first renewal that is caused by our own people.

My boys, my children were so eager to fight. Even more eager to pick their sides on who they deemed right and wrong.

I can take no more of it. Gaan has orchestrated a plan for us and a few others to get off-world and retreat somewhere safe to wait out the conflict.

Very few Tholmes have ventured from our home, but I've gotten tired of survival.

I'm sorry to my family, to my home, but you both only offer nothing but death. 

[vhagarys]

The Slayer of Bastards

brother!aemond x sister!reader, brother!aegon x sister!reader, brief jace x reader

summary: After being denied of their birthright to claim you as theirs, you are shipped to Dragonstone to marry Jace Velaryon. Your brothers will have you, no matter the cost.

warnings: canon-typical incest, smut, possessive!dark!aemond, possessive!dark!aegon, manipulation, death, penetrative sex, oral sex, spitting, degradation, slapping, breeding, dumbification, basically aemond and aegon are depraved

MDNI

Their sister was gone.

Aegon and Aemond, your beloved brothers, were denied a betrothal to you, and awoke the next morning to the news of you being shipped over to Dragonstone to marry their nephew Jace Velaryon.

The brothers fumed. As their sister, it was within their birthright to claim you as theirs. Their mother insisted this alliance was far more important than their domestic desires.

Within the hour, the two plotted to bring you home and take your maidenhood so you’d be unfit to wed anyone else but them.

Their lust for their sister was undeniable. Since children, they’ve always harbored a possessive nature towards you. Warding off those who dared to venture too close to you, despite your obliviousness to other men’s advances.

You were so naive, so pure, your brothers knew they had to keep you for themselves.

They waited until the small hours of the night to sneak into the dragonpit, and took Vhagar and Sunfyre to the skies. The brothers were consumed with anger at the prospect that their insolent nephew may have you, that he may corrupt you with his bastard hands.

Their sweet baby sister in the hands of bastards and traitors.

No one was going to stand between you and them.

After fleeing from the Red Keep, they managed to land without being detected, cloaking their dragons within the forests surrounding Dragonstone.

Like shadows in the night, they snuck past the guards asleep at their post and through the halls of the castle.

Silently wandering through their enemies homestead, their ears tuned in at the slightest sound of your voice. Soon, they found you sat in the throne room with Jace.

“You’re lucky you know, Aunt Y/N. You just barely escaped the hands of your monstrous brothers clutches,” Jace proclaimed as he sat across the table from you.

“You will not speak of them in such tone, they may have committed wrong doings in the past but i will not sit here while you berate my closest family. They are my brothers Jace, and your uncles,” you responded with a hint of annoyance in your tone.

Jace scoffs at you, his face unable to hide the offense at your words.

“Do you deny who they are? They are criminals to the throne. They killed my brother and have committed atrocities the gods may never forgive. For you to sit here and defend them shows you are no better then them.”

Your body simmered in rage, fingers digging into your palms in attempt to restrain yourself. Just as you were about to retort Jace’s vile accusations, a voice at the door made you freeze.

“Tsk, thats no way to speak to your betrothed little nephew,” murmured Aemond with a darkness in his eye. Forgoing his eyepatch, the sapphire in his other eye gleamed in the moonlight.

“No go one nephew, please continue this tangent of your love for your uncles,” Aegon quipped with a smirk on his lips.

You swiftly turned towards your brothers, who both locked eyes with you. Time seemed to stop as both of them looked upon you with a longing and something darker you had not yet seen before.

“Gōntan ao miss īlva dōna haedar?” Aegon smiled at you. (did you miss us sweet sister?)

You couldn’t help but feel relief at the sight of your brothers here, the betrothal to Jace made without your consent.

You always knew how much your brothers loved you. They would always hold your hand and accompany you through the castle, let you sit on their lap and hold you when you were needed comfort.

Anything you required, your brothers were there at the drop of a hat.

You wished you didn’t have to leave them and be married off to another family. The idea of being away from your brothers made you sick with unease. After all, they promised they would always protect you.

Jace fumed at the sight of your brothers. He practically jumped out of his chair to stand in front of you, as if to shield you from them.

