#horse riding training near me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dried-mushroom · 9 months ago

Text

Reunited

Gwayne Hightower x fem! niece! reader

Warnings: team green (Guys I'm a team black girly but the Hightowers are just too fine), uncle-niece incest, getting caught, and PIV sex.

Note: I know in the show Gwayne is meant to be the older brother but for the plot of this, he'll be the younger brother of Alicent (Like he is in the books)

Summary: You were the 2nd eldest child of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, and you and your uncle, Gwanye, always had a connection much like your step-sister and her uncle have. After being sent away from the Red Keep to Oldtown after being caught with you in a compromising situation years ago, Gwayne returns, and you both are finally reunited, and he asks for your hand.

You adored Gwayne, ever since your mother had introduced you to him when you were near the age of ten and five and he was ten and seven. Gwayne quite liked you, and you him. You both spent a concerning amount of time together, he had taught you how to ride a horse and wield a sword and in return, you'd embroider the Hightower sigil into his tunics and read to him late at night, until the early morning, where you'd most likely fell asleep next to him, his gentle hold on you more akin to a lover than an uncle. You remember the day that he was made to leave Kings Landing, a gloomy day at that and you partially blamed yourself, because if you weren't caught with him, in such a situation, he would still be here.

"Perhaps if you win your tourney tomorrow I will let you taint my virtue, uncle."

You had approached him in the training yard, watching him joust his spire, winning effortlessly, smirking at you the whole time. You rolled your eyes in jest as he seemed amused by your presence, he sauntered over to you,

"Good morrow my sweet niece, come to see me practice?"

"Is it really practice if you're just winning, Uncle Mhm?"

You smiled back him, hand reaching up, stroking his bicep through the material of his thin shirt, making his reaction turn from more of a playful gaze to a lustful stare. Gwayne knew you wanted him and gods forbid, he wanted you as desperately. You both knew it was wrong, the late-night visits, the lingering touches, the blatant flirting but you both couldn't resist the temptation. He disregarded his sword, opting to stroke your soft hair instead, staring down at you.

"Well, my princess, how else would I win the tourney then?"

Your eyes lit up and you had an idea, it was completely immoral and wrong but god you wanted him so badly it hurt, you craved to be more than uncle and niece.

"Well, Kepus, perhaps I have a motivator for you to win tomorrow."

Gwayne saw the glint in your eye and he couldn't help but glance down at your cleavage whilst you spoke, making him hard in his breeches when you spoke the next words he almost finished right there and then.

"Perhaps if you win your tourney tomorrow I will let you taint my virtue, uncle."

He smirked at your boldness and leant down to your ear,

"M'lady I sure hope you know what you're implying and what you're getting yourself into."

You smirked back at him, moving your hand to his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your hand.

"Of course, I know what I'm implying and I want you, Uncle. Good luck for tomorrow."

You walked away from him, leaving him breathless, a knowing smile on your face because you knew he was the best knight in Kings Landing, of course, he was going to win.

Moans and grunts were heard throughout Gwayne's chambers, the echo of his hips hitting against your pelvis was so loud, that you weren't surprised you both were caught. Gwayne tucked his head into the crook of your neck, nipping softly at the tender skin while his calloused hands palmed at your plush thighs and your hands raked at his back, your legs resting on Gwayne's shoulders, making his cock bump your cervix with every thrust. You knew he was close, the stuttering of his hips, how tense his muscles were and his hands gripped you like a vice. You began to play with his copper hair, entangling your hand in his soft hair and tugging softly, making him groan against your skin. His lips reached your chest, a hand leaving your thighs to grope at your breasts, his hand playing with your nipple while his mouth encircled the other, nipping softly at your sensitive skin, making you whimper while his hips still rutted into yours, much like an animal in heat.

"Fuck, my sweet niece, you feel like fucking heaven. Gods I won't last long, can I spill in you please?"

"Yes, please Kepus don't stop."

Gwayne loved hearing your mother tongue, you knew high valyrian better than all your siblings and even though he couldn't understand the language it always made him hot under the collar hearing you speak, especially when you read of the Targaryen histories to him late at night, your soft smooth voice was always a comfort to him.

It took only a few more thrusts and Gwyane's hands on your body for you to cum on his cock, squeezing, milking him for all he was worth. Gwyane fell slack against you, body twitching in pleasure as he emptied himself in you. Before you both could utter a word, your mother and grandfather had burst into the door, mouths agape at the scene in front of them, the Queen's own brother fucking his niece, her own daughter on his table in his chambers. You couldn't even defend yourself or Gwayne before Otto grabbed Gwayne by his hair and dragged him out of his chambers, his breeches loose on his hips, as Otto began to lecture him,

"Do you know what you've done? You've just sullied your future Queen. How are we going to marry her to her brother now, any suggestions my son?"

You're face burned as you felt the scornful stare from your own mother, who could see how debauched you looked, dress ripped and bunched up around your thighs, hair messy and a fine sheet of sweat covered you, you just silently prayed to the seven that she could not see Gwayne's spent dripping out of you. You swallowed cautiously and began to speak,

"Mother, I can explain-"

"There is nothing to explain. This didn't happen...I will see to it that the maesters bring moon tea to your chambers. As for my brother, my father and I shall discuss what will happen."

"Please Mother, don't blame Gwayne, it was I who pursued him."

Your mother didn't care to listen to your pleas and that was the last time you saw Gwayne. Not even a morrow later Otto had sent off his son, to Oldtown, not even letting you bid him farewell to the man you secretly wished to marry. You had cried for days on end, opting to stay in your chambers rather than face your family who judged you for your inappropriate behaviour with your uncle (You were a bit taken back considering Rhaenyra faced no consequences for the same acts with Daemon) resulting in you being subjected to cruel rumours, had you gone mad? Were you ill?

It took weeks until you could stand to see the familiar faces of your siblings, mother, father and grandfather without feeling entrapped by shame. They chose to forgive you for your...misguided transgressions (Although you disagreed, as you still longed for Gwayne's heart and yet him being in Oldtown, he longed for yours) and kindly decided to wed Aegon to Helaena instead of you, which were most grateful for, although you did feel sorry for your sweet sister having to deal with a drunken and whoring husband.

It was no longer than three weeks since your father's passing, Aegon's ascension to the throne, Jaehaerys death and funeral, years after your last interaction with Gwayne and the realm was in pure chaos, divided on who should sit the iron throne, your brother or your step-sister? You weren't directly involved in Aegon's actions, merely just there, observing how the cracks were beginning to fester between Aegon, Aemond and your mother. You tried burying your feelings towards Gwayne, knowing there was little to no chance of him returning nonetheless coming back into your arms.

It was a chill morning when you awoke, hearing the commotion from the servants outside. You groan, annoyed about how loud the girls were being outside your door, You looked at them confused when you opened the door, startling them.

"What is this commotion for?"

"Sorry Princess, it's just that Criston Cole is leaving today for the Riverlands and....Gwayne Hightower and his men from Oldtown will be attending with him. Today."

You thought you truly had gone mad when you heard those words come from the servant girl's mouth and without saying anything you shut the door in their faces. You shakily exhaled as anxiety ate at you. You couldn't resist the temptation of seeing Gwayne once more, the feelings that once encompassed you rose to the surface once again. You didn't wish to wait for your handmaidens and made yourself presentable, opting for a dark green dress, low-cut but not low enough to question virtues, and left your chambers.

You left the Red Keep, and entered the courtyard, spotting Criston Cole near his steed, you personally disliked the knight, knowing of his past and how he chose to spend their night with your mother instead of protecting the Queen and her now dead child, you didn't let Alicent know that you knew of her actions that night, preferring to keep it to yourself in case you ever needed leverage. You sighed before walking up to the man,

"Ser Cole, I heard of Gwayne Hightower's return, may I ask of his whereabouts?"

He huffed, seemingly annoyed at the mention of the other knight's name, alas you ignored it and gave him a questioning look. Despite his carelessness, Cole wasn't stupid and knew of your shared history with the older Hightower.

"Ser Gwayne should be at the stables m'lady, although we are set to leave soo-"

Cutting the knight off with a curt, 'Thank you' and you set off to walk to the stables, a good five-minute walk from the courtyard, allowing you to try to calm your nerves before seeing the man who stole your heart all those years ago. You approached the stables, and your breath hitched when you saw Gwayne, alone, tending to his horse, you walked closer before uttering,

"Uncle"

Gwayne's eyes lit up in surprise when he turned and saw you, how beautiful you had grown in the few years spent apart. He sent his house off with the stable boy before focussing his attention on you. He truly had missed you, refusing to be a suitor to any maidens in Oldtown, preferring to wait until he could ask for your hand.

"My sweet niece, oh how the years have made you even more beautiful."

Your mouth was agape when he turned and you saw how handsome he had gotten with age, mid-length copper hair framing his chiselled face, his vest was unbuttoned so you could see how toned he had gotten in Oldtown, tufts of reddish-brown hair littering his pale chest. He chuckled softly, noticing your staring, breaking you out of your stupor,

"Oh, Kepus, I'm so sorry about what happened, It is my fault you were made to lea-"

Gwayne walked towards you, softly stroking your hair with a calloused hand, with a small smile on his face, making you feel like a young girl again.

"My princess, It was my fault just as much as yours and it was years ago, the past no longer matters, although I must say my feelings towards you have not changed no matter the time spent apart."

You felt him grab your waist, pulling you closer, and whispering in your ear,

"Every time I stroked my cock, it was to the thought of you. Gods how I've missed you y/n."

You knew it was wrong but he was so tempting, a forbidden fruit. His touch lingered, his blue eyes staring adoringly into yours.

"Please uncle, how I have missed you so dearly, please tell me you're not leaving again after the Riverlands."

"Oh my sweet girl, I don't plan on it and I don't know if my sister ever told you but before I was made to leave, I asked her for your hand, I offered to take you to Dragonstone and make you my wife, after Targaryen tradition, like you once told me of. Alas, Alicent did not share the same sentiment."

Your eyes widened, he had wanted to wed you? Why wouldn't your mother tell you this? it would have spared you from your endless weeping for days after his departure and spared you from the ruthless rumours from court. You cupped the side of Gwayne's face, soft fingers, stroking his cheek gently, he leaned into your touch.

"Alicent did not mention it at all, all I was told was that you were made to leave after you had already left. Although dare I be so forward and ask, even after all these years, would you still want to wed me? I am a woman grown now and do not need my mother's permission and trust me when I utter these words, I have wanted to marry you since the age of ten and five and I still do."

Gwayne smiled against your hand and pulled you even closer, feeling the warmth of his bare chest against your own, his stubble tickling your face,

"Of course, I still do, my sweet y/n. I give you my word after that Cole's march to the Riverlands and we succeed, I will come back and we may not have Dragonstone but I will wed you, I swear on my life."

You didn't wait for him to continue before pressing your soft lips against his, he eagerly cupped the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck, as his tongue poked at your lips, waiting for your permission, which you gave instantly, his tongue searching your mouth, dancing with your own. You suddenly felt his hardness press against your abdomen, throbbing against the material of his breeches. You snaked a hand down his chest to palm at the tightened fabric, making him groan into your mouth. He broke the kiss, admiring how swollen your lips looked under his ministrations.

"M'lady, please I need to take you once again. I have felt no other touch besides my own after you."

"But don't you have to leave soon? Cole sai-"

"Fuck Cole, he can wait, I need you y/n."

Your mouth was agape once again, you were surprised he had not taken a single lover after you, considering how attractive he really was. Alas, you couldn't resist Gwaynes's pleas and unlaced his breeches, pulling his erection, engorged and already leaking precum at your very touch. Gwayne pinned you against the wall of the stable between his hips and the wood, rutting his erection against your soft stomach, chasing any friction. He peppered kisses to your neck, nipping the skin, making you whine pathetically. He lifted your leg to hook it around his waist, pressing his cock against your pussy, which much to his delight, you weren't wearing any underclothes. Gwayne ran his cock through your folds, the tip bumping your clit with every thrust, making you moan and claw at his back.

Gwayne leant his forehead against yours when he entered you, waiting until you were comfortable before beginning to rut into you, setting a brutal pace, making your hands grip his shoulders and both finally got to enjoy each other once again. His hands gripped your hips to pull himself closer and you smiled against his chest knowing that soon you'd be wed to Gwayne, not having to worry about Alicent or even your own brother trying to force you into a marriage with some drunken lord. His hair fell into your face, seeing if he would enjoy it as much as he did when he was younger. You snaked your hand into his hair and pulled lightly, making him grunt against you,

"Fuck, if you keep doing that I'm not going to last."

As a tiny form of revenge, Gwayne moved a hand to rub little circles on your clit, making you whine, chasing your orgasm. As his pace increased, faster and deeper, his hand continued until he felt you clasp your thighs together, cumming on his cock, squeezing him deliciously. He lewdly brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting your wetness, groaning at your sweet taste, ensuring he'd definitely be trying you himself soon enough. You moaned into his ear,

"Please Kepus, Cum for me, I need you to fill me up, I wish to carry your child."

The image of you swollen with his child tipped him over the edge, his body tense as he finished in you, hips stuttering against yours, his forehead pressed against yours as he panted, coming down from his high. You stroked his back, your nerves coming back knowing he would have to leave you soon again. He slowly pulled out of you, making you feel empty without him. He helped you stand up properly and he noticed your frown and tipped your chin towards him with two fingers,

"What's wrong my sweet princess?"

"Promise me you will come back to me. I don't want you to leave again Gwayne."

He smiled down at you, brought you into an embrace and whispered into your hair,

"My love, I will never leave you, and you know what? Fuck Cole, he has enough men for the march to the Riverlands and Harrenhal, he doesn't need me there, surely he can't be that stupid he can't lead a small army."

You laughed, an attractive sound, against his chest.

"You'd be surprised Uncle, but thank you for staying, I have truly missed you."

"My love, I wouldn't leave you again for the world, plus that man is fucking insufferable....and I would much prefer to taste you again."

The end

#gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #hotd #hotd season 2 #otto hightower #alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon season 2

2K notes · View notes

oldsoul007 · 2 months ago

Text

save a horse

cowboy!joel miller x cowgirl!reader

summary: what started as a frustrating, never-ending rivalry with Joel Miller—his reckless riding, his cocky smirks, his infuriating ability to get under your skin—turned into something else entirely. Something you couldn’t control, couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard you tried. Because beneath all the fighting, the competition, and the stubborn pride, there was heat. And once you gave in to it, there was no turning back.

a/n: “rivals” to lovers, banterrr, cocky Joel, suggestive scenes, heavy kissing, Joel calls reader princess and darlin’

joel miller masterlist

There’s a fine line between love and hate, and Joel Miller lived on the other side of that line—just far enough to keep me from crossing it. Every time I saw him, it felt like that line was being tested, stretched tighter and tighter, as if we were both stuck in some kind of wild tug-of-war.

I had my life all planned out. The pristine, polished world of show jumping and barrel racing was where I thrived. Clean, controlled, the kind of competition where technique and precision mattered more than the mess. I rode with grace and poise—everything about me screamed class and focus.

Then there was Joel.

Joel was the kind of cowboy who thrived in the dirt. The rougher, the better. He was known for his wild, reckless rides—bareback bronc riding, calf roping, and the like. He didn’t care about the mess. He thrived on it. He loved the mud, the sweat, the adrenaline of it all. He reveled in the chaos, and I couldn’t stand it.

We met at a local rodeo competition one fateful evening. I was there for the barrel race, wearing my pristine boots and jacket, my hair perfectly styled beneath my hat. Joel was competing in the rough stock event, his face covered in dust and grit, his clothes stained with sweat. He had the audacity to walk past my stall just as I was prepping my horse.

“Hope you’re not planning on getting too dirty in that competition,” he smirked, his voice low and mocking. “This ain’t your kind of rodeo, y/n.”

I shot him a sharp look, barely containing my irritation. “I don’t think I asked for your opinion, Joel.”

He chuckled, leaning in a little closer, his eyes glinting with something I couldn’t quite place. “You’re a little uptight, aren’t you? I’d hate to see you get all flustered in the dirt. You’ll never make it through the next round.”

I could feel my pulse quicken with a mix of anger and something else—something I definitely didn’t want to acknowledge. “Maybe you should stick to your rough events. Let the classy riders handle the rest.”

He leaned back, eyes narrowing, his lips curling into a smirk. “Classy, huh? Well, you better hope you can handle a real challenge when it comes your way.”

I was ready to snap back, but I didn’t have time. The announcer called for the next round, and I needed to focus. I shot him a glare before walking away, but I could feel his gaze on me the entire time.

The competition was intense. Every part of me focused on executing each turn, each jump, with perfection. I had trained for years, and it paid off. My time in the barrel race was top-notch—clean, precise, with every second of the run perfectly controlled.

But as I crossed the finish line and the crowd erupted in applause, I spotted him again. Joel was in the middle of his calf roping event, the exact opposite of what I’d just done. His horse was galloping full speed toward a runaway steer, and I couldn’t help but watch. He was all muscle and grit, moving with an ease that looked almost reckless. His rope flew through the air, securing the steer in one fluid motion, and the crowd went wild.

I hated that it was impressive. I hated that it made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the competition.

Afterward, I found myself near the stables, cooling down my horse when Joel appeared again, this time covered in more dirt than ever. His shirt was half undone, his hair sticking out in every direction.

“You know,” he said, walking up to me, “you were pretty impressive out there.”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to remain composed. “You’re just trying to be nice because you lost.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent an unexpected shiver through me. “I didn’t lose. But I’ll admit, you made it look easy.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Well, I don’t roll around in the dirt for a living.”

Joel’s eyes glinted. “I’ve never been afraid to get dirty. Guess that’s what makes me better at what I do.”

I looked him up and down, shaking my head. “You’re just a mess, Joel. There’s no finesse in what you do. It’s all chaos.”

“Chaos is how things get done,” he said, stepping closer. “Everything has to be perfect for you though, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what makes me a winner.”

He cocked his head to the side, his lips twisting into a grin that made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t control. “Funny. I think we both know it’s not always about perfection.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my cool. “Maybe. But at least I’m not playing around with danger and risk every second. I’d rather be classy than reckless.”

Joel’s smile faltered, and for a second, I thought he might actually take offense. But then he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “You know, y/n, maybe one day, I’ll show you how much fun it can be to throw caution to the wind. You might surprise yourself.”

I shook my head, pushing him back with a firm hand on his chest. “Don’t hold your breath, Miller.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the tension between us palpable. The air crackled with something that wasn’t hate, but it wasn’t quite attraction either. It was something in between, something that neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

“Alright, princess,” Joel said, his voice softer this time. “You keep riding your pretty little circles. I’ll keep riding the rough stuff. But don’t forget—when you’re ready for a real challenge, you know where to find me.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I turned, leading my horse back to the stables, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks and the pulse of excitement that had nothing to do with the competition.

Joel Miller was chaos. He was everything I wasn’t. But somehow, despite myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were both waiting for the inevitable clash. And when it came, it was going to be one hell of a ride.

I don’t know what it was about Joel Miller that set my blood boiling—maybe it was the way he always had to have the last word, or maybe it was the fact that he rode like a reckless idiot and still managed to win. Whatever it was, I couldn’t stand him.

And yet, I couldn’t seem to avoid him either.

“Careful, princess,” Joel drawled one afternoon as I tightened Maple’s saddle before practice. “Wouldn’t want you breakin’ a nail before your big fancy event.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose, forcing myself to keep my focus on the leather strap in my hands. “And I wouldn’t want you falling off your horse and bruising that oversized ego of yours,” I shot back sweetly.

Joel smirked, leaning against the stall with that insufferable confidence. “Darlin’, I don’t fall.”

I finally turned to look at him, crossing my arms. “No, but you sure like to run your mouth.”

He grinned. “And you sure like to pretend you don’t like it.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“Yeah? Then why do you always find me?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You find me, Miller.”

He took a step closer, that damn smirk still plastered on his face. “Right. And you’re always right here, ready to argue.”

I hated that he was right. I hated that he knew exactly how to get under my skin, knew exactly what buttons to push.

And worst of all, I hated that I liked it.

Every run-in with Joel was like this—an endless cycle of back-and-forths, teasing jabs that always left me flushed, irritated, and on edge. He was rough and reckless, all dirt and sweat and wild confidence, while I was polished, precise, and disciplined. We weren’t supposed to mix.

But that didn’t stop the tension from simmering beneath every argument, every too-long glance, every time he leaned in just a little too close, like he was daring me to cross that line.

And maybe, just maybe, I was getting closer to doing exactly that.

—

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the rodeo grounds, the smell of dirt and hay thick in the air. Most of the competitors were unwinding before the next round, tending to their horses or grabbing something to eat.

I had been brushing down Maple when I heard a small voice nearby.

“Can I pet him?”