“How in the seven hells did you manage to get in here undetected? You really have such little regards for your own lives? Tell me why i shouldn’t draw my sword and slit your throats where you stand.”

Aemond hummed, “I’m afraid dear nephew, that would make you a kinslayer as much as i, you wouldn’t want that on your conscience hm? I, on the other hand, have already dirtied my hands. What’s a little more bastard blood spilled? I may even enjoy killing you even more than your baby brother,” Aemond grinned darkly.

Aegon chuckled under his breath. You turned to Jace and saw nothing but black in his eyes. As he went to lunge towards your brothers, you grabbed both of his shoulders.

“Stop this! Please, stop tormenting each other. Why must every encounter end in threats and physicality,” you cried out, using all your strength to hold him back, to which he shrugged off and paced toward your older brother.

Aemond stepped behind you and tucked a piece of your silver hair behind your ear. “No need for tears dōna haedar (sweet sister), we won’t let him hurt you. You’re coming home with Aegon and i where you will be rightfully married to us, your own blood.”

Jace laughed as he slowly stepped towards Aegon. “Like hell you will, she is betrothed to me. She’s mine, and i’d do right by her and rid the world of her abominable excuses of brothers.”

Jace proceeded to jab his finger into Aegon’s shoulder, a provocation that you knew would end badly.

“I dare you,” he roughly grabbed the collar of Jace’s tunic, “to utter one more word bastard. I will delight in feeding you to my dragon, a poetic end to your pathetic life, wouldn’t you say? Seeing as your brother became a snack for Vhagar,” he seethed, his anger palpable.

You couldn’t believe the situation unfolding before you. Your heart filled with dread at the inevitability of this encounter. You felt helpless. Chasing any sort of comfort, you leaned into the warmth of your older brother Aemond as he gently wrapped an arm around your hip.

You turned into his body and wept on his shoulder, begging him to put an end to this and take you back home. You knew if you didn’t leave now something awful were to occur.

“Kostilus gūrogon issa lenton lēkia,” you stared up at him with glossy eyes. (please just take me home brother)

‘Hush little one, you’re coming back home with me, i won’t allow anyone to keep you from me. Al sytilībagon naejot īlva, hm? You know we will never allow harm to come to you,” Aemond whispers as his hands held you tight against him. (you belong to us)

Seeing his sister with tears running down her cheeks awoke something primal in Aemond. His mind flashed to the tears he imagined you’d be spilling as he used your throat to pleasure his cock. He pictured you on your knees, laid bare for him, covered in drool as you let him fuck your mouth full of his release. He could almost hear you whine as you leaked your own arousal with his seed on your tongue, opening your mouth for him to spit in and brainlessly swallowing anything he gave to you. like a good girl. their good girl.

Aemond knew this was an inappropriate time to indulge such thoughts, and tried to resist the urge to press his cock against you as you cried on his shoulder.

Jace shoved Aegon off of him with a loud grunt and immediately lunges towards him in an attempt to tackle him to the floor. You couldn’t bear the fighting a moment longer.

You broke away from Aemond and rushed toward the two, grabbing Jace’s arm with your hands.

“Please Jace, we are family and i do not wish to see anyone hurt. I don’t believe any good may come of their matrimony and you know it too. It is best if i return home and seek forgiveness with your mother and Daemon on the morrow. We will leave quietly, please-”

The sting on your cheek throbbed as you stumbled to the ground. Your hand immediately reached up to touch the ugly red splotch on your face. Your body stunned as you looked up to see the disgusted look on Jace’s face.

“They’ve already fucked you, haven’t they? Corrupted you with their seed, stolen your virtue? I can’t stand to look at you. Just wait until the realm hears of you, the Targaryen cocksleeve-”

The sound of metal sliced through the air as Aemond plunged his sword through the middle of Jace’s form.

You went to scream, but Aegon grabbed you and covered your mouth with his hand.

“Shh, shh sweet sister. It’s alright, he won’t hurt you ever again. Your brothers are here, everything is alright,” he delighted in seeing Jace writhing in pain, something he’d hoped would happen for quite some time. What delighted him more though, was the feeling of you pressed up against him.

He’d finished himself countless times to the thought of you completely at his mercy. Holding you down while he pummeled into your soaking cunt. His hands wrapped like a noose around your neck, licking up your tears and swallowing down your screams. Fucking you so violently you’re rendered speechless. Just his pliant, little cocksleeve for him to ravage when he craved release. He knew you would eventually succumb to them, always looking to please her brothers.

“Brother, what are you doing? Why is there something hard poking me?” you breathed out confused, your mind feeling like mush after the overwhelming scene before you.

Unlike his brother, Aegon never possessed much self restraint. He pressed you tighter against his front, rutting his hard cock on you from behind.

“That, my sweet sister, is me showing you how happy i am to have you back. Now tell me, are you happy to see me?” Aegon whispered into your neck as you felt an odd tingling surge through you.

“O-of course i’m happy to see you lekia (brother), but i-“

“I’ll have to see for myself, don’t fight me, relax little one,” Aegon moved your hands away and worked past the layers of your skirts, gently pressing his finger on your clothed cunt.

“Gods, you’re very happy to see your brothers, isn’t that right gevie,” (beautiful) murmured Aegon as he ran his nose up your neck and traced lines up and down your center.

“Tsk, what do we have here,” Aemond removed his sword from Jace’s dying body and slowly stalked over to you, his eyes fixed on his brothers fingers on your cunt.

“Brother, it seems our innocent little sister is more depraved then we thought. Her cunt is weeping after watching you kill our nephew,” Aegon began rubbing small circles on your pearl.

The new heady sensation made your mind short circuit. You let out the most pathetic mewl, and bucked up your hips to chase Aegon’s fingers.

Aemond’s eyes darkened as he watched his sister succumb to the pleasure his brother was giving her.

“i don’t believe this, what happened to my sweet baby sister?” Aemond teased.

“Look how responsive she is, brother. Practically begging us to touch her,” Aegon mused as he continued to tease your cunt.

“Poor thing is leaking all over the floor. Let us see just how wet you are,” Aemond unsheathed his knife and cut through your small clothes, leaving your pink cunt soaking and bare for them.

You whined louder, “P-please stop, it’s too much. I don’t-”

“We can take the pain away baby sister, how does that sound? Need your brothers to help you don’t you, poor girl. What would you do without us?” aegon ripped through the bodice of your dress until your breasts spilled out.

Aemond groaned and reached out to fondle your breasts.

“Gods you were made perfect for us. Can’t wait to fuck you full of my seed”.

In a moment of clarity, the words sunk in and you jolted up, away from your brothers touch.

Your mind began to sober at the depravity you were partaking in, and your hands flew up to cover yourself.

“But we’re brother and sister, this i-is wrong. We mustn’t do this.”

The brothers exchanged a smirk. “Sister, this is exactly what siblings are meant to do, to keep the bloodline pure. You are ours to breed so that you may produce targaryen heirs sweet thing,” Aemond caressed your cheek while Aegon continued his ministrations sucking dark spots into the crevice of your neck.

Aemond took your silence as an invitation to kneel closer to your dripping cunt. He gently blew on it and watched as you clenched around nothing.

You flinched and tried to pull away to no avail.

“You see sister, no one else knows how to pleasure you like we do,” Aegon pulled your hands away and began to grope at your breasts.

You couldn’t help but arch your back as he pinched at your nipples. Your mind began to cloud over again with the intoxicating sensation coursing through your veins.

Aegon groaned into your ear, “You were made to fit our cocks and to take our seed. you were made for us to have, in any way we desire, right brother?”

Unable to hold back from tasting you, Aemond offered a hum before leaning down and licking a fat stripe up your dripping folds, slurping up your essence like a man starved.

Your body twitched and spasmed at the all consuming pleasure. You gasped, chasing the electric feeling your brothers tongue offered you.

“I’ve got you, little girl,” Aegon turned your head toward him and swallowed your cries in a forceful kiss, dominating your mouth with his tongue.

After only a few minutes, you were on the brink of release. Your virgin cunt not familiar with such intense pleasure from someone’s mouth.