I turned, curiosity piqued, and spotted a little boy standing a few feet away from Joel and his horse, Ford. The kid couldn’t have been older than six, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he was nervous.

Joel, who had been adjusting Ford’s saddle, turned to look at him.

For a second, I expected him to wave the kid off. He wasn’t exactly known for being warm.

But instead, Joel crouched down to his level, resting his forearm on his knee. “Yeah? You like horses?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “He’s big.”

Joel chuckled. “Yeah, he is.” He reached up, giving Ford a firm pat on the neck. “But he’s a good boy. You wanna sit on him?”

The kid’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Joel nodded. “C’mon.”

The boy practically bounced in excitement as Joel lifted him up with ease, settling him gently on the saddle. He kept a firm hand on the kid’s back, making sure he was steady, while Ford stood still, completely unfazed.

The boy grinned wide, gripping the horn of the saddle like he was ready to take off. “I’m a cowboy now!”

Joel chuckled, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. “That’s right, little man.”

And damn it if my heart didn’t melt right there.

I had seen Joel Miller in plenty of ways—cocky, infuriating, reckless.

But this?

This was new.

He was gentle. Patient. And watching him interact with that kid, making his whole day with nothing more than a simple ride, did something to me that I really didn’t want to think too hard about.

I must’ve been staring too long because suddenly, Joel’s eyes flicked up and locked onto mine.

The smirk came back instantly, like he could sense the effect he had on me. “What?”

I rolled my eyes, quickly turning back to Maple. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

“Shut up, Miller.”

But as much as I tried to ignore it, the image of Joel smiling up at that kid, looking so damn soft, was burned into my mind.

And for once, I didn’t hate it.

—

The day was winding down, the sun sinking lower in the sky, and the arena was quiet except for the faint rustling of hooves and the occasional call from the crowd. The final competition was just around the corner, and I was out on the practice field, determined to get in some last-minute work before everything went down tomorrow. Maple was calm as always, and I was focused, running the barrels with precision and grace. Every turn was tight, every motion measured. I was in control, just like I always was.

But the world has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect it.

I had just completed my last run when I heard a sudden, sharp sound from the far side of the arena. At first, I didn’t think much of it—until I saw the flash of a calf breaking through the fencing, charging across the field at full speed, clearly startled and out of control.

I instinctively pulled on Maple’s reins, trying to guide her out of the way, but she was spooked, her head shooting up as she began to buck and rear. The calf was moving fast, its hooves pounding the earth, and Maple, already skittish, couldn’t seem to calm down.

“Maple, whoa, easy girl!” I shouted, trying to get her back under control, but the harder I tried, the more she panicked. I was losing my grip, my heart racing as I struggled to hold on. The cow was heading straight for us now, and Maple was getting more and more frantic.

“Shit!” I cursed under my breath, pulling harder on the reins, but nothing worked. I was completely out of control, the adrenaline surging in my veins as Maple bolted, jerking me to the side. I could feel the ground beneath me shift, my grip slipping, and then—without warning—Maple’s leg caught on something, and she pitched forward, throwing me off.

I hit the ground hard, the air knocked from my lungs as pain shot through my back and shoulder. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I tried to push myself up, but my body wouldn’t respond, the pain paralyzing me as I gasped for air.

“Y/n!”

I heard a voice—Joel’s voice—shouting through the haze.

Before I could even react, I felt the ground shift beside me. Joel was there, dismounting Ford and rushing over to me, his face a mask of concern, his eyes wild.

“Stay still,” he said, his voice rough as he kneeled beside me. His hands hovered over me, unsure of where to touch, and I saw the rare flicker of concern in his usually confident gaze.

I tried to push myself up, the pain from my shoulder shooting through me. “I’m fine,” I lied, gritting my teeth. “I don’t need your help.”

Joel’s expression darkened, and his hands moved to my shoulders, gently forcing me back down onto the ground. “Don’t move. You’re not fine.”

I glared at him, the frustration bubbling up again. “I said I’m fine, Joel. Just… just go away.”

“Please just stop being so damn stubborn.” His voice was harsh, almost angry, but not with me—more with the situation, with how I was refusing help when I clearly needed it. He wasn’t joking now. “I’m just trying to help you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the pain in my shoulder was too much, and I winced, the sharp sting cutting off my words. My breathing was labored now, my heart still pounding in my chest from the chaos of the moment. For a few seconds, we just stared at each other, me lying in the dirt, Joel kneeling beside me, both of us breathing hard from the rush of adrenaline.

“Look, I don’t need you playing the hero,” I managed to mutter, trying to sit up again, but Joel gently pushed me back down.

“I’m not playing anything, y/n. You can’t even move. I’m not going to leave you out here alone just because you’ve got too much pride to admit you’re hurt,” he said, his tone firm, but underneath, I could hear the edge of concern. “If you don’t stop fighting me, I’ll drag you out of here myself.”

I glared at him, but the frustration I felt earlier melted into something else—a mix of embarrassment and anger. He wasn’t wrong. I had to admit, I had overestimated myself, and now I was paying the price.

“Fine,” I muttered, still struggling to sit up, but feeling the weight of the pain in my body. I could barely lift my arm without it aching. “I guess you’re right. But don’t think I’m going to thank you for it.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk returning, but it wasn’t as cocky as it usually was. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just making sure you don’t make it worse by being stubborn.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but another wave of pain shot through my shoulder, making my breath catch. I grimaced, closing my eyes. “I’m not stubborn,” I managed to mutter, my voice strained. “I just don’t like being treated like I can’t handle things.”

Joel’s expression softened, just slightly, and for a moment, I saw something else in his eyes—something genuine, not the usual teasing or arrogance. “I get it. But sometimes you need help. And it’s okay to accept it.”

I swallowed hard, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck, but I couldn’t argue with him. I was hurt. I couldn’t handle everything on my own, and right now, I really did need him.

“Just help me up,” I finally muttered, my voice quiet, but there was a hint of surrender in it now.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, carefully pulling me into a sitting position, his hand firm on my back as he steadied me. “Easy,” he said, his voice soft now. “We’ll get you back to the stables and make sure you’re okay.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, the rush of the competition, the pain, and Joel’s unexpected calm all mixing together in a way I wasn’t sure how to process. I hated needing help. I hated showing weakness, especially in front of someone like Joel. But as he gently helped me up and guided me back to safety, I couldn’t bring myself to be angry anymore.

Maybe, for once, it was okay to let someone else take charge. Even if that someone was Joel.

Joel guided me carefully back toward the stables, his arm lightly supporting my back as I limped along beside him. Every step sent a jolt of pain through my shoulder, and I was starting to realize just how badly I had underestimated the situation. Maple had finally calmed down, now tied to the post a few yards away, but my head was still reeling from the chaos, the fear, and the sharp ache that spread from my shoulder down my side.

Joel’s grip on me was steady, strong, but not intrusive—just enough to keep me from stumbling. He kept his pace slow, making sure I could keep up, his brow furrowed in concentration. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a seriousness that felt oddly comforting in the midst of everything.

When we reached the stables, he led me to a bench just outside, carefully helping me sit. His hand lingered on my shoulder for a moment, the touch gentle yet reassuring. I looked up at him, surprised by how quiet he was. Usually, he would’ve been making some sarcastic comment or teasing me for getting hurt, but now he seemed… concerned. In a way I hadn’t expected.

“Stay put,” he said, his voice softer than usual as he crouched down to inspect my shoulder. “I’m going to grab the first aid kit. You’ll be fine.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t so sure about that. The pain had dulled a bit since I sat down, but it still throbbed with every movement. I wanted to argue, to tell him I could take care of myself, but at this point, it seemed pointless. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was stubborn just to prove some point.

Joel disappeared into the nearby barn and returned a few minutes later with a first aid kit in hand. He knelt down in front of me, his eyes scanning my shoulder, and I could see him evaluating the injury carefully. There was no arrogance now, no cocky humor. He was all business.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he muttered, gently lifting my arm to get a better look at the injury.

I winced, trying not to flinch, but the pain was undeniable. “It’s nothing,” I said, forcing my voice to sound dismissive. “Just a little bruise. I’ll be fine.”

Joel didn’t buy it. “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything. This could be worse than it looks.” He carefully started cleaning the area around the bruise, his touch light but deliberate, making sure he didn’t aggravate the injury. “You always act like you don’t need anyone’s help. But it’s okay to admit when you’re in trouble.”

I gritted my teeth at his words, but there was no edge to his tone—just quiet honesty. I didn’t want to admit that he was right, that maybe I had been pushing myself too hard lately, that maybe I had been too proud to ask for help. But it was hard to keep up the act when he was standing there, so close, so damn calm.

“I don’t need a lecture, Joel,” I muttered, trying to shift my position slightly.

His hand paused as he looked up at me, his eyes catching mine. “I’m not lecturing you. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t make it worse. You can’t keep pretending like you’re invincible. You’re not.”

The words hung in the air between us, and for the first time, I felt a wave of vulnerability wash over me. I didn’t want to feel like this. I didn’t want to admit that maybe I had been running on empty for far too long, that maybe I didn’t have it all figured out. Not with him, not with anyone.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t know what happened back there. It’s like I lost control for a second.”

Joel didn’t respond immediately. He finished cleaning the cut and then started wrapping it in gauze, his movements methodical and practiced. I had expected him to make some quip, to tease me for showing weakness, but instead, he was quiet—focused.

When he finished, he finally looked up, his expression softer now. “It happens to the best of us. You got scared, and that’s okay. But you don’t have to do this alone, y/n.”

I met his gaze, the weight of his words settling in the pit of my stomach. His sincerity was something I hadn’t expected, and it threw me off more than I cared to admit.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The only sound was the quiet rustling of the wind and the distant hum of the rodeo grounds. I could feel the tension between us, still hanging in the air, but now there was something different about it—something that wasn’t just about competing, or winning, or proving who was stronger.

“Thanks,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “I didn’t expect you to… actually help.”

Joel gave me a dry chuckle, sitting back on his heels. “Don’t go thinking this means I’ve gone soft, darlin’. I’m still gonna beat you tomorrow.”

I couldn’t help but smile, the familiar banter easing the weight of the moment. “You’re still insufferable, you know that?”

His grin returned, that cocky edge creeping back into his voice. “And you’re still stubborn. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Makes the competition interesting.”

I shook my head, but this time, there was no animosity behind it. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something—maybe even gratitude—for the way he’d handled this.

“Just don’t think you’re getting an easy win,” I shot back, feeling a hint of the old spark return. “I’m coming for you.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, his eyes glinting with the usual challenge. “Bring it on. I’ve been waiting for you to step it up.”

For a moment, I let myself enjoy the lightness between us, the rivalry still there, but tempered by something new. Something I didn’t quite understand, but I was starting to admit I didn’t mind.

Joel stood up, offering me a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the bed and breakfast and take it easy for the rest of the night. You’ve got a competition to win tomorrow.”

I hesitated for a moment, then took his hand, letting him help me up. The steady warmth of his grip was comforting, and I couldn’t ignore the way my pulse quickened with his touch. There was something about Joel—something that pushed all my buttons, something that made me want to keep fighting and keep running, but also, maybe, something that made me want to stay.

I brushed off the thought, refusing to let it linger as I walked beside him back to the stables. There was still a competition to prepare for, after all, and tomorrow, I’d make sure he knew that I wasn’t going down without a fight.

The morning buzzed with the smell of fresh coffee and bacon as I walked into the small dining room of the bed and breakfast. Most of the rodeo crowd was already there, gathered around wooden tables, chatting between bites of biscuits and gravy.

Still half-asleep, I grabbed the nearest cowboy hat from the rack by the door and plopped it onto my head without thinking.

I didn’t realize my mistake until I felt the weight of a stare burning into me.

Slowly, I looked up—right into the amused eyes of Joel.

He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, that damn smirk creeping onto his face. “Mornin’, princess.”

I blinked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Joel tapped his fingers on the table, clearly enjoying himself. “That your hat?”

I frowned, reaching up to tug it down more firmly—only to freeze when I realized it wasn’t mine.

It was his.

I had grabbed Joel’s hat.

Before I could rip it off my head, he tilted his head, voice dropping just enough for only me to hear. “You know what they say…” His smirk turned downright sinful. “Wear the hat—“

“Don’t.” I yanked the hat off my head and smacked it against his chest before he could finish that sentence.

Joel just chuckled, gripping the hat with ease, his fingers brushing mine for a split second longer than necessary. “Hey, no need to be shy about it. Could’ve just told me you wanted—”

“Don’t even start.” I huffed, grabbing a cup of coffee and heading straight for the other side of the room, ignoring the way my face burned.

“Hey, wait,” Joel called after me, and despite every bone in my body telling me to keep walking, I paused.

His voice was quieter now, a little more serious. “How’s your shoulder?”

I blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Your shoulder,” he repeated, leaning forward with that same familiar, cocky grin, but his eyes—there was something softer there. “Y’know, after that little run-in with the calf yesterday. Didn’t want you to use it as an excuse when I beat you later.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the unexpected flutter in my chest. “It’s fine. Barely hurts.” I squared my shoulders just to prove the point. “And I’m still competing, so don’t get your hopes up.”

Joel chuckled, tipping his hat. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”

Even with my back turned, I could feel his eyes on me.

And worse?

I wasn’t sure I hated it.

Competition day always had a certain energy to it—electric, tense, buzzing with anticipation. The early morning sun cast long shadows across the rodeo grounds, the air thick with the scent of dust, horses, and sweat. The crowd was already gathering, and the announcer’s voice echoed through the arena, calling out the lineup for the day’s events.

I should have been focused. I needed to be focused. But, of course, Joel was making that impossible.

“You nervous, princess?” His voice came from behind me, slow and smug as I checked Maple’s saddle one last time.

I exhaled, gripping the leather a little tighter before turning to face him. “Not in the slightest.”

Joel grinned, standing there with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, looking like he hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over today’s competition. Unlike me, he didn’t believe in overpreparing or second-guessing. He just rode, wild and free, as if the rules didn’t apply to him.

“You sure?” he pressed, tilting his head. “You’ve been triple-checking that saddle for the last five minutes.”

“Maybe I just like to be thorough,” I shot back.

Tommy, Joel’s younger brother, walked up just in time to witness our usual back-and-forth. He clapped Joel on the shoulder, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, do y’all ever stop?”

“Nope,” said another voice—Kailen, my best friend, who had been standing nearby, watching with barely concealed amusement. She raised a brow at me. “You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time talking.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the announcer’s voice rang through the speakers, calling up the tie-down roping competitors—Joel’s event.

Joel shot me a wink. “Guess we’ll have to finish this conversation later.”

“Can’t wait,” I muttered as he strolled off, exuding nothing but confidence.

Joel went first. I watched from the sidelines as he rode out with Ford, moving like they were one body. He chased down the calf, lassoed it with effortless precision, and leapt from his saddle in one fluid motion.

The crowd roared as he finished his tie-down in record time, standing back with that damn smug expression as if he knew he was the best.

Tommy whistled from beside me. “Damn, he’s gonna be impossible to deal with after that one.”

Kailen nudged me. “You good?”

I forced myself to unclench my fists. “Fine.”

I wasn’t.

Because the second Joel met my gaze from across the arena, his smirk turning into something slower, something challenging, I felt my stomach flip in a way I really didn’t need before my own event.

It was my turn.

The crowd was still buzzing from Joel’s performance, but I didn’t let it distract me. I mounted Maple, adjusting my grip on the reins as we trotted into the arena.

I took a breath. Blocked out the noise. Focused.

Then, at the sound of the buzzer, we flew.

Maple moved with power and grace, muscles coiling and releasing as we weaved around the barrels with razor-sharp precision. The turns were tight, the speed unmatched. Every movement was calculated, controlled—until the last barrel.

Just as I rounded it, I saw a blur of movement from the corner of my eye. Something—someone—was too close to the fence. Maple spooked, just a fraction of a second’s hesitation, but it was enough to cost me.

We crossed the finish line fast, but not fast enough.

I let out a breath, my heart hammering as I slowed Maple to a trot.

Second place.

Not first.

Not him.

As I dismounted, frustration burned in my chest. I had been so close.

“Hell of a ride,” Joel’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to find him standing there, Ford’s reins in hand, watching me with that unreadable expression. “Shame about that last turn, though.”

I gritted my teeth, yanking off my riding gloves.

“What?” His lips twitched. “I’m just sayin’—”

“You’re gloating.”

Joel stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You mad ‘cause you lost, or mad ‘cause you lost to me?”

I shot him a glare, my skin still buzzing from the adrenaline. From the way he was looking at me. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” he murmured, his eyes flickering down to my lips before meeting my gaze again. “Always so desperate to be perfect. Always so scared to just let go.”

I hated that he could see through me. Hated that he knew how much this got under my skin.

But most of all?

I hated how much I wanted him to kiss me right then and there.

“Y/n!” Kailen called, jogging up before I could say—or do—something stupid.

I tore my eyes away from Joel, breathing out sharply. “Coming.”

Joel leaned in just a little, voice low in my ear. “We’re not done, darlin’.”

I turned my head, meeting his gaze with a challenge of my own. “Not even close.”

The rodeo wrapped up as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a hazy golden glow. The smell of sweat, dust, and leather lingered in the air as competitors packed up for the night, some celebrating, some nursing bruised egos.

I should have been happy with second place. It was a solid run, and I knew Maple and I had given it everything. But standing there watching Joel grin and drink a beer like he hadn’t just walked away with a damn trophy made my blood boil.

And worse? It made something else simmer beneath my skin.

Kailen nudged my side, her gaze flicking between me and Joel, who was leaning against the fence with Tommy, talking and laughing. “You look like you either want to murder him or fuck him.”

I scoffed. “Try murder.”

“Sure,” she said, dragging out the word like she didn’t believe me for a second. “You gonna pretend you weren’t watching him the whole time?”

I turned sharply toward her. “I was not—”

“You totally were.” She smirked. “And he knows it.”

I glanced back at Joel, and sure enough, his eyes were already on me, like he’d been waiting for me to look. The second our gazes met, he lifted his beer bottle slightly, that damn smirk never leaving his face.

Cocky asshole.

I tore my gaze away and turned to Kailen. “I need a drink.”

She grinned. “Now that I can help with.”

Later that night, most of the rodeo crowd had gathered around a bonfire outside the bed and breakfast. Someone had set up speakers playing old country music, and the smell of barbecue mixed with the smoke from the fire.

I sat on a hay bale, nursing a beer, trying to shake the way Joel had been in my head all damn day.

But of course, he had to make it worse.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” Joel’s voice drawled from behind me.

I exhaled slowly before turning to look at him. “Why? Thought I’d be too busy polishing my second-place ribbon?”

Joel chuckled, taking the spot next to me like he belonged there. “Nah. Just figured you wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me after today.”

I scoffed, taking a sip of my beer. “I don’t.”

“Yet, here you are.”

I turned to him, narrowing my eyes.

He leaned back, propping an arm on the hay bale, looking so damn relaxed it made me want to shove him off. “You always this fun at parties?”

I set my drink down and faced him fully. “What is it you want?”

He studied me for a second, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he shrugged. “Just wonderin’ how long you’re gonna pretend you don’t feel this.”

My breath caught, but I covered it with a laugh. “Feel what?”

Joel tilted his head, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before flicking back to my eyes. “This,” he said, voice lower now. “The thing between us.”

I swallowed, suddenly hating how warm the fire felt against my skin. “There is no thing.”

Joel just smirked, like he could see right through me. “Right.”

The tension was thick—too thick.

I should have left, should have walked away before I did something stupid.

But Joel, of course, had to push.

“You mad ‘cause I won, or mad ‘cause you know I’m right?” he asked, leaning in slightly.

And just like that, my patience snapped.

“God, you are so insufferable!” I huffed, standing up abruptly.

Joel followed, rising to his full height, his body inches from mine. “And you are so damn stubborn.”

“Because I don’t fall for your stupid games?”

“No, because you pretend you don’t want this!”

My jaw clenched. “I don’t.”

Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

I pushed at his chest, more out of frustration than anything, but he barely moved. “You are the last person I’d ever—”

Before I could finish, he grabbed my wrist, tugging me forward. “Then tell me to stop.”

I froze.

The bonfire crackled behind us, voices and laughter distant, drowned out by the pounding of my own heart.

Joel’s eyes searched mine, his breathing heavy, his grip firm but not unkind. “Tell me to walk away, y/n.”

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Joel's grip on my wrists tightened, his eyes burning with a fury that mirrored mine. "I'm talking about the fact that I can't stand you, y/n. I can't stand watching you shut me out, push me away, acting like you've got everything figured out."

I blinked, stunned by the words he'd just said.

"You can't stand me?" The words stung, more than I wanted to admit, but I was too furious to back down now.