Suddenly, Aemond retracted his mouth from you, cursing under his breath and scooping up some of the wetness still leaking from you.

You watched as he reached over you and pushed his fingers into your older brothers mouth. A moan came from aegon as he sucked all of your juices off.

“Fuck” Aegon drawled, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

You couldn’t help but whine in frustration, your brothers leaving you throbbing with need but effectively ignoring you.

They both looked down at you drunken with lust.

“Use your words, sweet girl. what do you want, hm? what’s wrong?” Aegon chuckled at his brothers teasing.

“You really are cruel brother, our sister clearly won’t be satisfied until she’s felt our cocks stretch out that tight cunny,” Aegon began removing his trousers.

Aemond gripped your cheeks with his hand. He examined you, the way your tongue slightly stuck out, your eyes glazed over as you met his gaze.

“Not a single thought in that pretty head of yours is there. Already too drunk on the idea of cock you can’t speak?” Aemond grinned cruelly at you.

You whined his name. he squeezed your cheeks so you lips parted just in time for him to spit into your mouth.

“Show me,” you stuck your tongue out to show the glob of spit. Aemond nodded then commanded, “Swallow it.”

Aegon began to run his cock up and down your folds, hissing at how sensitive he was.

“Did you enjoy that sister?” Aegon slowly circled your entrance with his head, aroused at the scene before him.

You shyly nodded, too embarrassed to meet either of their gazes.

Aemond sighed, “Of course she enjoyed it, you love making your brothers happy right byka līve?” after which Aegon grabbed your face and spit into your mouth. (little whore)

You were overwhelmed by the need to feel your brothers, to please them. “P-put it in please”, you whispered to your older brother.

They both looked at you with a sick fondness, their lovely sister reduced to nothing more then a begging, cock slut.

“Asking so nicely, how can i refuse you gevie,” Aegon slowly pushed in.

The feeling was intense. the stretch of his cock in your virgin hole hurt so much. You could do nothing but cry and wreathe at the painful sensation.

Oh, how pathetic you looked when you cried. Aegon wished to make you cry whilst he spilled his seed into you.

After a moments pause, he pulled out and sheathed himself back inside, setting a brutal pace for your poor little cunt.

“Ah! slow down, lēkia, it’s too m-” (brother)

The rest of your sentence was muffled as Aemond took the opportunity of your mouth wide open to stuff his cock down your throat.

You gagged at the intrusion, and clawed at your brothers thighs to push him off. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked so you met his gaze. The soft look he gave you contrasted the way he was choking you with his member.

“Such a filthy little girl aren’t you? letting your brothers have their way with you after committing treason,” Aemond moaned. His other hand slithered down to your neck and began to squeeze, just hard enough you began to gasp for air.

Soon, you lost your strength and could no longer try to push him off of you.

Aemond smiled at you, “That’s it, just a little more dove. Don’t fight it, that’s a good girl,” the lack of oxygen made your eyes roll back into your head.

He soon loosened his grip on you, stroking your cheek lovingingly before bringing his hand down to strike at your cheek. The same one Jace laid his hands on earlier.

You gagged helplessly as he fucked your throat without mercy.

Aegon had never been so turned on his life, his hips sporadically thrusting into you. He knew no whore in the seven kingdoms could please him after tonight.

“No one else will ever lay a finger on you ābrazȳrys, only me and Aemond (wife). Fuck, I think she likes getting slapped brother,” he hissed and dug his fingers into your hips, sure to leave bruises come morning.

“Would you like me to spill my seed down your throat baby sister,” Aemond watched in delight as you gurgled incoherently around him.

He reached down and pinched your nostrils together, effectively blocking off your airways.

“I asked you a question līve, answer me,” (whore) he taunted and you did your best to nod your head while grabbing at his hand which finally allowed you to breathe again. He knew he was close to his peak, ramming his cock in and out of your warm, wet mouth.

Your brothers both moaned in bliss, minds overcome with the pleasure of finally corrupting their sister. They did not hear your cries and pleas, they were utterly consumed with you.

You could nothing but take it. Soon, your mind went blank as your brother prodded at your g-spot over and over.

You could feel your release approaching right as Aegon began thrusting faster, but n cock begin to swell.