Joel's jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah. I can't stand how you make everything so damn hard. I can't stand how you act like I'm some kind of joke. But I can't stop thinking about you either. You don't get it, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper, the raw emotion there now, the heat between us intensifying with every word. "I want you, y/n. I want you so fucking much, and I can't stand it."

The words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, staring up at him, realizing that everything l'd been fighting— everything I thought I knew-was coming to a head. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, the heat and the desire that had been simmering beneath our constant bickering now breaking free in an overwhelming wave.

Without thinking, I pushed myself up onto my toes, crashing my lips into his with all the pent-up frustration, desire, and raw emotion I'd been holding back. His hands immediately moved to my back, pulling me flush against him, and the moment our lips met, it was like everything exploded. His kiss was demanding, urgent, filled with everything we hadn't said before-the anger, the passion, the need.

I tugged at his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his body against mine, the way our breaths mingled as we kissed like it was the only thing that mattered. I could feel the way his muscles tensed under my fingers, the rawness of him, the way he was losing control just as much as I was.

"Y/n," he murmured between kisses, his voice low and raspy. "I can't stop... can't stop thinking about you."

I pulled away just enough to look him in the eye, my chest heaving with breathless anticipation. "Then don't," I said, my voice shaky but full of conviction. "Stop fighting it."

Joel groaned against my mouth, his arms wrapping around me in an instant, pulling me flush against him. The kiss was rough, urgent, months—years—of tension exploding all at once.

He backed me up until my back hit the fence, his hands gripping my hips like he was afraid I’d pull away. But I wasn’t going anywhere.

The kiss deepened, urgent, messy, full of everything we had been avoiding. I felt his hands running down my back, pulling me even closer as if he couldn't get enough, as if everything we had been holding back was finally being released in the fire between us.

My hands slid under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flexed with every move. I pulled him closer, his breath coming fast and shallow as he kissed me harder.

I didn't think about the competition. I didn't think about the risks or the consequences. All I could focus on was the heat between us, the passion that had been building for so long, finally bursting open in a wave that left us both breathless and lost in the moment.

When we finally broke apart, both of us gasping for air, Joel rested his forehead against mine, his hands still gripping me tightly.

"Shit," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "That was-"

I didn't let him finish, pulling him back into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, more deliberate.

Joel's grin spread, a familiar cocky smirk returning, but now there was something more beneath it-something real, something that neither of us could deny.

We made it back to the bed and breakfast and I wasn't sure what I expected after everything— after the anger, the lust, the feeling of crossing some line l'd never been able to cross before-but in that moment, none of the thoughts I had before made sense anymore.

Joel's lips were still on my skin, his hands brushing against my body with a familiarity that felt too natural. I couldn't quite process it all-the way my heart raced, the way he moved so confidently, but also with that trace of hesitation like he was waiting for me to push him away. And I could feel the shift, the change, that had come with everything.

I could feel it in the way he touched me now-so gentle, but deep with a hunger I hadn't expected.

His lips trailed over my neck, down my jaw, slowly, like he was savoring every second. It made my breath catch, my pulse quicken as I let myself fall into the feeling, into him.

"Y/n..." he whispered, his voice rough, barely above a breath. "I didn't think it would be like this. But damn, I can't stop..."

He didn't finish the sentence, and I didn't need him to. I knew exactly what he meant. It was the same thing I was feeling, the same pull, the same want.

I wasn't thinking anymore. I wasn't thinking about the competition, about the rivalry, about all the reasons we shouldn't be here, doing this.

I reached up, pulling him into a kiss, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer as if somehow that would make it all make sense. His hands slid under me, lifting me slightly, and I could feel him shift, his body pressing against mine with a desperate kind of intensity.

We couldn't keep our hands off each other. His touch was scorching, a contrast to the cool sheets beneath us. My hands roamed over his chest, feeling the taut muscles there, the heat radiating from him.

He groaned softly when my fingers brushed his collarbone, his lips parting in that same quiet desperation.

I could tell he was holding back-like he was giving me a chance to stop him, to pull away. But I didn't want to. I couldn't stop him.

When his hands found their way down to my waist, pulling me even closer, I couldn't stop the soft gasp that escaped me. And that was it. He kissed me again, this time rougher, the pace of his movements picking up, pushing me deeper into the moment.

I wanted him. God, I wanted him more than I wanted to admit.

Joel's mouth found mine again, his hands now working to tug my shirt off, and I wasn't stopping him. I didn't care anymore. All the walls, all the resistance, all the history between us—it melted away, and the only thing that mattered was what we were doing right now.

We were giving in. We were no longer fighting it.

My body responded instantly, moving against his, matching the intensity of his kiss, the roughness of his hands. He was relentless, his kisses growing deeper, more urgent, as if he couldn't get enough.

And I couldn't either.

The way he touched me made everything else feel irrelevant. The way his lips trailed down my body sent sparks of heat that burned away every other thought I had, until all I could think about was him.

It felt so right, but at the same time, so completely new.

Every touch, every movement, was a revelation. He wasn't the same man l'd been arguing with all day. He was someone else now-someone raw, someone real. Someone who was finally, finally, showing me all the things he'd been holding back.

And I realized, in that instant, I wasn't the only one letting go. He was too.

His body pressed against mine, heat radiating off him, as if he was saying everything he couldn't with words. His kiss was hungry, fevered, but there was something more to it-something soft, something almost... gentle.

I felt his hand on my back, guiding me, moving me closer, as if there was no space between us, as if we were meant to be tangled up in this moment, in this feeling. We were no longer the same stubborn, competitive people. We were two people who had finally let go of everything and just given in.

And I couldn't bring myself to stop.

584 notes · View notes

almostempty · 4 months ago

Text

right kind of dream (joel miller x f!reader) part one

wc: 12.5k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | PART TWO HERE

summary: rebuilding your life, chasing cans, and hitchin’ a ride to the rodeo with team roper joel

to my pedrostories secret santa recipient @katiexpunk: this was a challenge for ya gurl to be srs (and it’s not a tentacle gangbang, i lied in ur asks babe i’m srry) i hope i hit the mark on a handful of the prompts though, i had high hopes that i could really challenge myself and deliver some breeding kink cowboy but i fear it’s more of a creampie kink��i hope that still hits, i have horse knowledge, but only rodeo adjacent experience so if any rodeo queens find glaring mistakes pls forgive me — but happy holidays bb, i really hope you enjoy-- EDIT: I MADE IT TOO GIRTHY (or something?? sorry!!) and had to split it into two parts, the second part will be up and linked as asap as possible, and i'll add the full text to ao3 so it'll be in one spot

tags: modern cowboy joel au/ team roper joel and tommy, no sarah, enemies to lovers, dbf lite, choose your own age gap, small town romance, city girl returns to the country, miscommunication, guilty yearnful joel, horsegirl!joel, smut, ridin’ that cowboy bareback as the good lord intended, no beta–mistakes are my fault for writing at 4am

thanks: to @syd-djarin, @auteurdelabre, @lovely-vamp-princess for support, eyes, ideas, etc.

The sun beats down on the gravel driveway as you pull your truck toward the old house. It looks almost the same as it did the summers you spent here as a kid when it was your grandparents–the peeling white paint on the porch railing, and the barn standing sturdy, but weathered further down the driveway. The fields stretched on as you rolled down the driveway, dotted with occasional wildflowers and critters dashing into the denser brush.

The air blows warm through the window, same as you remember, but the weight of the memories feels different now. The summers used to feel endless here, the fields seemed endless, as did the sky. It all used to feel so liberating. It’s not an endless summer now. Everything looks smaller and more weathered.

Except for the shiny white PVC fences on the other side of the driveway and the modern-looking house and barn built on the same soil you used to spend hours patrolling with your pony, Clover. She’d search for the best bits of grass as you laid across her back coming up with stories—some days you were an old-timey cowgirl traveling west or Clover was a wild horse you were training or you were on a quest to a magical kingdom together.

But now it’s a new home for whoever bought up the parceled land your dad sold to cover the updates on the house when he inherited it. Someone with enough money for a fancy barn and shiny truck. You pull to a stop and hop out of the cab, still scanning the neighbor's property, making your first impression.

Your dad emerges from the barn, wiping his hands on a faded rag. He gives you a smile and a nod. “About time you showed up,” he calls, his voice warm and teasing. “Thought maybe you had changed your mind.”

You shake your head softly, rolling your eyes. “Nope. Nothing worth staying in that city for.”

The gravel crunches under your boots as you round the bed to grab one of your boxes. All your belongings fit into a few boxes. At least, everything that mattered to you, everything that was still you. “Where do you want this?” You wonder how you’re going to manage living in the same house with your dad now that you’re an adult.

“Just set it inside,” he said, gesturing to the house. “We’ll get you sorted after we have something to eat.”

As you followed him toward the house, the outline of the neighbor's property loomed large. The barn caught your eye. It was close. A pair of horses stood in the near pasture, swishing their tails in the afternoon heat. The contrast was stark. Where your dad’s place still carried the scrapes and scuffs of decades–theirs looked new and polished. Smug even. Can a house be smug?

“The neighbors are closer than I thought.” You cross the porch, the nostalgic screen door squeaking as your dad ushers you inside.

“Don’t mind it. We look out for each other.” He points to the room you stayed in as a kid. “He damn near built the place by himself, and helped me with the new roof on this place.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “You said you were gonna hire roofers instead of climbing around up there at your age.” He shrugs you off. Always stubborn. Convinced he can do it better and cheaper. Despite the toll on his body.

“Paid him to help,” he argues, “wasn’t up there by myself. You don’t gotta worry about me like that.”

You set your box down at the end of the twin-size bed, the room falling quiet for a moment. Your dad stays planted in the doorway, but his brows pinch and lips purse briefly before he lets out a breath. You scan the room, gaze landing on the floorboards, waiting.

Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, he says, “You hungry?”

You grin at that, letting out a shaky breath. Your father’s daughter, neither of you likes to dig into your feelings. He taught you to show love through actions, like keeping you fed, taking on hard labor jobs without a complaint, or changing your windshield wipers before the rainy season starts and you’re cursing yours out.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing past the knot in your chest. “Starving.”

The rumble of a diesel engine jolts you awake the next morning, the deep growly sound reverberating through the walls like thunder on an otherwise quiet morning. You groaned, stretching and blinking blearily at the pale light filtering in through the old curtains. It was barely dawn yet, which explains the dull headache you’ve got.

Sleep had been restless. Tangled thoughts, ruminating on what you’d left behind. A failed engagement, the job you hated, the mix of excuses you had rehearsed for why you’d come back. You’d hoped coming here would ease the ache, but just when you were finally falling back asleep—the truck from hell pulled up to the house.

The engine is already cut off, but now you can hear voices on the porch. Your dad’s, low and steady, just a hum, and another unfamiliar drawl. Whoever it is, they’re carrying on like the rest of the world wasn’t still trying to wake up.

You drag yourself out of bed, wearing your soft sleep shorts and a thin shirt. The worn fabric clings to your body in places it shouldn’t, but you’re not thinking about being presentable, you aren’t really thinking at all yet. You drag your feet crossing to the kitchen to pour yourself coffee, for a brief moment you miss the coffee shop you used to stop at on the way to your old job, but the familiar roast your dad’s been loyal to has its charm. Like the free coffee at an AA meeting. It’s there and you need something to keep you going.

You push past the squeaky screen door, stepping out onto the porch. Your dad sits on the worn bench, coffee in hand. Next to him, leaning casually against the railing is a man you don’t recognize. His black Stetson gives him a classic cowboy silhouette, the morning sun catches on the sharp cut of his jaw and the scruff on his cheeks. His plaid shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, his jeans are worn and dusty in a way that speaks to more than just appearances.

He straightens when he sees you, pulling his hat off with one hand in a fluid, effortless motion. “Mornin’,” he says, voice low and rich. “You must be the daughter. Joel Miller.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “Morning,” you mutter, voice still thick from sleep. “You always roll up this early, or is today special?”

Your dad shoots a look at you, but Joel just chuckles softly.

“Guessin’ you’re not a morning person?”

Your eyes are narrow, defensive. “I’m just fine in the mornings,” you say in a clipped tone that doesn’t support your statement. “Just not when I’m woken up by a jet engine at the asscrack of dawn.” The chill in the brisk morning air causes you to shiver for a moment somehow making you look more irritated.

Joel glances at your dad with a faint smirk before tipping his hat to you. “Noted.”

Your dad laughs. “Should’ve heard her when she was ten,” he says leaning back. “Wouldn’t let anyone tell her what to do. Still doesn’t take shit from anyone I guess.”

“I’m right here,” you mutter, glaring at him.

“Just sayin’,” your dad replies, raising his mug in mock surrender. He turns back to Joel and they resume their conversation about fence posts or something equally riveting. You let your eyes roam as you wake up, drinking the rest of your coffee, tuning in and out of their conversation about their plans for the day.

The easy camaraderie between the two of them was clear. Like a friendship forged through shared labor and quiet mornings. They flow between their plans for work and that subtle gossiping that men do–convinced it isn’t really gossip–as they share updates about other folks in town and a few of the local businesses.

“What about you?” Joel asks, turning to you and pulling you out of the fog. “You’re back for a while then?”

It’s an innocent question, but it grates at you anyway. You stiffen. “Yeah, just taking some time,” you say vaguely.

Joel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push for a real answer. You can feel the weight of his curiosity in the air between you. He looks to your dad, who doesn’t elaborate, letting something unspoken pass between them.

“Well,” Joel drawls, “good timing. Lot of work to do this time of year. If you’re up for it.”

The comment makes you pull a face. “I’m familiar with hard work,” you reply, your voice sharper than intended.

Joel’s lips quirk again, into something like a smirk this time. “I’m sure you are,” he says with the faintest edge of a challenge.

He takes a long swig from his stainless steel travel mug, trying to fix his eyes on the horizon. But damn, if it isn’t a challenge to see you standing there, looking every bit like you’d just rolled out of bed. In a shirt too damn thin for a morning like this, leaving too little to the imagination.

He knew he shouldn’t be noticing something like that, shouldn’t look at you like that–especially not while you’re standing next to your dad. Hell, he shouldn’t want to look at all, but his eyes betray him. Darting for just a moment to your soft curves and the evidence of the chill in the air–the impression of your stiff nipples protruding in the soft fabric.

Christ. He swallows hard, landing his eyes back on the scowl you wear on your face. You’re his friend's daughter. It just ain’t right. Sweet young thing like you. He battles the devil on his shoulder that reminds him you aren’t a kid. You’re a woman. A grown woman with your own life and clearly your share of grit, if the sharpness in your voice was anything to go by.

He shifts on his feet, forcing his attention back to your dad who was still chuckling softly at something. Joel didn’t catch the joke, head too full of thoughts about you–or how to not think about you. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, unsettling him in front of your dad.

You and him made loose plans for the day while Joel’s mind continued to wander. He shouldn’t have asked about why you were back. Your answer was vague, brushing him off like it was a privilege he hadn’t earned. For some reason that lodged it in his head further. He wanted to know more, even if he shouldn’t.

Your dad stood up, stretching and declaring that all of you have work to do. You take that as your cue to head back inside, leaving the screen door swinging behind you. Joel lets out a low breath, shaking his head as he turns back to your dad.

“She’s a spitfire,” Joel comments, keeping his tone neutral.

“She is,” your dad agrees, adjusting his hat. “Good to have her back.”

Joel huffs a small laugh, “S’pose we could use a strong woman around here. Keep us in line.”

“No doubt she will,” your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder. The whole exchange stuck with Joel though. Something under that edge of yours, something unpolished that has him curious in a way he isn’t used to. He shakes his head knowing it isn’t his place to go digging.

Your dad starts down the front steps. “Let’s get moving, then.” Joel moves mechanically, boots falling in line with your dad’s, but his mind is half on you—in that t-shirt, with that scowl on your face, and that faraway look that he’d like to unravel.

You were used to hard work but your muscles weren’t exactly dialed in for the functional conditioning. It was humbling as you found yourself aching and exhausted by the end of the night. However, the fatigue did make it easier to fall asleep once your head hit the pillow instead of spiraling on about your failures until the birds started chirping.

The next few days gave you a jump start into the rural routine. In bed early, up before the sun. Hot showers before dinner to wash away the layer of sweat and sweet-smelling dust from the pine shavings and hay. You found yourself looking forward to the strong coffee and the cool morning air before you started with your day.

Your dad, and Joel, learned quickly to let you wake up rather than ask questions as they caught up on their plans before heading out together or splitting up. You didn’t mind listening, but you could feel Joel’s eyes lingering on you now and then. It made your spine straighten, determined to hide the sore muscles in your shoulders from him. If he was waiting to hear a complaint from you it was never gonna come.

Despite getting more rest and having an endless list of labor to keep you moving–you often found yourself working solo and in silence during the day. A silence that your mind was more than happy to fill. You rehashed memories and dissected those little moments from your relationship with your ex-fiance that you wish you had seen more clearly at the time.

You’re deep in one of those memories, mindlessly stacking bales of hay onto the trailer for a delivery your dad is making tomorrow when Joel enters the other end of the barn. He leans against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you work. The warm scent of hay fills the air, grounding and everpresent in his life.

It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a common chore he’d do without thinking twice. But watching you was a whole different story. Your shirt was damp with sweat as you leaned into the work like you’d done it your whole life. You climb up a stack of bales and toss down some from the top of the next row, unaware of his presence.

He is mesmerized by you. The sharp look on your face like you were mulling over an argument, the fluid movements as you worked, and the determination radiating off of you as you worked at an urgent pace.

His gaze drifts lower as you climb down and bend to heave another bale onto the flatbed trailer. The muscles in his jaw tense as he lingers on the curve of your back as you bend to grab another. The way your legs shift as you work. The outline of your body in that shirt, the soft grunt you let out as you hoist another bale had him thinking indecent thoughts before he could stop himself.

Joel drags his hand over his face, fingers brushing his scruffy jaw. Heat burning within him that has nothing to do with the Texas sun transforms into irritation. He was considering copping out and disappearing before you even noticed him when he was outed by the damn barn cats.

The orange cat comes sprinting towards him, but it’s the black and white one meow-yelling at him down the aisle that catches your attention. A dull thud echoes through the barn as you drop another bale and watch as Joel squats down to give the cats the attention they demand. You watch, catching your breath. He’s gentle with them, murmuring something you can’t hear before he stands and strolls toward you.

“Afternoon,” he greets you in his deep baritone voice. Joel grabs the two-string bale of hay in front of you and drops it on the trailer with ease, grabbing another before you can interject.

“I can handle it.” You huff as you resume your task.

“Never said you couldn’t,” he replies smoothly, setting another down. “Thought it’d go faster with two sets of hands.”

“I wasn’t in a hurry.” You eye him warily for a moment before slipping into a coordinated dance like it was natural. Tossing the rest that needed to be loaded up into the aisle for him to grab. You work in silence, just the sounds of hay shifting and boots scuffing against the barn floor.

You break the silence first. “Dad says you and your brother hit the rodeo circuit in the summer. That true?”

Joel huffs a soft laugh. “True.”

“You compete?”

“Team roping,” he says, his voice warming slightly. “Me and Tommy hit most of the circuits within a day's drive from here. Keeps us outta trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Hard to picture you in trouble, cowboy.”

Joel’s smirk returned, faint but there. “You’d be surprised, sweetheart.” He matches your playful tone.

His words linger as you work, stirring something you don’t quite know what to do with. Your mind drifts to the idea of rodeoing, the adrenaline of it, the discipline it demands. You forgot how much you missed it, how much you gave up chasing a life that didn’t pan out the way you hoped.

Joel shifts beside you, the faint scrape of his boots pulling you back to the present. You glance at him, catching the way his shirt clung slightly to his back, the easy strength in the way he moves.

For a moment, the quiet feels comfortable. Easy. The steady rhythm fills the space. But eventually, Joel speaks again.

“Your dad said you used to spend summers out here,” he says, in a low and easy tone.

“Yeah,” you say, a little out of breath from the exertion. “When I was a kid.”

Joel brushes some loose hay off of his shirt. “Guessin’ it’s different now.”

“Everything’s different now,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

His brow furrows slightly. “What brought you back?”

You hesitate, not looking him in the eye. You’re searching for an answer in the dust particles caught in a beam of sunlight. “Just needed time to…rebuild.” It’s still vague.

“You runnin’ from something?”

You tense at that, before covering it in sarcasm. “I’m not an outlaw,” you jest, earning you a small smile. He doesn’t press further, but you feel his eyes on you, steady, and patient like he’s waiting in case you offer more.

“It’s not as simple as people make it sound,” you say finally, the words slipping out before can stop them. “Starting over, that is.” You sit on a bale and pull your work gloves off, running the back of your hand over your forehead smearing sweat and dust in a most unsatisfying way.

“No, it ain’t,” he adds quietly.

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten, but you ignore the sensation. “What about you? How’d you end up here?”

“Had to start over myself, I reckon,” he muses, dusting off his hands before sitting down next to you. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expected. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he watches the cats play with a piece of baling twine. “This place made it easier—focusing on getting the house built and getting the business running. Your dad helped too.”

That catches you off guard. “My dad?”

Joel nods, finally meeting your eyes. “Just seemed to understand, I guess.”

You stare at him. You’re disarmed by the softness in his tone. Like there’s more beneath the surface if you ask for it.

Joel feels the air thicken. He takes in the way your sweat-damp shirt clings to you, and the heavy rise and fall of your chest. For a split second, an image flashes in his mind—your chest heaving for a very different reason, your skin flushed and shining. His throat tightens, and he looks away quickly, cursing himself for letting his thoughts slip.

The cats weave between your legs, easing the silence. But the air between you still feels charged. Your thighs are nearly touching. The proximity feels overwhelming for some reason and you're suddenly caught up in the details of his profile as he stares down at the floor. The lines at the corner of his eye, his nose, his lips.

He clears his throat and slaps a palm on his thigh. “Well,” he starts, standing up rather abruptly. “Just came by to check-in. See how you’re settling in.”

“What?” You frown. You miss the grimace that flashes on his face, your eyes drawn to the cats darting away from the two of you. “How I’m settling in?”

“Yeah, you know…” he gestures vaguely around the barn and your brows furrow and your eyes sharpen at him. Irritation flickers behind your eyes.

“I told you I’m not afraid of hard work,” you snap, jumping to your feet in front of him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles, like you’re misunderstanding him.

“Did my dad send you to ‘check in’ on me? Or did you want to see if I could keep up?”

“It ain’t like that.” He says lowly.

“Right.” You cut, crossing your arms. You’re over this rollercoaster of a conversation. Your eyes catch on the deep crease between his brows and the glint in his dark eyes. Something flares in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s indignation or something else entirely. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens, gaze locked with yours. Something unspoken flickers in his expression. But instead of answering, he straightens, stepping back. “Doesn’t matter,” he says curtly.

Your stomach twists at the coolness of his tone, the connection you just felt snapping like a wire.

“This was a mistake,” Joel mutters to himself.

“What was?” you asked, your voice deadly quiet.

Joel only shakes his head before striding toward the far door. His boots echo on the floor and the cats follow after him like shadows, their tails swishing as they dart out into the sun. Joel pauses in the doorway, glancing back with a look you don’t understand.

“Don’t work too hard now.” His voice carries easily before he stalks off.

Your thoughts have you spinning. “The fuck is his problem?” you wonder out loud, sharp in the warm air. In the space he left.

But deep down, you can feel the edge of something else. Something more than frustration, curling low and unwelcome in your chest. The weight of his gaze was still lingering, and try as you might, you can’t ignore the way his presence had pressed into every corner of the barn, or the faint scent of leather and bourbon that still hangs in the air.

Your routine locks into place, and the days begin to pass in a blur. Joel stops by for coffee and acts like the conversation you had in the barn never happened. The stoic, gruff cowboy thing works just fine with you.

Except for the moments you catch him staring at you like he’s trying to find an answer to something he never asked.

If you’re honest, though, despite your hostility, you seem to catch yourself studying him with the same frequency and intensity. You’re loath to admit you catch yourself hung up on his obnoxiously broad shoulders, his arms sculpted from the physically demanding work, and that gravelly morning voice he has before he finishes his coffee.

Aside from whatever Joel’s problem with you is, everything else seems to be falling into place. You catch up on your dad’s list of projects. You pick up a part-time job at the feed store in town, keeping yourself too busy to have idle time and too tired to dwell on the past or the future. You get to know folks in the town while you work at the register.

The town seems smaller than it was when you were a kid, but there’s also a charm in the simplicity that you find comfort in. The regulars keep you up to date on the town gossip, and you’re laughing loudly with your boss, Linda, one day over a joke she’d never admit to teaching you when your neighbor struts up to you with a list in hand for a bulk feed order.

You’re cordial to him and the man at his side who gives you a flirty wink that has you raising your eyebrows in disbelief for a moment before you put it together. “You must be Tommy?”

He grins brightly and offers his hand. “And you must be the neighbor?” You give him your name and a polite smile. Your eyes flick to Joel, taking in his neutral expression. His hands rest in his pockets, but his posture is loose, his broad shoulders back in a way that draws your eye before you can stop yourself.

As you enter the details of their order into the prehistoric computer, Linda chats both of the men up, asking them about their horses and when their next rodeo is.

You give Joel his total and take his payment, trying not to roll your eyes when he doesn’t make eye contact with you. You’re ready for the interaction with him to be over when Linda puts you on the spot.

“This one’s been talking about looking for a project horse of her own.” She nods her head toward you. “You boys have any leads for her?”

You can feel your face heating up as they both look at you. It’s not like it was a secret, but you weren’t planning on making Joel privy to your plans. You still haven’t forgotten the way he said this was a mistake after having one conversation with you. Or the way he is always looking at you. Like you don’t belong here or something.

“I’ll do you one better,” Tommy says. “We’ve got a couple of colts just getting started under saddle. They could use the miles, and they’re real sweet-tempered if you wanna come by during the week.”

“Thanks, Tommy.” You give him a genuine smile. “I’m actually going to take a look at one that’s got potential this weekend. Marilyn from the post office said her cousin’s got a six-year-old quarter horse she’d sell for a steal.”

Joel lets out a dismissive laugh under his breath. “You mean that Hancock gelding? The blue roan?”

“Yeah.” You confirm, slowly growing more confused by the reactions on all of their faces. “Why?”

Linda’s mouth is hanging open like you said the devil was gonna sell you his horse. Tommy gives you a modest smile like you’ve told him two plus two equals eight, but he’s too polite to correct you. Joel’s expression remains unreadable, but the crease between his brows deepens.

“Am I missing something?” you ask, hoping for an explanation. You do not like feeling like you’re being played for a fool.

“She’d sell that horse for a dime and a handshake,” Linda says. “Her cousin broke her jaw getting bucked off that horse. That’s why he’s been out to pasture ever since.”

You’re quiet for a beat before the familiar challenge and determination wrap around your heart. “Can’t hurt to look,” you say with a shrug.

“Hancocks are notoriously stubborn and broncy,” Joel adds, his tone low and edged with warning.

“They’re also incredibly smart, loyal, and full of try if you earn their trust and ask ‘em the right way,” you shoot back, meeting his eyes for just a moment too long. Why does it always feel like he thinks you’re out of your element? Does he think you’re incompetent? It only strengthens your desire to prove him wrong.

Joel’s mouth presses into a thin line, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and it stirs something uncomfortable low in your chest.

“So I’ve heard,” Tommy cuts the tension simmering between you and Joel. “Offer still stands if he doesn’t work out.”

“Thanks.” You pointedly direct your appreciation to Tommy, not looking back at Joel. “We’ll give you a call when the order’s in.”

They take that as their signal to move along. You think that would be the end of the drama for the day, but Linda’s got one more tidbit in store after the door closes behind the two men.

“God, those two are so hot it’s unbearable,” she sighs. It catches you off guard, and you blink at her. “Too bad they’re cowboy Casanovas.”

“What?” You give her a scrupulous look, shifting on your feet as she leans against the counter.

“Oh, yeah,” Linda says with a knowing smirk. “Every buckle bunny in a three-county radius knows those two. I hear they have a sign-up sheet at the trailer.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, but the image comes unbidden—Joel, shirtless and panting, sweat glistening on his chest, his jeans slung low on his hips, every muscle taut as he leans over some woman. His gravelly drawl slides through your mind like warm honey as he murmurs something low and dirty, but you can’t make out the words. Your thought derails violently, and you scowl at yourself, heat rushing up your neck, but Linda’s still talking.

“I’d stand in line for either of ‘em if I were single,” she adds with a shrug.

The image morphs into smug Joel tipping his hat, a self-satisfied grin on his face as some random woman climbs out of his bed. Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and you shove the thought away, scowling at the knot of irritation it leaves behind.

The trailer rocks faintly as you haul it slowly down the driveway toward the barn. Blue shifts inside, and the loud thud of him pawing at the floor, anxious to get out of the small space, echoes loudly in the driveway as you ease to a stop. You cut the engine and hop out of the cab, you can hear your dad’s boots on the porch steps before he’s striding toward you. “You actually brought him home, huh?”

“You knew I would.” You grin. Your dad unlatches the trailer door and you slip past the divider to untie your new gelding and back him out of the trailer. Blue’s ears flick rapidly and he snorts like a dragon, wary of his unfamiliar surroundings, but you steady him with a calm voice and wait for him to drop his head before coaxing him backward.

His hooves hit the solid ground and he blows out a sharp breath, shaking his neck to de-stress. “He’s gonna be perfect,” you say, running a hand along his neck. “Just needs someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Your dad gives you a look that says he knows he couldn’t change your mind if he tried. His gaze flicks over Blue’s body, taking in his confirmation and conditioning, the scar on his back leg, the brand on his flank, and the stocky ranch horse build. “Linda said he’s got a bad reputation.”

“Linda says a lot of things,” you shoot back, leading Blue toward the barn. “He was misunderstood. Had a rough start, that’s all. That girl who got bucked off never shoulda had him to begin with—not after he’d been out to pasture for so long. She was scared, and he felt it.”

Your dad hums, the kind of sound that tells you he’s skeptical but not enough to argue. “Well, he’s in good hands now.”

“And we both know I like a challenge,” you say with a steady voice, edged with something sharper.

The sound of boots on gravel draws your attention and you glance back to see Joel strolling over from the direction of his property. His hat tipped low as his dark eyes flick between you and Blue.

“Afternoon,” he calls, steady and smooth.

Your dad turns and gives him a nod. “Joel.”

“That the Hancock gelding?”

“Yeah,” you reply shortly, adjusting Blue’s halter.

Joel steps closer, his expression unreadable as he studies the gelding. Blue swishes his tail before shifting his weight, resting one back leg like he’s already starting to relax. Joel walks a circle around Blue, before pausing next to your dad. “Well-built,” he comments. “Is he sound?”

You can barely hold back your eye-roll. “I had Barb meet me at the farm for a pre-purchase exam. Passed with flying colors.” You swallow down your irritation. Once again Joel thinks you’re a fool? That you’d go off and pick up a horse without a vet inspection?

Before you give Joel a piece of your mind you take a steadying breath, grounding yourself and whispering into Blue’s ear. “He might doubt both of us but he’ll be eating his fuckin’ words real quick once you and I get started.” With that, you turn away and lead Blue to the barn.

Joel watches the two of you walk off, resting his hand on his hip. “She got a death wish or somethin’?” he grumbles.

Your dad crosses his arms, both men still watching the barn door where the two of you disappeared. “She’s tougher than she looks. And she’s got more patience than the two of us combined—for animals that is. Lord knows she’ll let us have it just for looking at her sideways.”

Joel grunts, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck at the thought of you telling him off. “Hope you’re right.”

“It’ll be good for her to have her own project. Haven’t seen that light in her eyes since she got here. S’about time she started moving on.” Your dad’s words eat at Joel. He still wants to know what you’re trying to rebuild from, but he doesn’t ask. Letting the silence stretch before your dad continues.

“Plus, she’s got the right touch for it,” your dad drawls, tone laced with pride. “Always drawn to the ones that seem a little rough around the edges.”

Joel doesn’t respond right away. His eyes narrow on the horizon, but his gaze flicks back to where you walked off, the sway of your hips lingering longer than it should. The deeply twisted interpretation of your dad’s words messing with his mind.

In the barn, Blue seems less concerned about getting the lay of the land now that there’s food in front of him. He munches greedily, tearing hay out of the net tied in the stall. You’re buzzing with a mix of emotions, already imagining the next steps for the two of you.

Your thoughts fall back on Joel and your dad, their low voices carrying faintly in the warm air. You can picture Joel still standing there, one hand on his hip, eyes fixed on you, that infuriatingly unreadable look expression he always has.

Your chest tightens, heat rising in your cheeks as you lean against the stall door. You hate how Joel looks at you like that. Like he’s waiting for you to fuck up. To prove him right. Like he’s already decided you’re in over your head.

“He doesn’t know me,” you mutter under your breath, “doesn’t know you,” you tell Blue, “doesn’t know shit.”

Blue snorts softly, and you take that as his agreement, a smile tugging at your lips.

Days blur into a steady rhythm—early mornings with Blue, afternoons at the feed store, and long evenings under the arena lights. Each ride sharpens your connection with him, his turns growing tighter, his strides more confident. Progress comes in small, steady victories, each one lighting a spark of hope in your chest.

One afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky, painting the fields with warm hues of orange and gold. From his spot near the fence of his own property, Joel leans one arm against the top rail, his black felt Stetson shading his eyes. Across the way, you’re working with Blue in the makeshift round pen.

Joel can tell from the way you hold yourself that you’re tired. Your shoulders seem stiff and your jaw tense. But you don’t stop. Your voice carries in the breeze, warm and steady as you encourage Blue to make another pass.

The horse resists, throwing his head and stomping at the ground, but you don’t flinch. You give him the space to settle before asking again. Joel’s lips twitch, with a hint of a smile. You’ve got grit.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re working off more than just the horse’s rough edges. You move with purpose and focus, but with a weight that doesn’t seem entirely about Blue.

From where Joel stands, he can’t make out every detail, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from lingering. You draw his attention with a pull that he can’t resist.

Against his better judgment. He traces the line of your spine as you step forward, the way your hips shift when you pivot. He knows better than to look, knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself.

Blue gives in, his steps evening out as he settles into a steady rhythm circling you. Joel watches as you slow him to a halt. The tension in your posture releases and you reach out with ease and satisfaction to stroke Blue’s neck.

That invisible pull between you draws your eyes to where Joel is standing. Your face hardens when you catch him observing your training session. He gives you a nod before pushing off the rail and heading into the barn.

He catches glimpses of you working together in the mornings and evenings. He tries to stop himself from watching, but it’s useless. He catches himself inadvertently timing out his schedule to be able to keep an eye on you. Tells himself he wants to be sure someone’s keeping an eye on you in case something goes wrong. Or that he’s curious about your progress.

He can admit he admires your perseverance and the skill you have. He would never admit the way he finds himself waking up hard and aching thinking about you and what it’d feel like to have your hips rocking on his lap instead of a saddle, your tits bouncing in his face, and your sweet blissed out smile. And when trudges up the steps of your porch in the mornings to see if your dad needs anything from town—he prays neither of you can see the remnants of his sins in his eyes.

He can’t stop himself from trying to talk to you, though. One morning he asks straight up, “How’s the project horse coming along?” He tries to sound casual, averting his eyes as he sips his coffee.

Your smile flickers, equal parts excitement and hesitation flashing across your face. “Good,” you say after a beat, sitting on the wooden bench. “He learns quick, got good stamina and drive.”

Joel hums, tilting his head slightly. “He give you any trouble?”

Your jaw tenses, though you try to hide it. “Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply, tightly.

Joel nods. “Good,” he says simply, but he still looks at you, like there’s something else weighing on his mind.

Your dad clears his throat, breaking the tension. “She’s got him started on the pattern already.”

“You gonna run barrels?” Joel asks, curiosity sneaking into his eyes.

“That’s the plan.”

Joel hums, taking a long pause. “You wanna run him in a real arena? Bring him over to get some practice in with the right kind of footing and see what he’s really got for a motor?”

Your eyes narrow and your shoulders tighten, straining with disbelief. A real arena? It’s like nothing you do is ever good enough for him. “We’re getting along just fine as is, thanks.” The words are dripping with venom as you slip back into the house letting the screendoor slam shut behind you.

Joel’s brows furrow. “Didn’t mean no harm, by it,” he says to your dad. “My mistake,” he adds gruffly.

Your dad looks a bit miffed at the sharpness of your rejection but gives Joel a shrug back. “She’s always gotta do it her own way.”

The conversation with Joel sticks in your mind. You’re still chewing it over that evening as you run Blue through some drills, working on his lead changes and corners. When you finally bring him down to walk to cool down you hear the sound of hooves hitting the dirt across the field. Sharp and rhythmic. You walk Blue along the fence line. Pausing when you catch sight of Joel and Tommy in their outdoor arena.

Their horses move like extensions of their bodies. You loosen the reins, letting Blue’s head sway with every step as you stay transfixed on the two men. Tommy’s bay gelding moves with a quick, snappy stride. His hindquarters tucked under him as he spins on a dime at Tommy’s commend. You can feel the thrill and see Tommy’s grin from where you sit. It’s infectious. You roll your eyes as he tosses his rope catching the dummy steer in a single fluid motion.

You make another lap before you let yourself study Joel.

He’s riding his big red mare, her muscles rippling in the sun as she powers forward at a lope. Joel’s hand is steady on the reins, his posture relaxed but exact. Every movement he makes is calculated, and deliberate, yet to an untrained eye seems completely natural and fluid. Like he and his horse were born to do it. He barely shifts to ask the mare to pivot. Her body arcs beautifully, bending around his leg as they make a sharp turn toward the roping dummy.

You’ve seen good riders before, but there’s something different about the way works. He doesn’t just ride—he leads. Every muscle he moves is a quiet conversation between him and his horse. It’s seamless and controlled. And damn if it isn’t mesmerizing.

He leans forward slightly, and your mouth goes dry watching his arm flexing as he tosses the rope with precision. His red mare halts instantly, kicking up dirt around her hooves. Joel adjusts his hat with a smooth motion, you can see the focus on his face. Serious and competitive.

You swallow hard as you change directions, still walking on a loose rein very aware that Blue’s sweat is long dried by now. You feel warmth burning in your core that has nothing to do with your tired muscles. He looks good out there. Too good. The kind of good that makes you think about things you shouldn’t be thinking about. Your eyes drift, taking in the way his jeans hug his thighs, the line of his back as he shifts in the saddle. You imagine his hands, thick, precise fingers. Something coils hot and tight within you. You shake your head at yourself. You are not having those thoughts about Joel Miller who thinks you don’t know your ass from your elbow. You swing your leg over the back of the saddle dropping to your feet. Loosening your cinch and still trying to shake your thoughts out of your mind when you hear Tommy hollering at you.

“Watch and learn, neighbor!” Tommy calls, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You glance up, cheeks burning as Tommy tips his hat your way with his charismatic grin. Joel follows his gaze, dark eyes locking on you for a moment. Tommy gives you a demonstration of his prowess with the rope–as if you hadn’t been watching–but, Joel says nothing before turning his mare and heading in the opposite direction.

His cool look sends a shiver down your spine.

You walk back to the barn, and the sound of their horses fades behind you, but that image of Joel sears into your mind. His commanding and maddeningly attractive exhibition just stoked a fire you’re desperate to ignore.

You have the same stubborn streak as your father and you’d be damned if you’re gonna cave and ask Joel to use his facility. You find a summer barrel series in a nearby town with low entry fees.

You start hauling Blue out to get some experience. At first, his runs are clumsy, but as you get your miles in, his turns get tighter, his confidence grows, and your times get quicker. And you quickly feel like the two of you are ready to enter your first rodeo.

The air smells like dirt and livestock, as you unload your horse and tie him to the side of your trailer. There’s a hum from the generators, buzzing conversations, and the occasional whinny of a horse or thud as one paws at the dirt.

You had made a point not to ask if Joel and Tommy would be attending, but you catch his familiar shoulders tapering to his slim waist, with one boot on the lowest rung of the fence a few yards ahead when you head toward the warmup pen before your division gets called. He isn’t even facing your direction but you instinctively square your shoulders and raise your chin. You wonder if he’s just here to see if you’re going to fail. Or maybe he’s just watching to earn some other woman’s favor.

Something ugly simmers in your blood and your chest feels tight. You attribute it to irritation, refusing to acknowledge any alternate reasons. You’re going to prove him wrong.

You’re still staring at him when he turns to say something to the man standing next to him. You grit your teeth. Superstitious–as every cowboy is–his usual salt and pepper scruff is neatly trimmed, he’s got on a pair of deep blue Wranglers–nicer than you figure he owned, and a crisp long-sleeve pearl snap. Dressed to earn Lady Luck’s favor.

The devil on your shoulder whispers a thought in Linda’s teasing voice. He doesn’t need to do all that to get lucky. You take a deep breath and peel yourself away from the sight. You’re here to focus on Blue, not your asshole neighbor and his conquests.