“Fuck, you’re gonna take my seed aren’t you sister, gonna breed you as many times as it takes. fuck you’re mine, fucking take it,” he groaned as he let go and filled your womb.

“Can’t wait to take you back home, were going to have such fun together aren’t we”, he stayed inside you and pushed his release back inside your with his spent cock.

The sight of his older brother spilling inside of you sent Aemond over the edge. After Aegon pulled out, Aemond took his cock out of your mouth and sheathed himself inside you.

“This seed is going to take, and you’ll soon be round with our child, would you like that? You’re squeezing the life out of me. Tatagon rūsīr issa,” he grunted in your ear. (finish with me)

Your release hit you like a lightning bolt. You cried out at the aftershocks of your peak. you reached down to cradle your belly that swelled with the amount of seed inside you.

Your body soon collapsed with exhaustion, blacking out for a moment before coming to again.

Both of your brothers knelt on either side of you and tenderly kissed your forehead.

“You did so well for us gevie,” Aegon murmured as he caressed your cheek.

“Made us feel so good.” Aemond watched your cunt clench around nothing, already missing the cock that was inside.

He would claim her cunt when they returned home.

A soft “mm” was all you could manage.

As you sat and composed yourself, you looked over to see Jace’s body still lying there.

Before you could dwell on the tragedy before your eyes, you were scooped up by Aegon who muttered, “Time to go home ābrazȳrys”. (wife)

tada! hope you all enjoyed my first fic! please leave me feedback as i’m new to this :)

- alice <3

[drgnflyteabox]

the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

<3

[frightwrite]

NSFW Dragon Drabble

Female Reader x Male Monster

CW: Mention of Pregnancy, Breeding, Mention of Oviposition

Your entire living situation was flipped the second you were offered up as a sacrifice to the great dragon. A way for your small farming village to hope for better crops to grow during that dry season. It was a desperate effort that resulted in you being chosen due to being one of the poorer individuals in the village. No direct family resided with you, you didn’t own any land to cultivate one and the only contribution you had to the village was the small bits of forage you tried selling for money to maintain your tiny homestead. You were easily offered up.

You honestly don’t regret the entire ordeal for a second. It earned you a dragon mate, one who treated you like his most prized treasure. He provides you with a life of luxury and his adoration, literally worshiping the ground you walk on. You are treated to gifts daily, and despite you constantly telling him he didn’t have to spoil you this much he does so anyways. He gifts you jewels or trinkets from his hoard that he thinks are flawless enough to present to you. He provides you with the delicious foods that are usually offerings to him. To the point where you’d beg him to stop giving you so much to eat before you burst from all the large meals he provided. He still made a point to keep doing it, wanting nothing more than to worship his mate.

No one in the land would come near you or harm you as long as your dragon husband was around. He was known for wiping villages off of the map and he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again if you were put into harm's way. Despite how intimidating he looked with his large stature, many scales, sharp claws, and teeth that could easily cut through flesh and bone, your mate was a very loving individual. He was gentle with you, making a point to bring up your size difference every now and then. Whether it be innocent or during your more intimate moments.

You struggled with your size difference, usually having sex with him in a medium sized form he was able to shapeshift into. He still managed to stuff you full of his cocks. He possessed a hemipenis that he would sometimes stuff both your holes with if he prepped you enough and you were feeling up for it. He is very attentive when he beds you. Spending a lot of his time using his forked tongue to lick at your clit and slurp at your needy pussy. 

He makes sure you’ve cum on his tongue at least once before he’s stuffing your cunt with one of his dicks. He would slowly fuck into you with one, before losing himself to the way your walls would tighten around him. He’d bully his second cock into you, filling you up and pounding into you with the need to breed you with his hatchlings. You could feel him pressing up into your cervix and he would beam with pride at the cock drunk expression on your face. His claws would grip you tightly, causing marks to be scratched onto your plump flesh.

By the time you both are finally sated, your hole would be oozing with his cum. Your womb full of his eggs that you were certain will hatch soon enough. Especially with the way he couldn’t keep his claws off of his pretty wife.  

[More Monsters]