Despite trying to let go of your issues with Joel, a scowl stays plastered on your face throughout your warmup. Blue picks up on your distraction and he’s a little hot, as you head him toward the alleyway when it’s time for your run. Against your will, your eyes search for Joel. A wash of heat floods your veins when you find him already watching you. He mouths good luck at you and you can only manage a curt smile before you’re pushing Blue to a lope, making one tight circle before you cross the start. The sound of his hooves pounding into the dirt matches the blood pounding in your ears. The burst of adrenaline is instant. The run isn’t perfect. He breaks his stride around the second barrel and you lose time nudging him back into rhythm, but you finish the pattern without knocking anything over. The announcer calls your time as you slow to a trot, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. It’s such a blur you don’t think to look for Joel. You don’t think about him at all until you’re untacking Blue at your trailer, brushing sweat marks from his coat when movement near another horse trailer catches your eye.

Joel stands close to a woman with long, shiny dark hair. She flashes a wide smile, leaning toward him and resting a hand lightly on his arm. The sight makes you grimace. You shove down the feeling. “None of our business,” you mutter to Blue as you keep brushing. But, your eyes flick back despite yourself. She tilts her head, laughing at something he says, or doesn’t say, you can’t tell. He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets. You can’t see his face from your angle.

The woman reaches to touch him again, and you feel a headache brewing in the back of your skull. Joel glances away from her, landing in your direction for the shortest moment, before his weight shifts and he takes a small step back. You scowl again, tossing your brush back into the tack room shelf with more force than necessary making Blue toss his head. Your heart thuds louder than it should and you run a hand over Blue’s cheek, murmuring softly to calm both him and yourself. When you glance back, the woman is still talking, but Joel’s looking at you again. His dark eyes are sharp under the brim of his hat. He nods, barely noticeable, before turning away from the woman entirely. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to take another deep breath before loading Blue back into the trailer to head out. You weren’t sticking around to watch any of the other events. Especially not the team roping.

You smile when you pull onto the highway. You count the day as a success and feel ready to enter a bigger rodeo. The idea makes you glow. Finally feeling like you’re getting back to your true self. You feel like a new woman compared to the version of you that showed packed up her truck desperate to put miles between your ex-fiance and your corporate nightmare.

“It’s not that bad,” you argue, crossing your arms as your dad leans against the truck with a skeptical look. “The hell it’s not,” he replies, gesturing toward the trailer. “That’s floor is one step away from dropping your horse onto the damn highway.” You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “I know,” you grumble lowly, disappointment sinking in your stomach. “I was just hoping you’d see something I didn’t.” “Sorry kid,” your dad says. “S’fine. I’ll figure something out. Or just eat the entry fees I paid.” “Or,” he says pointedly, “you could ask Joel.” You glare at him, fire burning in your chest. “I don’t need his charity.” “Ain’t charity,” he interrupts your sour attitude with a gruff tone. “He’s practically family. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your goals.” The words stick, heavy and uncomfortable. You’ve got half a mind to keep arguing. Joel might be your dad’s best friend, but he’s nothing like family to you. But before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re dragging yourself up the steps of Joel’s front porch.

You realize as your boot hits the last step that you’ve never been to his place. He always offers to have you and your dad over for a whiskey or for a fire out back, but you always brush him off. You see why your dad takes him up on it though.

It’s beautifully made with stunning wooden chairs and a bench for seating on the porch. You’d consider complimenting him on his craftsmanship if you weren’t already dreading what you’re about to say. Joel opens the door, his hat already in hand like he’d been expecting you. “Somethin’ wrong?” “Yeah,” you admit, trying not to hesitate. “Uh, trailer’s shot,” you point your thumb in the direction of your dad’s place. “Was wondering if you’d have room in your trailer to haul Blue with your horses.”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches. The gleam in his eye makes you want to say never mind. You brace for a smart-ass remark. “‘Course,” he replies. You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “Of course?”

He leans back into the house to grab something, then he’s handing you his keys. “Load your tack up tonight, and get your bags in the living quarters.” “No need,” you shake your head, leaving him holding the keys between you. “I’ve got the truck. And a tent.”

Joel leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. You pointedly avoid how his sleeves strain around his biceps. “You’re ridin’ with us. Not riskin’ that truck dyin’ on the highway.” You glare, lips pressed into a thin line. Of course, you’ve got a trailer with a busted floor and a truck with more miles than you’d like to admit on it—while Joel has a shiny truck from this decade and a horse trailer with a tack room and living quarters. Probably has AC and everything.

You catch the glint in his eye, realizing you’re the one asking for a favor and you steel yourself, reminding yourself to bite your tongue.

“Fine,” you grit out, holding your hand out for the keys.

The truck hums beneath you, the steady vibration doing nothing to ease the thick tension in the cab. Tommy’s passed out in the back seat, his hat tipped low over his face, leaving you alone with Joel and the steady drone of the country ballad playing through the speakers.

“You always listen to this?” you ask, breaking the silence as you reach toward the radio.

Joel glances at you, one hand resting casually on the wheel. “Somethin’ wrong with it?”

“Didn’t know you were a ‘sad songs for sad cowboys’ kind of guy,” you mutter, flicking through stations before he can answer.

Joel doesn’t stop you, but when you pause on something irritatingly upbeat, his hand moves toward the knob just as yours does.

Your fingers brush his, and the contact jolts through you like a live wire.

You pull back instinctively, your breath catching as your heart slams against your ribs. Joel pauses for half a second before retreating, his knuckles tightening faintly on the wheel.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Joel stares ahead, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiral. He knew telling you to ride with him was playing with fire. But he can’t stay away from the heat. You glance out the window, pretending the spark you felt wasn’t real. It’s just Joel, always better than you, always an ass. The charged silence stretches on though, every shift of his hand on the wheel drawing your attention. Every shallow breath reminds you of his proximity.

“This’ll do,” you say tightly. Joel huffs softly, but says nothing, keeping his eyes pointed straight ahead. Neither of you speaks again for the rest of the drive, but the weight of the accidental touch remains, thick and suffocating. The rodeo grounds are already alive with motion by the time you’re parked and unloading the horses. The evening sun casts an amber glow over the circus of trucks, tents, and trailers. You help get the portable fence set up and the horses settled before the three of you head off to check in at the visitor's tent and get your meal tickets.

The smell of barbecue wafts through the air and you get in line to fill your plate. Folks chat eagerly. Tommy strikes up an easy conversation with a group of riders near the picnic tables.

You watch as some folks head back to their campsites, hesitating on whether you want to do the same or find a table. Joel passes you and sits at a nearby table and before you can debate any longer a voice interrupts your thoughts. “Long travel day?” the wiry cowboy drawls, tipping his hat and gesturing to the bench next to him. “Take a seat.”

You give him a quizzical look, but you’re hungry enough to take the opportunity to sit and eat.

“Name’s Cody.” He introduces himself while you eat. He tells you he’s a bull rider. Asks if you’re runnin’ barrels tomorrow. He’s chatty with a smooth and easy voice and a playful look on his youthful face. You answer his questions, politely, suddenly keenly aware of Joel’s gaze boring into the back of your head. It makes your spine prickle with something you can’t name. The heat of his stare burns into you, fierce and unwavering, making every laugh at Cody’s jokes feel like defiance. Cody continues on and you find it easy to listen to his stories, but you can’t help feeling compelled to glance over your shoulder betraying the distraction you’re trying to ignore. Cody points out some of the other riders he knows and invites you to come hang out at their campsite and have a drink. You’re still searching for the right words when you catch sight of Joel walking swiftly past your table. He mutters something to Tommy–who seems to be proving Linda’s rumors true with a woman wrapped around his arm and batting her lashes at him–and stalks off. Your stomach twists as you watch him go, irritation flaring hot and fast. “The fuck is his problem?” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your plate. Cody shrugs, clearly oblivious. “Who knows? Anyway—” But you’ve already tuned him out, your eyes following the path Joel struts down before he disappears.

You joined Cody and his friend for one drink, hoping it would ease your nerves. He had a kind group, a little rough around the edges, but tough as nails like you’d expect bull riders to be. They kept your mind distracted with their wild stories, but you decided to head back to the trailer before anyone got drunk and stupid. The walk back to the trailer feels longer than it should, every step weighed down by something stirring within you, something that has you on edge. You check on the horses before pulling the door open and climbing into the living quarters. The cool night air hasn’t soothed the heat that’s been simmering within you since dinner—or since that moment in the truck if you’re honest. You toe off your boots before looking up to see Joel, leaning against the wall, his jaw set tight, and his eyes sharp as they snap to yours.

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, realizing it’s just the two of you in the small space. “Reckon he’ll be out til the sun's up,” Joel says in a quiet, low tone. “Alright,” you nod. Another point goes to Linda for that one, you figure. Joel’s jaw remains set in that infuriatingly unreadable way that seems to be his signature look. The dim light in the trailer casts sharp shadows across his face that darken his gaze. “You enjoy yourself? With your new friend?” he asks, his voice raw, edged with something you can’t place. You stop short, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?” He steps closer, reaching past you to hang his hat on the hook by the door. “Took your time gettin’ back.” He says, his eyes flick over you, dark and assessing.

You’re acutely aware of the scent of the campfire on your shirt and beer on your lips. It swirls with his leather and bourbon musk like they were designed to enhance each other. His words sink in, cutting and daring. “What’s your point?” “Did you fuck him?” The bluntness of it knocks the breath out of you. Your mouth falls open. Shock and fury battling for control as you glare at him. “What did you just say to me?” “You heard me, sweetheart,” Joel says, his voice calm but razor-sharp. “Just wondering if that cowboy got what he was after.” It takes everything in you not to slap him across the face. “What the fuck,” you hiss, stepping closer, your fists clenched at your sides, “makes you think you’ve got the right to ask me that, Joel?”

He shrugs his shoulders, but his expression remains cold. “Lookin’ out for you. Your dad’d kill me if I didn’t.” You laugh bitterly. “Bullshit.” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. Silence fanning the flames within you. “You aren’t my dad,” you snap, voice trembling with rage. “And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me who I can or can’t fuck.” Joel’s eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffening as he steps even closer. “That’s not what I—” “Save it,” you cut him off, word sharp as a whip. “I don’t know why you think I’m so weak or clueless all the time. Like I can’t handle myself. Like I’m some kid you’ve gotta babysit.”

Joel’s expression hardens, his dark eyes flash with something that looks like hurt beneath his anger. “That’s what you think I see?” his words come out like a dangerous growl. “That’s how you’ve acted toward me since day one,” you fire back, stepping toe-to-toe with him. “If you don’t respect me, Joel, just stay out of my business.” His chest rises and falls sharply, his breath warm against your skin as the air between you thickens. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he grits, voice tight with frustration. “Explain it to me then,” you challenge. Shaking with the force of everything you’ve been holding back. “Or stay away from me if I’m such a thorn in your side.” He works his jaw, and for a moment you’re glued to the corded muscle in his neck and the exposed golden brown skin of his chest. He glares at you, making no move to back off. His voice drops sinfully low and quiet. “You really wanna know?” “Yeah,” you breathe, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage. “I do.” His hand moves fast, gripping your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make your breath catch. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he accuses in a rough and uneven voice. You blink. “What?” “You heard me,” he rumbles, dark eyes locked on yours. “From the first day, you showed up here, lookin’ at me like you had somethin’ to prove.” Anger burns in your veins. “How does that make me your problem?” His grip tightens, his body presses closer. “You ain’t my problem,” he mutters. Guilt twists into his words, “Shouldn’t even be lookin’ at you like this. S’wrong.” He swallows thickly, only sharpening the edge in his voice. “But I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, and it’s pissin’ me off.” His confession hits you like a brick over the head. The trailer is silent, but the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, and your ragged exhale seems deafening.

“Then stop,” you challenge, voice trembling with defiance. “If it’s so wrong, just leave me alone.” Joel’s eyes darken, his other hand settles on your hip, fingers digging into you. “Can’t,” he says, voice so thick with frustration, it sounds like it hurts. “Don’t think I want to.”

Silence stretches and time feels thick and warped. Your ragged breaths fill the space. His eyes search for a reason to stop, but he finds none.

You don’t get a chance to reply before he drops your wrist to wrap a large hand around your jaw, pulling you into a feverish kiss. Nothing gentle about it. It’s raw and desperate, equal parts frustration and hunger. Your fingers curl into his shirt as if you could pull him any closer as your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, in a sharp, biting challenge that makes him groan low in his throat. He angles your face so he can kiss you deeper, harder, until your knees feel like they might give out. Your mind goes blank, flashing white with anger and need. All you can process is the hot slip of his tongue against yours and the sharp bristle of his facial hair against your tender lips. Your back hits the cool metal wall of the trailer before you realize your feet had even moved. Joel’s hips press into yours, pinning you against his body–solid and unrelenting. His lips trail down your jaw to your neck, the edge of his teeth scraping at your skin. The rasp of his stubble sends sparks to your core, and you dig your fingers into the hair on the back of his head. Pulling him toward you, needing him in a way that verges on painful. He lifts his mouth, breathing hotly against your damp neck. “This what you want?” he says, his tone matching the burning desperation coursing through you. “You want me to fuck it outta you? Til you can’t keep runnin’ your mouth at me?” “Shut up,” you snap, but the way your body arches into him betrays the hostility in your voice and the subtle stretch makes you keenly aware of how wet and needy you are already. He makes a low, guttural noise in his throat that makes your cunt throb. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching it around his waist as he grinds into you. The hard ridge of his cock pressing into you makes you gasp. The sound you make sends heat ripping through him like wildfire. We can’t, he thinks, but the words die on his tongue. The thought of how wrong this is flashes in his mind, but it’s drowned out by the way you’re looking at him. The way your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him closer, your breath hot and shaky against his cheek. He can’t think. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Not when you’re so soft and warm and furious beneath him. He’s helpless. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers brushing over soft skin, leaving a searing trail that grounds you as your mind spins. He pushes your shirt up, baring you to the dim light of the trailer. Time slips back into the warped, syrupy dimension as you absorb the unbidden lust and awe in his eyes. You’re the one exposed, but you feel like you’re seeing something just as naked in his face. Time catches up and you pull your shirt the rest of the way over your head, committing to sin wordlessly. You shiver at the sudden contrast between the heat radiating off of his body and the cool air hitting your flesh. “Joel,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth closes over your nipple like a wet furnace. His teeth graze the sensitive skin causing you to spew breathy curses over the top of his head. They only spur him on. He sucks hard enough that you tug him off you by his hair, but he only switches to your breast, delivering the same delicious punishment as his fingers roll and pinch at the wet, puffy, flesh he abandons.

It’s like he can predict your needs before your mind can, biting down harshly enough to pull you away from the angry, hissing thoughts and keep you desperate to stay lost in the physical sensations. He palms the full weight of your tits, gliding his thumbs over both, slick and shining with his saliva. He presses them together before releasing them. “Goddamn,” he murmurs, taken by the way they bounce more perfectly than he could’ve imagined. It’s wrong to have you topless and panting beneath him, but his name falls so sweetly from your lips that it doesn’t matter. The heavy-lidded look you have makes him feel confirmed. When you moan lowly as the pain melts into pleasure when he kneads your soft, slippery skin, his cock aches and weeps for you. He needs more. He needs everything. Needs to wreck you, to see you so fucked out the only thing you can say is his name.

It’s an exquisite brand of torture.

You hate how good this feels, how badly you want him to keep going. To show you every move he knows. To break you down with his hands and mouth. You should push him away, tell him to fuck off. But your body doesn’t want that. You don’t want that. You roll your hips against his, begging wordlessly for more, as you tug at his hair hard enough to pull a throaty groan from deep within him. The sound he makes nearly has you short-circuiting, but he doesn’t give you the respite to fall apart. His hands are everywhere, frenzied like he’s losing control. Hasn’t he already lost it? You wonder distantly. Slowly, you realize he’s littering dirty little threats and filthy promises into your warm flesh. You hate the way his words make you shiver, how much you crave every pledge he makes. “You’re gonna feel me for days, sweetheart,” he husks hotly, just behind your ear. It’s a commitment you unwittingly pray he keeps. Some part buried deep within you blooms at the idea of feeling every memory of his touch as you go about your day tomorrow. “Get to it then,” you snap, hands reaching for his belt with urgency. Joel doesn’t need any more encouragement. His hand slips between your legs, teasing you through the soaked fabric of your underwear, and the sound you make at the pressure—the breathless, needy, whimper—makes him forget how to breathe. All he knows is that he needs to hear it again while he fucks into your soft, warm cunt.

He wrenches your jeans open and works them down your thighs as you tear at his shirt buttons. He’s barely able to let you go long enough to pull his shirt off; watching you kick your pants off the rest of the way makes him nearly trip over himself.

The air between your naked chests is sticky and warm. He dips his hand beneath the hem of your underwear, fingertips gliding over the soft hair on your mound making his eyes roll back.

The edges of your vision blurs when he prods two big fingers between your slick lips, but you’re glued to the way his dark eyes are nearly black now. He looks every bit possessed by a beast, and fuck if you aren’t driven by the sick desire to make him snap.

“You like having me touch you like this, don’t you?” His voice drips with need underscored by the slick sounds coming from between your legs.

“No.” You rasp, as you grind your clit against his palm. He pumps two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to make you moan.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he drawls, thick like honey. You grip the muscle flexing in his arm to steady yourself. His concentration and competence makes your walls flutter around his fingers.

“You’re gonna come for me, right here.” He declares.

You shake your head. “I’m not—fuck—I won’t.”

“You will,” he interrupts. Dark and calm. His pace quickens, fingers focused on the spot inside you that makes you a mindless wreck. His thumb draws circles around your clit.

“Can feel how close you are.” Your hips rock and your muscles all pull taut. “If you’d quit fuckin’ fighting me.” He somehow crowds even closer to you. You feel like you’re about to snap when he pulls his hand away, leaving you feeling empty and ragged. “But you’re too fuckin’ stubborn, ain’t you?”

“Joel,” you whine, angry and devastated. “I hate you.”

You grip the back of his neck with one hand, and both of you watch as he finally takes himself out of his jeans.

The view makes you salivate.

Everything about Joel is rugged and masculine. The muscles carved into his arms and chest. The trail of dark hair leading down his stomach that thickens around his base. The deep flushed color of his thick cock. The ragged inhale he makes when he presses the blunt tip against the drenched fabric that clings to your swollen folds.

“Say it,” he growls, rubbing along your barely clothed seam.

“I hate you,” you whisper unconvincingly, digging your nails into the back of his neck and arching off of the wall.

“Tell me you want it.” You can’t tell if it’s a demand or a plea. This strain in his voice and the muscles tensing across his broad frame make you tremble.

“I don’t.” You lie. You snake one hand down your body, peeling your ruined panties to the side so he can slot his tip at your dripping entrance. You tilt forward, impatiently, stretching around him just enough to override your filter.

“Oh, fuck,” you start. Unable to stop the stream of whispered curses from rolling off your tongue.

“Yeah,” Joel rasps, inching deeper inside of your tight, warm walls. He feeds himself into you slowly, the overwhelming fullness as you adjust makes your thighs shake. He pulls out and you whine, unable to say a word before he’s moving, dipping you onto the thin trailer mattress and slipping your underwear down your legs.

“Gonna fuck you full,” he mutters. You spread your legs, making room for him to settle above you. He draws his cock back through your lips, coating himself in your arousal before driving into you with a powerful stroke.

Your lips part, sucking in air as he sets a pace. He fills you deeper than you’ve ever felt, relentlessly making room for himself as he saws in and out of you. It’s powerful and primal, but refined by his athleticism. Fluid rolling hips and his strong core make you see stars as he fucks into you.

“That’s right,” he rasps above you, and you realize he’s responding to you.

“So good,” you’re murmuring, “so full.”

“Taking it like you were made for it,” he says to himself. The intensity of your tight, warm pussy coaxing him deeper makes him spill his thoughts. Unfiltered.

He sets a pace, slow and deliberate at first, each stroke filling you completely before pulling back, leaving you desperate for more. The friction is maddening, plunging his length into your sensitive walls as he pins you beneath his hard body.

“You feel that?” His breath is hot against your neck. “Feel how deep I am? How I’m splittin’ you open?”

You nod frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders as you whimper his name.

Joel’s control falters at the sound of it, his hips snapping harder, faster, as his desperation takes over. “Thought about this,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “Fuckin’ hell, I’ve thought about this too damn much. But you’re better than I ever imagined.”

His confession sends a jolt through you, but you’re too far gone to process it, your body tightening around him as pleasure builds again, sharper and hotter than before.

“Joel, please.”

“Fuck,” he chokes the word out, his pace faltering for a split second before he slams into you harder, deeper. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking as your release breaks through you, leaving you gasping and cursing.

Joel’s hips snap erratically, pinning you into the mattress with a tight grip, as he buries his cock as deep as he can inside of you.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters, his voice ragged. “Every drop, sweetheart.” Make you mine, he barely keeps the last thought in his head.

“Yes, yes, yes.” You chant as your body jolts with each collision with his.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters, cock driving deeper and swelling at your words. “That’s it. Take it all, sweetheart.”

Your release hits again, your body trembling violently. Or maybe it never stopped—he only drew it out of you in waves.

Joel curses low, his hips slamming into yours one last time before you feel him pulsing inside of you, hot and thick.

When he pulls back, his eyes linger on the mess between your thighs. “Look at that,” he mutters, his voice low and reverent. His wide hands slide up the back of your thighs, bending your knees to your chest so he can watch the mix of your releases glistening and dripping from you.

He takes one hand and drags it through the mess, pushing it back up inside of you. You squirm, sensitive to the touch, but fixated on whatever is burning behind his eyes.

You wait for him to say something characteristically Joel.

To dismiss you as naive, to rub it in that he broke you down. That he had you crying his name. That you shouldn’t have done that.

But it never comes.

You’re convinced he was trying to put you in your place. To give you another reminder that he thinks you’re useless and clueless. You’re too wrapped up in the thoughts to speak or move.

He doesn’t say anything at all which nearly makes it worse.

Instead, he pins you under a heavy arm, holding you against him until you both doze off. Succumbing to exhaustion.

-> PART TWO

dividers by @/saradika-graphics 🤠🤎

tagging the usual babes in case you want some cowboy!joel for christmas too:

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame @magneticecstasy

@indiegirlunited @syd-djarin @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist

@94namkooksworld

#pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift24 #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfic

428 notes · View notes

eowynstwin · 9 months ago

Text

the rain / neighbors

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath. - ao3

The moment you ’re home, I’ll give you everything you want.

There’s a dangerous cast to the sky—dark, heavy, near-splitting at the seams. It’s not a night to have rejected a ride home from the station, not with those words ringing in your ears.

But when the ride was your ex, you’d rather risk getting caught in the downpour.

The pavement is hard and cold beneath your tired feet. Your whole body is sore from the long train ride home, spent stiffly across from Ben as you’d avoided his gaze, but you’d walk twice the distance home to even halve the time you’d spent with him. His sad eyes and kicked-puppy stare had been stuck to you the whole time, as if magnetized, and they weigh on you now as heavy as the suitcase you drag behind you.

This trip was a mistake. You should not have gone anywhere with Ben, professionally or otherwise. Not with how weird the energy has been between you and him, ever since you broke it off.

“Can’t you just try to be happy with me?” he’d asked you then. “I’m a good partner, aren’t I? I just want to make you happy, sweets, and it’s like you won’t even let me.”

Objectively, Ben had been the boyfriend everyone seemed to want when they talked about romance—interested and engaged, excited about a future together, sensitive and willing to talk about his feelings. He even knew where the clitoris was. There was nothing—no red flags, no warning signs—that should have scared you off.

It was just you. There was something wrong with you, because none of that made you happy—not the lunch dates, not the weekly flowers, and not even the sex. All you knew was that when he started wondering when you would introduce him to your parents, ice had run down your spine.

A bad gust of wind slaps you from behind, followed by a crack of thunder, too close for you to make it home dry. Indeed, there isn’t much time after finishing that thought before the deluge unloads, raindrops falling heavy and cold and fat as bullets.

You come to a resigned stop in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your face up to the sky. There’s no point in rushing now—thick, late-winter clouds spread low across Liverpool, slow-moving. By all appearances intending to linger as long as possible. You’d neglected an umbrella, and your coat is nowhere near waterproof. You think of the warm interior of Ben’s car and shiver.

You want John.

You struggle to understand it. He is nothing like what you’d assign yourself for a match—there is a wide gulf of difference between you and him, too wide for you to ever expect an easy crossing. He and you should feel disjointed, incongruous, as ill-suited as a war horse might be to a hummingbird. There shouldn’t be anything you could offer each other that either would have use for.

And yet, you do. It is easy. Breathable, in a way that feels unearned enough to make you nervous.

How are you supposed to navigate something that shouldn’t be working, but is anyway? How can something feel this good with barely any effort on your part? How can you go through with this, when you’re not even sure what it means?

The rain reaches its fingers down into your collar, pools around your feet. You close your eyes and try to hear John’s voice in your head again. Soft and low over the phone, coaxing. Inviting your fears out into the open to be soothed.

You’re walking again before you realize it—one cold foot in front of the other, heavy suitcase clattering behind you, familiar with the way home even through the sheeting rain. And what feels like mere moments later, you’re walking up the steps to his front door.

The window beside it glows a soft yellow around the edges. You can’t help but stand there, frozen again as this suddenly becomes real. John, and everything he’s offered you, is on the other side of the door. All you have to do is take it. All you have to do is knock.

But John opens the door before you can even lift your hand.

“Jesus, love,” he says, the moment he looks at you.

Time slows. Warmth pours from the open portal. He looks… comfortable. Soft around the edges in blue jeans and a knitted sweater—the same one he’d worn to dinner at the pub. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, even in the few days you’d been gone, but once your eyes land on his you don’t want to look away. The angle of his brow; the shape of his mouth beneath his old-fashioned mustache. Looking at him is like looking at your bed at the end of a long day.

“Hi, John,” you reply, smiling apologetically.

“Come on, get inside!” he exclaims, hurrying you in as thunder claps behind you.

In his flat, the lights are low. As you stand dripping on his entry, you take in an arrangement of somewhat retro furniture and sparsely decorated walls. It’s utilitarian in a way that probably isn’t meant to be; spare of anything particularly homey because the inhabitant just doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. You’ve never actually been inside before. It’s very much like John himself; tidy but old-fashioned, practical, hiding absolutely nothing.

You don’t think the candles, though, sitting on a few end tables and shelves and glowing soft gold, are his standard decor. Nor is the crystal bottle of liquor languishing in an ice bucket at the center of a small coffee table, attended by two whiskey glasses off to the side.

“When you said you were on your way I didn’t think you’d be walking,” he says, taking your luggage and setting it aside. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you? I have a car, would’ve been happy to drive you.”

“I—” and you laugh a little nervously, magnetized to the concerned slant of his brow, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

You’re not sure you would’ve asked him for a lift even if you had known.

He draws close, so close his warmth cuts through the chill of your wet clothes, his gaze moving across you like he’s drinking you in. He cups your face lightly with one hand, thumb tracing a gentle line across your cheek. The expression on his face is almost too tender for you to bear.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs.

There’s a tremble working its way through your chest. You feel desperately seen again, recognized in a way no one ever has before. “I’m a mess, I—maybe I should go and change, come back…”

“No,” he purrs, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’re stayin’ right here.” And quite easily, John kisses you for the first time.

His mouth is warm along yours. His free hand hooks your waist, pulls you closer as he moves to cup the back of your neck. You’re so surprised you don’t react for a moment, but that doesn’t deter him; he just coaxes you into responding, sipping at your lips, teasing at the seam with the tip of his tongue.

It throws you off balance. He kisses you as if he’s known all along how to do it; as if he’s studied you, all of those mornings, noting the way your lips touch the rim of your coffee mug and the way you look up at him when he talks to you. Calculating the angles, the ways your mouths could fit together.

He shifts, angling to kiss you deeper. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake you—your hands fly to his chest, which is broad beneath your fingers. You dig them into the cable of his sweater, a little whine escaping you, and John huffs a laugh against your mouth before greeting your tongue with his.

You have never felt as small as you do now in John Price’s hands, at the mercy of the way he holds you—like he’s planning to keep you in place until he’s finished with you.

When he finally pulls away, you have the opportunity to take a deep gasp as he chuckles again. He thumbs your bottom lip, almost playfully.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to do that the minute you walked into the pub that night.” You don’t have time to reckon with this confession—if you can even call it that, because once he says it you realize you’ve known the whole time—before he continues. “Come on, you must be freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

John helps you out of your coat, unwrapping you like peeling away a chrysalis. It exposes the thin, damp fabric of your dress to the warm air—and to his gaze—and you can’t help but feel suddenly naked in front of him. He’s revealed nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but irrationally, you want to cover your chest, or cross your arms over your stomach. Shield the most vulnerable parts of you from consumption.

John takes your hands in his and pulls you to an armchair—a comfortable, plush thing with a low back. He backs you into it so that your knees buckle, and you sit, looking up at him as he stands over you.

“First order of business,” he says.

He turns away from you to lift the decanter from the bucket, and pours a finger of liquor into a glass. You try to pretend your heart isn’t thrumming, like a bird’s beating wings behind your ribcage, as he turns back and holds out the drink, long fingers dwarfing the rim.

“As promised,” he purrs, “Balvenie.”

You accept it the glass; the scotch sparkles, amber-rich and glittering gold where the low candlelight catches it.

“It looks good,” you say, looking up at him.

There’s a pleased look on his face. “Give us a taste, then.”

Heat blooms across your face, spreads down your chest. You bring the rim of the glass to your lips immediately, still held by his gaze—

Smoke blooms across your tongue, heavy and soft, pricked with notes of honey and vanilla. You roll the scotch in your mouth, close your eyes as its warmth slides along your tongue, pressing it up into your soft palate, citrus appearing in a sudden, tangy splash. You let the drink flow into your throat and feel the smoke fill your head as you swallow.

You open your eyes and look up at John. “That’s really good.”

It shouldn’t surprise you, really, but it does: John bends over you, takes your chin in his hand, and kisses you again, dipping his tongue into your mouth as if searching for leftover drops of liquor. Your head swims; warmth suffuses you, waking up the nerves along the back of your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end as the world narrows to John’s mouth on yours and nothing else, the wet heat of his tongue, the prickle of his beard against your skin. It’s slow and molasses-sweet, rich and decadent. Thunder rumbles, far away.

“Mm. It is,” he says when he pulls away. Another brief kiss—like he can’t get enough of it, like he’s been saving up every moment he hasn’t kissed you, and is spending all of his chances now. “Promise me you’ll never drink Walker again.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, taking an unsteady breath.

The ends of his beard move against your face in a smile. “Enjoy that. I’ll be right back.”

He straightens, and steps away. The tug of his gravity is so strong that you list forward, toward him, until he leaves your orbit.

You look around his apartment again, helpless, as if to find some sort of anchor that isn’t John Price—he’s going to get you drunk on his presence alone faster than the liquor ever could. You catch sight of a bookshelf, sparsely populated with a short line of books; as you stare at them, trying to figure out what they are, you realize with a start that they’re all brand-new copies of what you’ve lent him.

Actium. Nafisi. Da Vinci. McMurtry. They’re all here. The textual foundation of your relationship aligned in a tidy, even row. Living here, in the center of his home.

You take another nervous sip of scotch.

John returns with a stack of clean towels, unfurls one, and drapes it over your head. But before you can tend to your hair yourself, he lays his big hands overtop of the terrycloth, pressing down into your scalp.

Your breath leaves you in a rush, depressurizing your lungs. Pure sensation dances up your spinal cord, suffusing the space between your ears, as he kneads with an even, firm pressure, massaging the water from your hair. Your eyes slide shut of their own accord. Your mouth drops open as he digs his fingers into the tense nerves down the back of your head.

The little sound that escapes the pit of your throat is utterly involuntary.

John huffs a chuckle. “That good, then?”

“Uh-huh,” you hear yourself mumble again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, obscured by smoke, you think you should feel embarrassed, ashamed of how naked your pleasure must be. But John gives you no time to ruminate.

He tilts your face upward and presses his lips to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, gentle, soft, to your mouth. Your mouth, over and over again, as calloused thumbs caress your temples.

It’s a gentle way of taking control. You have no need to reach out with unsure hands, or stumble your way through half-desires with no time to think about them. John has seen into you, divined your quietest, sincerest needs, and feeds them back to you now like he’s only been waiting for your go-ahead to do so.

The bird in your ribcage flutters nervously. Is this really alright? Should you be letting it happen like this? Shouldn’t you be…participating, somehow, in this, other than to take what he gives you?

“John,” you start, but you have no idea what you want to say to him. “Shouldn’t I…shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” he says. “You should let me take care of you.”

John squeezes your hair one more time, then sets the damp towel aside. With an expression you can only describe as beatific, he smooths errant strands of hair away from your face, and then lowers to his knees in front of you. He touches your ankles; nods toward the glass of scotch encircled by your nervous hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You hold his gaze, and take a sip. The satisfaction on his face is almost too much to bear.

“Good girl,” he says. He lifts the heel of your shoe onto his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down your shin. “You’re doing such a good job, letting me do this.”

He takes your shoes off as tenderly as he’d removed your jacket, tucking away the laces and setting them off to the side. With warm hands, he rolls your wet knee-high socks down your legs, exposing your chilled calves to his palms. After he folds them and places them by your shoes, his mouth and the warm scratch of his beard meet the top of one foot…move up your instep, and to the inside of your ankle, then to your shin…up your calf…to your knee—

“Is this—” you begin, and have to swallow the trembles in your voice, “what you talked about on the phone?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, kneading your other calf as he urges your legs to open for him.

Your breath is shallow in your lungs—as if any one too deep might startle John away from his quarry, convince him you’re not aching for this. John kisses inward along the inside of one thigh, keeping the other open with his kneading hand. The flesh molds like clay to his touch, extruding between the gaps of his fingers. He makes an appreciative sound, a hum, as he slides his hands further upward and under the damp hem of your dress, cresting the angles of your hips. Inexplicably, you go tight, anticipatory, like the skin of a grape exposed to a knife.

It isn’t like you haven’t been here before. Your sex life with Ben had been—while not particularly active—not nonexistent. And yet this feels new anyway; as if John is sweeping dust off a body long left unused. Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath.

But isn’t this new, after all? No one, not Ben or anyone else who’s ever touched you, has made you feel this way.

“Lift your hips, darlin’,” John rumbles, and for the first time you catch a hint of scouse in his accent—low, slung around his words and leaving off the hard edges. Like a vein of gold unearthed. “Bring ‘er closer to me.”

Heat blazes across your face. There’s a small end table beside the armchair; you take one more pull from your scotch glass and set your drink aside. Then you shift, edging your hips forward, tilting your pelvis—angling your pussy toward John’s face.

He kisses the crease of your thigh and groin. “That’s a girl,” he purrs, and then presses the bottom half of his face directly into your underwear, opening his mouth over the wet fabric and inhaling deeply. The panties are nothing fancy, simple cotton with a floral pattern, but his eyes slide shut in what you can only describe as ecstasy.

“It’s like you’re getting as much out of this as I am,” you say, trying to laugh, to make this feel like less than it is if only for the sake of your nerves.

“I am,” he says, rough around the edges, and pulls at the gusset of your underwear with his teeth. “I’ve thought about this every morning—” he runs the flat of his tongue along the outer seam, touching bare skin “—and every evening—” edging his fingertips into the leg hole at the top of your hip “—since I met you.”

“You barely knew me,” you whisper, trembling.

“I knew enough,” he says, lifting his face to meet your eyes—his pupils are blown wide, encased in a thin rind of blue. Delicately he takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers, eases it down. “Knew you were a good girl, who wouldn’t even fuss at mean old bastard for waking her up. Wanted to eat your cunt to apologize.”

Something flushed and hot radiates from your core, molten and liquid. “Every time you call me that I—I don’t know what to do, John, I feel…”

“Good,” he says. “Lift your hips again.”

You obey. You think you’d do practically anything, if he told you to in that voice, rough and commanding like far-away thunder. John peels your underwear from your hips, dragging it down over the swell of your bottom, closing your legs to pull them down and—you swallow—shoving them in his pocket when they’re off. Then, like opening the shutters of a window, he parts your legs again, and slots his face between them.

The first thing that strikes you is how hot his mouth. He eases a molten tongue into your folds and you watch his eyes slide shut, feel the soft groan he gives vibrate against your flesh. Your body heat blooms, sight going liquid around the edges—or maybe your temperature is just rising to meet John’s own, thermoregulating to avoid meltdown as he stokes a fire between your legs. Hot breath meets you as he opens his mouth, gets as much tender flesh between his lips as he can.

He’s slow. Exploratory. He tongues your pussy luxuriantly, indulgently, as he loops his arms under your legs to hook them over his broad shoulders, thick forearms dark with hair snaking overtop of your thighs. Holding you in place as he eats— savors . He maps your topography, delving and cresting the landscape like trying to discover every significant landmark, and finds a spot on your clitoris that makes your thighs seize up and your hips jerk under his mouth. He chuckles low against you, playfully flits his tongue across it at what you’d swear is the same rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

You look at him between your legs. The curls of his dark lashes are pretty against the pale hue of his skin, freckled with sun exposure. Fever pink spreads across his cheeks as his brow furrows in the middle, creasing as he laps at the beads of moisture pearling up from your entrance. You watch him, mouth hanging open to allow your shallow breaths to flow free—and he opens his eyes, sharp blue, meeting your gaze.

A sound escapes you, raw, rough in the back of your throat. He smiles, drags the flat of his tongue up your folds as if to show off, and strokes along the sensitive border of your mons and lower stomach with the rough callus of his thumb.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.” He kisses your mound and then takes your pussy, soft and slow, back into his mouth.

There’s a trembling behind your sternum. Something in you breaks open—seeps cloying and honey-gold—into your bloodstream. Your head lolls back as his tongue slips deeper into you, stoking pleasure, your old friend, your old enemy, like turning embers out of ashes. Your thighs relax over the ballast of his shoulders. They’re broad enough that even as your legs fall further open, they don’t slip off.

It’s like your body and his are dovetail joints cut long ago, yet still now slide easily into place. Your heels rest comfortably on the expanse of his back with plenty of room left over; his big hands, as they spread wide across your stomach, fit along its curves and dips like rain sliding along soft green leaves.

It soaks you to the bone, warm and deep into your marrow, filling your veins and blotting the spaces between your alveoli until John, John, John is on every breath.

You must be saying his name aloud, because John’s grip tightens around you. The flint-strike of his tongue against your clitoris, lightning-sharp, catalyzes the pleasure in your bloodstream into a tight, unfamiliar gnarl. You gasp hard, almost painfully—how long has your body been able to feel like this, somewhere beyond your reach?

Has this pleasure always lived at the end of John’s tongue, along the contours of his hands, draped over his body like a mantle?

(How can something like this be a fair exchange for books and clumsy conversation?)

Your hand flies to John’s hair as it grows—a trembling feeling that touches places inside of you that you’ve always been dimly aware of, but never have given much thought to. It loosens you at the seams, grinds the fault lines inside of you together, dislodges your inhibitions from their foundation.

“John, please,” you whimper, brows drawn together, “please, please—”

He growls against you. Grinds through your center and then sucks your folds into his mouth, grazing the hood of your clit with the edge of his teeth, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue—

Suddenly, it overtakes you.

Flying sparks finally catch along aching tinder. A single point of furtive, glowing heat blooms between your legs, unassuming except for that you’ve never felt it before. It only sits briefly in your folds before bursting outward, seizing every nerve ending in the immediate vicinity, blazing bright like fire spreads over paper. Then you tighten around nothing, the inside of you desperately grasping something that isn’t there, body snapping taut as you arch from the backrest, mouth hanging open as a sharp gasp dies in your throat. Sensation consumes everything. Your vision darkens; the air stills in your lungs.

The only thing spared is the heat of John’s mouth, the cords of his arms around your thighs, and the ballast of his shoulders hooked in the bend of your knees—he keeps you anchored, held together as you try to fly apart. The caress of his hands and fingers across your lower belly does not stop as his mouth continues moving over your cunt, moves until your whole body is shaking, moves as you finally gasp for air and cry out in overstimulation.

You collapse back into the chair, pushing now against John’s head even though you’re not sure you want him to stop. He resists—kissing your pussy, once, twice, three times as you come down—and then takes a wrist in one big hand and kisses your palm.

“That,” John rasps, “is a fucking climax, love.”

You swallow, throat dry and smoke-rough. Even in the aftershocks, the pleasure lingers, and you squeeze your inner muscles to hold onto it for as long as you can.

It doesn’t escape his notice. Of course it doesn’t. John’s fingers trek inward, gathering some of the wet slick between your folds and then lazily circling your clitoris.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “my poor girl needs more, doesn’t she?”

Ecstasy grips you again; you whimper as he manipulates your flesh. “John…”

“How long you been aching for it, love? Years? How long’ve you needed me, and I ain’t been there, mm?” He kisses the soft part of your lower belly. “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

You angle your head to look at him, running your dry tongue along your lips. What you see on his face steals the meager oxygen you’ve managed to pull in since your climax abated.

His face is flushed. Lips rosy and swollen from their work. The blue of his eyes has been eclipsed almost completely by black singularity—inescapable, unfathomable, a depth more vast than comprehension. Ready to swallow you whole.

This whole time, you’ve been afraid of John’s touch the way you are afraid of a hot bath on a cold night. There is a comfort beyond the first step into the water, languorous ecstasy waiting only for you to claim it, but the toll separating it and you—the shock of first contact, the split second of violent adjustment, makes you nearly content to remain in uncomfortable but familiar dissatisfaction.

Thunder cracks outside as you reach for him, as he reads your mind and surges forward to kiss you, hand catching the back of your neck to reel your mouth to his. You kiss each other hard and fast, over and over again, eager to end each one only so you can start the next.

Nearly content, in the end, is not content at all.

“John,” you murmur against his lips, as his hand still works your cunt, “I’m still cold.”

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #price x reader #price x you #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod smut #mw2 smut #neighbors au #madi writes #mwritesprice

635 notes · View notes

gracevanpelt · 1 year ago

Text

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

1K notes · View notes

homiesexual-or-homosexual · 10 months ago

Text

Mutt

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x reader

Warnings/Genre: a horribly horribly long slow burn, excuse any typos, fluff, slight angst, offstandish reader, slightly overbearing new friend (not canon character), potentially cute dogs, jealous friend, said friend has a crush on Joel, Joel gets hurt on patrol, mentions of blood, reader gets a cut on her hand, slightly romantically tense situations, let me know if I missed anything!!

Work Count: 8k

A/n: I've been telling this story to myself as I fall asleep at night and have decided to write down what I've daydreamed up so far!! Wish me luck! I hope this is good. . . And it's so long. . I'm so sorry

--- --- ---

Maria and Tommy found you on a patrol near the river.

It was a cold December this year, and your ratty, thin clothes were making it hard to stay warm. The only way to stay warm was to keep moving. Maria wasn't going to take you in, deadset on letting you pass around the town once the K9 cleared you.

Tommy wasn't so set. He figured that Jackson had the room. You were only one more person. Jackson would always use more people for patrols and work around Jackson.

The couple bickered back and forth for a few moments and once decided, Tommy shucked his jacket around your shoulders and gave you a ride back to Jackson. Once there, they settled you in a house across from them, not directly across more diagonally. You showered and they brought you to the mess hall.

You sat with Tommy and Maria, as well as another man and his kid, and another lady who seemed to have implanted herself in the family. She talked a lot. But you could care less, scarfing down your very delicious food was more important. You could feel the eyes of the man and child on you the entire time you ate.

That night, you slept warmly with a full stomach.

You woke early the next morning, so early the sun was barely up. As you finished dressing in some clothes that Maria had found you, knocking was heard.

You followed the noise to your front door and opened it to see Maria. She mentioned that she had a job for you. You nodded and pulled on a warm, heavy jacket. She led you to the stables and past the horse stalls to a back corner.

There were a few kennels back here, ten at the most. There were dogs in every one.

Maria explained that these were dogs that had wandered into Jackson, or that had been picked up on patrols. They'd been dropped here as no one had the time to train feral dogs, and since you were new you'd been granted that job.

You thanked Maria, and she disappeared into the barn.

You took notes that the dogs had the bare minimum. Like just enough food to get by, a blanket per dog, and a bowl or two per kennel. You hmmpfed and noted that the dogs also had no real way to get outside if they needed, much less a designated area to go outside.

You got to work almost immediately. Introducing yourself to the dogs, filling food bowls from a bag stuffed into a corner and filling water bowls from a spicket on the wall at the end of the little hallway/room. You found a notebook and pencil, deciding to use it for information on the dogs, like scars and particular body characteristics. You found out, just by looking and feeling, that one of the dogs was pregnant. You weren't sure with how many.

You worked the rest of the day cleaning their kennels and fixing it up with your limited tools of whatever you found in the area.

Around the start of afternoon, there was a knock on the doorway of the room, and a cheery call of your name.

It was Debby, the lady who talks a lot from dinner yesterday night, "Hey! How you doing today? I didn't get to hear you talk a lot today? Oh.. You got put on mutt duty.." She trailed off at the end, giving disgruntled looks around the small room.

You nodded, standing up and wiping off your hands, "I'm settling in, slowly. Can I help you with something?"

"Oh well," She paused as she twirled a finger. "I was just on the way to lunch and heard you worked in here now. Just decided to stop by and see if you're hungry."

You thought for a few moments, noting your empty stomach as you'd accidentally skipped breakfast, "Sure. I'm at a good stopping point for right now."

"Great!" Debby grabbed your arm and skipped her way through the barn and into the open. "Have you met Joel yet?"

"Joel?" You asked, not picturing a face to the name.

"Joel Miller!" Debby was exasperated in her answer. "Tommy's brother! He sat with us at dinner last night with his kid."

His face was blurry in memory, but you kind of made the connection. You nodded at Debby's words.

"Joel is so great!" Debby started loudly. "He's so handsome and strong! And he's so kind and willing to do almost anything for anybody!! If only I could get him alone, even just for a few moments, but that kid of his is just glued to his side."

Her cheeriness died back as she mentioned Joel's kid, almost as if Debby has a resentment toward the 14-year-old. You couldn't make sense of her rambling. You'd spent so much time outside that you really didn't understand the way Debby felt towards Joel.

When you both entered the mess hall, you dished up. Debby's gasp pulled you from your focus and she gripped your jacket sleeve. You looked at her, brows scrunched in an irritated way.

"Joel's here!" She whispered at you, shaking you just a bit.

You turned fully to look in the direction your companion was looking in. You spotted Tommy and Maria first, and the presumed Joel and his kid sat across from them. They were engaging in something casual and eating slowly. And as if feeling eyes on them, Tommy turned first and the others followed in suit. Tommy waved you two over.

Debby practically skipped over, and you were much slower. Debby plopped right beside Maria, trying to get as close to Joel as he could. You sat beside Debby, careful to not evade any space.

"Hi Joel!" Debby greeted, too cheery for something casually quiet.

Joel only nodded in response, mouth full of food. His kid only glanced at Debby before back at her food.

"You settling in okay?" Maria asked, leaning forward around Debby.

You nodded, trying your best to not scarf down your food and match the pace of the others.

"You think this job is okay for you? Do you need anything?" Tommy asked, putting his spoon down to show full attentiveness.

"Umm," You swallowed your food. "Maybe a library and some blankets? And maybe a way to let the dogs go outside by themselves?" You were unsure if you were to grab anything extra for the dogs, or if you could modify that part of the barn.

Tommy nodded, "I can show you the library after this, and where we keep our extra clothes and blankets."

"Thank you," You almost started eating before Maria asked you a question.

"You fixing up that outside coral?" Maria asked.

You nodded, "Planning on it, so they don't make such a mess of inside."

"By yourself?" Maria asked again.

"Planning on it," You sense Maria's hesitation. "I was wondering where to get some wood and maybe some chicken wire, and maybe something to smooth the wood out so no one gets any splinters."

"Chicken wire?" Tommy asked, confused.

"So the dogs don't slip out under the fence," You pointed out.

Tommy nodded, "Well, uh my brother here is pretty well-versed in woodwork."

You looked at Joel, who sat across from Tommy. He looked back.

"Joel Miller," Joel reached a hand across the table to shake yours.

"Y/n," You told him, accepting his hand.

"Ellie," Joel's kid offered her hand once you pulled away from Joel. "You'll get the hang of eating slow eventually. I was like that too."

You nodded, settling back down into your chair.

Lunch went a lot slower than you were used to. But later than sooner, you were off to the library. Tommy led the way, informing you that you were welcome to take books home if needed, but to bring them back when you were done.

You nodded along to the information. And when Tommy left to go help Maria with something, you started wandering. You were looking for books on dog behavior and diet, hoping to find good ways to train the dogs under your care.

In just under two hours you found what you needed. You big goodbye to the library caretaker and was on your way back to the barn. You checked up on the dogs, cleaned up any mess they made, and got to reading. You took note of anything you deemed useful as you read.

A knock disrupted you. It was Tommy again. He brought an arm-full of old blankets. You met him at the doorway, thanking him. The man nodded and said if you needed anything that he'll be around. You thanked him again and decided that you'd wait to give the dogs their blankets until they were ready and trained to go outside.

After reading a few more pages, you fixed up some more things around the kennels and cleaned up the place a little more.

The sun went down and the town lights came on. Work slowed the darker it got in the barn. Soon enough, you bid the dogs goodnight and made your way home. You weren't too hungry so you skipped dinner and read until you couldn't anymore.

The next morning, you woke again before the sun. You peeked outside and saw that maybe only one or two people were awake. You got ready slowly, giving the town time to wake up before you officially started your day.

You shucked a big, thick jacket on and headed to the barn. The dogs greeted you with barks and wagging tails. For each kennel you cleaned, you gave the resident dog some love. You fed them and refreshed their water. Your stomach growled and you headed out to get your own breakfast.

The Miller Family was already there and settled, as was Debby. Debby seemed to be talking a very tired-looking Joel Miller's ears off about something. You see Ellie excuse herself from the table and make her way to join you in the line. She grabs a plate and comes up beside you.

“You smell like the barn,” Are the first words Ellie speaks to you. “Do you work with the horses?”

“No,” You answer as your grab some breakfast. “I work in the kennels.”

“Kennels?” Ellie presses.

“There’s some kennels in a room off to the side in the barn,” You tell her, grabbing a drink and utensils. “I can show you sometime if you like.”

“That’d be.. cool,” Ellie gives a chill smile, her eyes sparkling in excitement.

You lead the way to the table and you two take up your usual spots. You start eating instantly, extra hungry from the skipped dinner last night.

“You smell like the barn,” Debby notes with her nose wrinkled in distaste.

You swallow your bite of breakfast, “Woke up early.”

“And the barn was the first place you went?” She asks.

“Well yeah..,” You look at her finally, feeling a little subconscious. “Where else would I go?”

Debby opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again. She decided to not add any more comments about you and continue on with her breakfast.

A small conversation picks up between Tommy and Joel. Something about patrols and work that needs to be done around the town. It’s almost like they plan their day around each other, as if they want to see each other as often as possible. Maria joins in too, noting sightings from patrols on the west side. Joel nods, muttering about going out sometime today or tomorrow.

“What about the fences for the dogs?” Ellie interrupts.

“Still on my list,” Joel answers Ellie and then looks at you. “When would you want to start on that?”

“Whenever works best for you,” You tell him.

“We can start after this, if you’d like,” Joel suggests.

You nod, “That works.”

Joel nods and you go back to your breakfast.

You’re starting to get used to the slow breakfasts, but not really. You’re antsy to get back to the dogs. But breakfast does go by. Joel goes to get some tools and wood, and you go to meet him at the barn. The dogs were antsy for your return, barking and jumping on their chainlink cages as you walk by. You give them love and refill their waters if needed.

Joel shows up not long after, with Ellie in tow. You help carry wood and tools back to where you want to start. You two adults get to work, and you tell Ellie to make herself comfortable inside the barn and that the dogs are friendly. You and Joel tear up the old wooden fence and replace with new, better wood. You both hammer down and sand, making sure the fence is stable and has a lack of splinters. You slowly make your way around this corner of the barn, completing the process of setting up the fence by midday. Putting up the chicken wire only takes another hour or two.

When finished, you ask Joel for another favor, if he doesn’t mind. What? To help make the doggy doors a little better, and make it so the dogs goes in and out as they please.

Joel agrees, leaves to grab some more supplies, and when he comes back he shows you how to install his idea so you can do some doors as well.

Joel takes the previous doggy door off, cuts around the doorway to make the shape a little better, installs a new frame around the door, attaches this rubber to the sides and bottom, and attaches this swinging rubbery door to the doorway. Joel explains that the rubber will act as a seal to keep the cold air out of the kennel, and the new door should flap back and forth a few times before catching on the rubber and sealing the inside from the outside again.

You nod as you take in his instructions and explanation. It’s only slightly confusing but hopefully with some hands on the instructions will become more clear.

Joel moves to the next door down, and you settle in at the one beside that. Joel shows you how to install at a slow pace, making sure to go step by step with you. He does this at the next doggy door, and a few more before weaning you off instruction and trusting you to do it by yourself. It’s not long before you make it to the other side, installing the other five doggy doors. You do the last two yourself, Joel keeping a watchful eye over your shoulder.

Once you’re done, it’s evening. The sun is just barely starting to set. A few of the dogs have begun to venture outside to check out the new fence, their new doors, and Joel. After a few hi’s to the dogs, you take Joel inside through a door for people located in the premises of the new fences. You help him collect and put away his tools, but you seem to get a little too confident with these newfound tools and the small saw slips in your grasp and cuts into your first two fingers. You yelp and hiss, instantly grabbing your two injured fingers in the palm of your injured hand.

“What? What?,” Joel’s instantly concerned, gently grabbing your shoulder to turn you. “What happened?”

He zeros in on your fingers grasped in your hands and gently cups your hands in his.

“It-It’s fine, Joel. Really,” You tell him. “I guess I just wasn’t holding the saw tight enough and it slipped.”

“Let me see it,” Joel demands softly.

“Joel, really,” You pull your hands away slightly. “It’s okay. I can fix it up myself.”

“Just let me see it,” Joel demands again.

You look at his face full of concern and give in, resting your hands in his grasp. You release your fingers from your grasp and let them fall victim to Joel’s eyes. The man gently straightens your fingers with his and look at the cuts on your fingerpads, titling your hand from side to side.

Joel hums, “Come back to my place. I got the stuff to fix you up.”

“I can just do it at my house,” You try to reason with the taller man, who make your hands look like half the size they really are in his.

“Do you have rubbing alcohol?” He asks and you shake your head. “Bandages?” Another head shake from you. “Well, I’ve got those at my place, so just come back with Ellie and I and I’ll get you fixed up before dinner.”

“But-“ You start.

“It’s better than you running around with bleeding fingers trying to get the supplies yourself,” Joel tells you, giving you an intense gaze.

You give in, “Fine.”

Joel nods, shucking the tool bag onto his shoulders and calling Ellie in from outside, as she joined you and stayed out to play with the dogs. He finally let you have your hands back when he led the way out the barn and to his house.

“What’s he so tense about?” Ellie asks, walking beside you.

“I cut myself on the saw,” You show her.

“Oh, well it’s not that bad,” Ellie waved Joel’s tenseness off. “He shouldn’t be that worried. Joel’s had so much worse!”

You don’t have too much time to look around Joel and Ellie’s house before Joel is ushering you off to the kitchen and asking Ellie to put the tool bag away. She does, marching off down the halls.

Joel stands you both over the sink, running the water until it’s decently warm. He helps wash your fingers off until the cuts are visible. They’re not too bad, but too deep to be left alone. Joel reaches up into a cabinet beside the sink and grabs some rubbing alcohol and some bandaids. You hiss when he pours the rubbing alcohol over the cuts, the stinging causing you to pull away on instinct. Joel gives you a minute before putting your fingers back under the water to wash away any more debris and any remaining alcohol. He turns the sink off and dabs the areas dry with a thin rag. Joel puts the bandaids on himself, he doesn’t give you a choice to try and put them on yourself. Once satisfied with his work, Joel finally lets you have your hand to yourself.

“Keep the bandaids on for a few days,” He tells you. “Either you can let them fall off or take them off when you’re ready. But if the cuts are still not healed when the bandaids come off, feel free to stop by and come grab some more.”

“Okay,” You nod, rubbing your good fingers against your injured ones, feeling the bumping texture of the bandaid. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Joel nods.

Joel looks at you for a moment. You watch as his eyes dart from here to there. But he gets to look for only a moment before the front door is thrusted open. In comes Debby.

“Joel!” She calls into the house, looking ahead. “Sorry for stopping in like this, but I figured it’s dinner time and you’d want to know! And we can like totally walk there together if you’re. . . . ready. .”

Debby trails off at the end of her sentence as she makes eye contact with the pair of you. She assesses the situation before speaking.

“Y/n? What are you going her?” Her tone is a nice balance between friendly and surprised, but her eyes scream confusion and threat.

“I got hurt working today and Joel fixed me up,” You tell her.

“Oh! Are you okay?” Debby slams the front door shut, rattling some little figurines on a nearby table.

She grabs your fingers a bit roughly, making you wince, and looks them over.

“He fixed you right up, didn’t he?” Debby voiced is pitched. She looks at Joel, “Didn’t you, Joel?” She almost speaks to him like a puppy that’s done something cute.

Joel nods, “I offered.” His voice is monotone and he turns to put away the medical stuff, and throw away the bandaid wrappings.

“Well, girl!” Debby turns to you. “Don’t be such a klutz next time, yeah?”

“Umm,” You hesitate. “Yeah.”

Debby is tense. Almost as if she’s taking you being in Joel’s house as a threat to her crush on the man.

Ellie comes stomping down the hallway. She’s easy to hear when the kitchen has gone quiet. She calls out to Joel.

“I’m hungry, man!” She expressed. “When are we going to eat?”

She turns the corner and her raised eyebrows fall when she see the additional person in the kitchen. Ellie huffs, looking at Joel with an irritated expression. Joel gives the hint of one back.

“We can head out now,” Joel says.

“Good!” Ellie marches on to the front door and outside. She clobbers down the steps, “I’m so hungry!!”

You three adults trail after her. Joel turns on his porch light and shuts the front door. Joel takes big steps to catch up to his advancing daughter, urging her to slow down a bit.

Debby is uncharacteristically tense at dinner. Her chatter doesn't stop, but the edge to her tone gives her away. The table either doesn't notice or doesn't care. It's whatever to you, honestly. You're too focused on eating dinner, and figuring out how to hold a fork with three fingers.

"What happened there?" Tommy asks you during a break in Debby's dinner talk.

"Work accident," You tell Tommy after swallowing a bite of tonight's dinner. "One of the small saws slipped through my hand when I was helping Joel put tools away."

"It's hard to work in the cold," Tommy nods. "Your hands go numb and stuff. You got gloves for next time?"

You shake your head no.

"I can go by and get you some," Maria offers. "And some antibiotics, just in case."

"Oh thanks!" You thank Maria.

"I can drop them off at the barn if that works," Maria says.

"That works," You tell her. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You find the gloves the next morning, sitting atop a stool that you use sometimes. You pull them on and get to work that day, training the dogs to go outside for potty instead of inside. You check up on your pregnant dog, which you've named "Mama." She doing good and growing steadily day by day. The only odd thing in the bunch is a dog at the end, that you've named "Mick" has got a case of the sniffles. You'll have to keep an eye on him.

After your little accident, the days go on. You have meals with the Miller family, which has lead to you and Ellie growing closer. She stops by the barn every once in a while, mostly to come play with the dogs and horses though. Debby and you grow closer as well, once you move past the tenseness she feels when she thinks you and Joel stand a little too close for her comfort. It's whatever to you, you're not entirely bothered by it. Maria and the Miller boys stop by too, to check in and stuff (Joel's excuse). Joel stops by a bit more than the couple though, just to see how the wood work is hanging, he says.

Mick, the skinny black mutt at the end of the row of kennels on the left, seems to get worse as the days go on. His sniffles and runny nose evolve into coughs, weakness, and a lack of eating. You get worried and run him to Jackson's local vet. The doctor says he's run into some type of winter cold. To her, it seems he's coming down from the worst of it. The vet gives you a small bag of this white powdery stuff and tells you to mix it in with his food and water. You follow orders, and give Mick another blanket.

There's one day, after dinner while you were checking on the dogs before you went home, that Mick doesn't get up. He hasn't really eaten since breakfast. You pet him, feeling his ears and they're burning hot. You worry and pace for a small bit, wondering what to do. You decide the best thing for Mick, and yourself, is to stay with him that night. You’re lucky that you wore some thicker clothes today, it’s supposed to be a cold one tonight. Despite Mick’s heat, he’s shivering. You pile up some blankets in the kennel and get settled for the night. All the lights in the barn are off, the only light now is coming from the heat lamps that hang low from the ceiling. You curl you and Mick into a corner. You sit up so Mick can lay on your lap. It’s uncomfortable but you fall asleep anyway.

You’re roused awake by someone calling your name. You think you’re dreaming until your name is called again. You blink open your eyes and see a figure crouched in front of you, resting a hand on your leg.

It’s Joel.

There concern written on his face, and perhaps a little bit of confusion.

“What are you doing here?” Joel asks in a hushed voice.

“Mick’s sick,” You voice is raspy with sleep and lack of water.

You palm Mick’s head, feeling around his fur. His heated ears have cooled considerably. Maybe he’s getting better.

Joel huffs, you’re not sure what for.

“What are you doing here?” You asks back, a little more awake now.

“Well your porch light wasn’t on and- and Ellie said you hadn’t come home yet,” Joel explains.

“What time is it?” You asks again. There’s not windows here to look out of to guesstimate the time.

“Awhile after midnight,” Joel answers. “The town’s already gone to sleep.”

“And why didn’t you,” You press.

Joel hesitates, “I. . . I couldn’t sleep.”

You hum in response.

“You mind if I stay with you?” Joel asks.

“Sure,” You nod.

Joel situations himself beside you, your shoulders are barely pressed against each other.

“It’s. . supposed to be cold tonight,” Joel notes.

“You want a blanket?” You ask, thinking that he’s implying that he’s cold.

“Sure,” Joel says.

He takes the one you hand him and situates it on top of himself.

Due to your tiredness, you fall back asleep rather quickly, enveloped in the warmth of the dog on your lap and the man on your side. Unbeknownst to you, when you do fall into a good sleep, your head falls to rest on Joel’s broad shoulder.

Joel’s a little tense at first, but when the heat from you and the heat lamp above soak into his clothes, he’s dozing right off to sleep.

The next morning, you wake by yourself. You're so so warm, but your body hurts so so bad. You rub the possibly bluriness from your eyes before opening them. The room is lit from the plastic doggy door. It's not too bright out, so either the sun isn't up all the way or it's super cloudy outside. As you wake up more, you realize the position your in.

Somehow, someway, you've made your way under Joel's arm and you're resting your head on his upper chest. Mick has moved as well, from your lap to Joel's. He looks comfy, passed out.

You reach over and pet Mick's head, massaging his ears. They've cooled back down to a regular temperature. Maybe all Mick needed was some company for a night. You sigh and settle back down. You close your eyes for a moment before you hear footsteps and someone clearing their throat. You open your eyes again and see Ellie standing in front of the kennel.

"So this is where Joel ran off to in the middle of the night?" Ellie whispered, an amused expression on her face.

"I thought you knew where Joel was," You asked, only a little confused.

"Oh no," Ellie shakes her head. "He ran off in the middle of the night. Something about going to the barn to check on something. I guess you were that something."

"I guess," You cast a glimpse at Joel. Since when did he become so worrisome, especially towards you. "What time is it?"

"Breakfast time," Ellie answered, "Which is why I stopped by here."

Ellie turned her attention towards Joel and raised her voice from a whisper, "Joel! Joel! It's like way past your morning alarm!"

Joel only groans in response. He stretches, raising his arms above his head. When he puts his arms back down, Joel traps you back against his oh so warm body. But he jumps when he feels you under him.

"Sorry. . 'bout that," Joel apolgizes, putting his arms down in front of him.

"It's alright," You tell him.

"So awkward," Ellie mumbles, kicking the dirt floor of the barn.

Joel moves to get up, but a furry body prevents him from doing so.

Mick shuffles and wakes from his slumber. Without picking up his head, he looks back at the two of you and wags his tail. He already looks so much better.

"You feeling better, boy?" You ask him, petting his head.

His sniffs your hand, and licks it.

"'cuse me, kid," Joel pats Mick on the head and shifts his legs little by little until Mick lifts his head. He gets up slowly, groaning as he uses his knees as leverage to get up from the dirt floor.

You follow suit, groaning as well. You'll be regretting sleeping in a dirt floor today. You do your best to stretch out your condensed muscles.

Joel limps and wobbles a little bit as he makes his way out of the kennel and to Ellie.

"That's what you get for sleeping on a dirt floor, man," Ellie shoves Joel lightly.

While the two bicker, you check up on Mick. He's sitting up now, wagging his tail while doing his best to give you a tired little smile. He looks so much better now! Especially with the lack of sniffling and coughing.

After a few minutes of petting Mick, you turn towards the bickering father and daughter, "You don't mind if I feed the dogs real quick before breakfast, do you?"

"Not at all," Joel says.

"Can I help?" Ellie asks excitedly.

"Sure!" You say.

You tell her to gather the bowls from the kennels on the right while you gather the bowls from the kennels on the left. You fill the bowls and split the ten bowls between you two again to deliver them to the dogs. After feeding, you also refill their water bowls. Soon enough, the dogs are chowing down on their food and you three head off to the mess hall.

It's cold out, colder than when you arrived at Jackson. It seems the worst of winter is making it's way up and into the mountains. You're glad to get into the warm mess hall as soon as possible.

Once you three get settled and start eating and conversating with the rest of your group, a shadow at the corner of your eye causes you to turn to your right.

A young woman stands to your right, looking a little nervous as she twiddles her fingers.

"You work at the kennels, right?" She asks.

"I do," You nod. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was just wondering if any dogs are available for adoption," The woman explains. "I just feel bad 'cause it's getting colder out now."

"I'd say the dogs are ready for adoption," You tell her. "You can come by the barn after breakfast to come check the dogs out."

"Oh thank you!" She smiles. "I'll see you after breakfast!!"

The young woman practically skips back to her table, excitedly telling her group of friends her plans for the afternoon.

Breakfast goes by unexcitedly. The only relatively interesting news that is that Joel will be going out on patrol today, but that's about it.

The Millers, Debby, and you go your separate ways after dinner. You trot in the direction of the barn, meeting the lady from the beginning of breakfast there. She shows up soon after you, introducing herself as Mary. Mary brings along a friend as well, a woman around her age named Saturn.

You introduce the duo to the resident dogs, telling them about their personalities and any mishaps they've had while at the kennel.

Mary takes a shibu and Saturn takes a chow. As a form of payment, they exchange some homemade stuff that they made in their free time, like soaps and a wood carved duck. You give the ladies their dogs' favorite blankets and bid them goodbye.

As soon as you're doing cleaning up the empty kennels, a few more people stop by that are interesting in adopting some dogs as well. Soon enough, you have a little gathering of people in the room. By the afternoon, all dogs except Mama, your resident pregnant german shepherd. Someone even adopted Mick, even though he was recently sick. You told Mick's owner what the vet told you about his bag of medicine. The owner reassured you that Mick was in good hands.

It was quiet in the room now. You cleaned up slowly, folding blankets and stacking food and water bowls. You sighed, resting on the counter that sat against the right wall and looked at Mama.

"Well, looks like it me and you now, girl," You told her.

She wagged her tail in response.

You paused for a few moments, thinking. You figured that bringing Mama to your house, instead of leaving her here, wouldn't be so bad.

"You wanna come home with me?" You asked Mama, opening her kennel door.

In response, she got up and hobbled her way over to you.

You figured that was a yes, and you gathered up her blankets and food bowls. You led the way through the barn, letting Mama either stop for a sniff or pause for a break. She was about as big as a hippo now, and no doubt was she about to pop any day now.

You two slowly made your way back to your house, and you get Mama settled in the downstairs bedroom with all her blankets. For now, you place her food and water bowl in the kitchen.

It's afternoon by the time you've settled you and Mama at home. You're not sure what to do now that you don't have ten dogs to take care of. Maybe you'd eat lunch or something. It's a bit late for lunch, but that means you missed the lunch rush. You pat Mama on the head and tell her you’re off for lunch. She's rested up on the couch and she makes no sign to move from her spot on the couch as you open the front door.

You walk by the barn on your way to the mess hall and see Ellie making her way from the barn. She looks a little dejected before she see you, and then she lights right back up. The girl trots right over to you, bumping into your shoulder when she’s close enough.

“Whatcha up to, kid?” You ask.

"Well, Joel's on patrol and the kids here and doing something totally lame so.. I was looking for you and saw all the dogs were gone," Ellie kicked some dirt at the end of her explanation, hiding her dejection.

"Oh sorry kid," you apologized. "Yeah, most the dogs got adopted out today. The only dog that didn't was Mama, the pregnant one."

"Where is she?" Ellie asked. "She's not in the barn or outside."

"I actually brought her home," You told Ellie. "I didn't think it was fair to leave her there herself, especially since she's already so close to having her puppies."

"Oh is she really?" Ellie looked up at you, surprised.

"I know!" You acknowledge her surprise. "It doesn't feel like that much time has passed but I guess it has."

Ellie nodded.

"Well.. I am going to the mess hall to get some lunch if you'd like to join," You offered.

"Sure!" Ellie took your offer and you two were off to the mess hall.

Since you two were taking a late lunch, there were very few people in the mess hall. Only a few of the kitchen staff and a few people eating late lunch were seen in the mess hall.

You and Ellie decided to sit at your regular table but across from each other. It was nice to have someone sit across from you for once, especially someone so pleasant to talk to. Ellie was so pleasant to talk to that you two accidentally had stayed until evening, when the early eaters started trickling in. In a decision to make room for the early dinner crowd, you and Ellie had decided to go and walk around town. There was a slight chill to the air, but nothing too bad. The lack of a breeze made the early evening air easier to handle.

Eventually, you two had made your way back to your house. Ellie had beelined for Mama, who hadn't moved from her spot on the couch. You gotten the three of you settled in your living room with blankets and warm drinks. You and Ellie got to know each other more and you learned she wasn't originally from Jackson like you thought, but from the east coast. In return, you told her where you came from. You two ended up bonding over the struggles of the world outside of Jackson.

Around mid-conversation, a frantic knocking was heard from your front door. You paused and turned, glancing over at Ellie who looked as confused as you did. You got up and opened your front door caustiously.

A sobbing and hyperventilating Debby. She practically burst through your partially opened front door and into your arms. You barely caught her as you stumbled back. She was mumbling incoherently through her sobs and hiccups.

"What?" You asked, trying to pry the sobbing woman from your arms.

"Joel's hurt!!" Debby yelled through her tears.

Panic and alarm hit you. You looked and Ellie to see the same emotions mirrored onto her face. She shucked on her jacket and was out the door before you could get Debby up onto her feet. You shoved Debby out and mumbled a "be back" to Mama before shutting your front door and attempting to catch up to a sprinting Ellie.

Ellie had burst through Jackson's infirmary before you got there, calling out for her dad. You and Debby caught up to her. You stood behind Ellie, looking for Joel while Debby clung to your jacket.

A sob tore from Debby's throat and she lunged forward, leaving you and Ellie behind.

Predicting the distraught woman's path, you spotted Joel settled in a back corner. There was blood on his face and his right eye was squinty. His clothes and hair were disheveled, splattered with blood. Currently, his hands were being cleaned up and bandaged. Whoever he got in a fight with, neither of the opponents came out pretty.

You nudged Ellie and led her quickly and quietly from the infirmary to her dad. Once there, Debby was all over him. Sobbing and pawing at the injured man. Joel winced at her ministration, looking tired and irritated.

"Ma'am. Ma'am," One of the nurses called attention to Debby. "You're getting in the way of his treatment. Please back away."

The nurse's words had no affect, and Debby ended up having to be pulled away from Joel and calmed down on another cot nearby.

You decided to let Debby have some time to herself and stay here with Ellie in case she needed any support.

Ellie stood there nervously, not wanting to get in the way of the nurses but also wanted to be next to Joel.

"He'll be okay," Ellie mumbled to herself. "He's been through so much worse."

You pat Ellie on her shoulder, comforting her the best you could in the situation.

At the mumbling, Joel looked up and made eye contact with Ellie. He adjusted on the cot and pat the spot beside him. Ellie sat down beside Joel, practically pressed up against him.

"What happened?" Ellie asked.

“Just some raiders that ambushed us over by the ridge,” Joel explained.

He winced when the nurse dabbed at the cut above Joel’s right eye, as she had finished tending to his hands.

You glanced down at his hands. They were relaxed at the moment. There were some cuts and splotches of bruises littered across the peak of Joel’s knuckles. Joel’s left hand was bandaged from the knuckles and down around his wrist. He must’ve gotten really hurt on that hand.

“Well, you fucked them up pretty good, right?” Ellie asked, her tone indicating that she was trying to lighten the mood a little.

“ ‘course,” Joel chuckled, patting Ellie on the knee.

Two bodies joined you on one side. You looked over to see Maria and Tommy. They both looked over at Debby before turning their attention to Joel.

“What’s up with her?” Tommy asked you, confusion on his face.

“No idea,” You shrugged.

You noticed a black eye forming under Tommy’s left, mirroring Joel’s squinty right eye.

“You on patrol too?” You asked.

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Joel seemed to have gotten the worst of it compared to me.”

You nodded.

“He’s tough though,” Maria noted, switching her attention from Joel to you. “I heard you had a busy day at the kennels. How many dogs got adopted?”

“All but one,” You answered.

“Oh really?” Tommy looked surprised. “I figured they all would’ve gone.”

“The only one that didn’t go was the pregnant one,” You told him. “But I brought her home cause it didn’t feel fair to leave her up there all by herself.”

“She didn’t give birth yet?” Maria asked.

“Nope,” You said. “Any day now though.”

Maria nodded.

The nurse stood from her stool and worked on gathering her medical supplies, “All fixed up, Miller. Take it easy for a few days.”

“I’ll try,” Joel responded.

He groaned as he got up. The man massaged the back of his neck with a hand, squinting in discomfort. Joel eyed the three of you, no readable emotion in his eyes.

“I need a drink,” Joel groaned.

“I bet you do,” Tommy chuckled.

“You wanna join?” The older Miller brother switched his attention to you.

“Awe what?!” Ellie exclaimed. “Then who am I gonna hang out with?”

“Go hang out with that Dina girl,” Joel reasoned. “You seem to like her a lot.”

Ellie scoffed, her cheeks turning just the slightest of pinks, “I guess..”

“I’ll be okay, kid,” Joel told his kid.

“Plus, it’s about time we get this hermit out her shell,” Tommy joked, bumping your shoulder with his fist.

You rolled your eyes playfully, “Those dogs loved me.”

“ ‘course,” Tommy shrugged.

The younger Miller lead the way out of the infirmary and into the cold winter air.

The sun was just a few feet above the horizon line now, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. A few people were out and about, but due to the cold weather slowly making its way over the mountains there weren’t many.

Once you’d reached the bar, called Tipsy Bison, Joel told Ellie to scamper off (in his grumpy, loving way) before leading the five of you into the bar. Because of course once Debby had seen Joel up and walking, she had attached herself to his hip and snuggled up to him all the way to the bar. You’d decided to hang back with Tommy and Maria to avoid awkwardness.

Being quite early at the bar had its quirks apparently. You’d all gotten chairs at the bar-top right next to each other. In a way to for you not to feel left out, you sat between the Miller brothers. You talked primarily with Tommy and Maria, as Joel seemed only focused on drinking at the moment.

As the sun set and more people trickled in, the five of you moved to a table near the outer circle and away from the crowd. With the table being circular, there was a bit more of an even option to talk to everyone. Most talk was about the town’s going ons and how the patrol went. You chipped in a couple times, but not too much. You’d spent these past few months in the barn and the mess hall, so you had no interesting news to share with the group.

Slowly, music had started from a jukebox in the corner of the bar and as people started dancing, Tommy and Maria had excused themselves and disappeared into the crowd. This left you with Debby and Joel, which wouldn’t have been awkward if it weren’t for Debby’s one-sided flirting towards a very tired-looking Joel.

You excused yourself and headed off towards the bar to get another drink.

It was louder over by the bartop compared to your little corner near the back of the barn. Thankfully, you ordered your drink without much hassle. You waited patiently, standing with your forearms resting on the counter and tapping your fingers against the wood along with the music. You felt a body join you on your left, but thought nothing of it until they started talking.

“You looking for someone to dance with?”

A tall blond man stood on your left, leaning against the counter with one arm. He already held a drink in his hand. His blue eyes looked you up and down, only briefly making eye contact.

“No,” You observed him briefly, before looking ahead at the bar again.

“Awe.. Why not?” The man sighed, setting a hand on your upper arm. “You got something better to do?”

You only looked at the blond man. After a few heartbeats went by, you tried to pull your arm away from the unknown man but to no avail. This man kept a rather tight grip on your upper arm.

“Well?” The man asks.

“Can you let me go please?” You try to pull your arm away with a bit more force this time.

“Why?” The blond man only tightened his grip. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Before you could respond, you could feel an overbearing presence over your shoulder. You didn’t have a chance to look at the person before they spoke.

“Is there a problem here?” Joel spoke from behind you.

When the blond man made eye contact with Joel, he let go of your arm so fast that you almost thought something burned him. His previously smirky expression developed into one of panic and fear. The man scooted back from you a bit.

“No-nothing for you to worry about, Joel,” The man seemed to have a bit of confidence still in him as he tried to tell Joel off.

“Go scamper off, kid,” Joel brushed the comment aside. “Go bother someone who wants to be bothered.”

The blond man huffed and left your side, shoulder-checking Joel before stalking off into the crowd. You watched the man walk off before Joel joined you at the bar top counter.

“You alright?” He asked, ordering his own drink when a bartender came by.

“Yeah,” You nodded. “I’m more weirded out than anything.”

Joel nodded. He set a soft hand on your upper arm, patting it once or twice while you waited for your drinks.

After getting your drinks, you and Joel went back to your table.

Debby had left and you couldn’t see her anywhere in the crowd. You assumed she went off into the crowd after Joel went to get another drink for himself. You weren’t worried too much. Your friend has lived in Jackson longer than you, so you trusted that she knew her way around town.

“So,” Joel took a sip of his drink. “Got anything going on for the rest of the night?”

“Umm.. Probably just gonna go home, check on Mama, and go to bed,” You told him. “Not the most excited.”

“You mind if I. . joined you? If that’s not a problem,” Joel took another sip from his drink, as if hiding behind the glass.

"Not at all," You smiled.

Joel's sudden shyness was unlike him, as was the pink tint to his cheeks. Why? Was it hot in here? You didn't think so. You shrugged his reaction off, not thinking anything about it.

After sipping down your drink, you and Joel left Tipsy Bison and headed off to your house. It was dark out now, and much colder than today. Not many people were on the streets either, not unusual for a cold winter night in Jackson. After your walk through town, you came up onto your porch. You noticed a medium-sized black lump on your porch. You didn't turn your porch on before you left in the late afternoon, so it was hard to tell what was on your porch.

As you came closer, the black lump lifted up it's head. It was a dog. The dog wagged it's tail as you came closer. Joel hung back a bit as you stepped up onto your porch. In the full moon light, you could see the black dog was Mick! He must've ran away from home and found your house!

"It's just Mick," You turned and told Joel. "He must've gotten out from his owner's house earlier."

"Ah," Joel joined you up on the porch and gave the black dog a few pats on the head. "Okay."

You opened your front door and welcomed Joel and Mick into your house. You told Joel to make himself comfortable.

As you hung up your jacket onto the hooks on the wall by your door, you noticed the lack of Mama's greeting as you came inside. You told Joel you'll be right back, you're just going to check up on your dog. You made your way into the downstairs bedroom and was greeted by small yaps and the thump of a wagging tail. You turned the light on and saw Mama laying in a nest of blankets with three very tiny bodies nestled against her belly.

"Oh!" You exclaimed.

You joined Mama on the floor, checking the new puppies. They weren't wet and all were breathing fine. You concluded that Mama must have given birth sometime early into your night out. You gave your dog a couple pats on the head and moved her water bowl closer to her so she could take a drink.

The click-clack of claws and the thumping of boots made you turn around.

Joel and Mick stood in the doorway. Upon the sight of Mama, Mick came in and gave Mama a couple licks on the head before settling down beside her. Joel still stood there, observing the situation.

"You alright in here?" He asked. "Thought I heard you say something?"

"I was just surprised that Mama gave birth already," You told Joel, settling down into a more comfortable sitting position on the floor. "Would you like to come see?"

"Sure," Joel was quick to come settle down beside you, letting Mama sniff his hand before giving her some well-deserved pets on the head.

You watched him interact with the dogs, surprised to see Joel relax so quickly in the presence of animals. It was almost like you weren't in the room with him anymore. Almost.

Joel sat up a bit, looking at you now, "So how are those fingers?"

You brought your hand up to look at your injured fingers, "They're not too bad. Still a little tender." You looked up at Joel. "How's your face?"

"Sore," Joel responded, smiling a bit.

"Too bad I couldn't be the one to fix you up," You sighed a little. "To repay the favor."

"Next time," Joel said.

"Next time?" You questioned, surprised. "I hope next time is just a little scratch and not a spilt eyebrow."

Joel only laughed at you.

You two spent the rest of the night sitting in the room with the dogs and getting to know each other a little more. Joel was a complicated, many-layered man who seemed to have very few soft spots. You were happy to be friends with Joel, but something deep down was tempting to see if you could be more.

#aj posts #the last of us #hbo the last of us #joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us x reader #hbo the last of us x reader #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us imagines #hbo the last of us imagines #joel miller imagines #pedro pascal imagines

424 notes · View notes

th3-c0rps3-r0gu3 · 7 months ago

Text

Arranged marriage

Chapter three

Royal au

Princess Natasha X queen autistic reader

Warnings: Natasha being a bitch. Natasha being jealous. Woman flirting with y/n. Swearing (minor) lemme know if there anymore. Natasha getting feelings? Oblivious y/n

Natasha pov

I want to rip out my eyes. Why on earth am I here. This is so stupid. Riding in a carriage with this idiot queen. Those are my first thoughts as I stare angrily out the window of the carriage me and queen y/n are sitting in. Said queen is hiding from the crowds of people outside the carriage. She's so backwards. Never wanting too many people around and only tolerating socialisation for a specific time frame before vanishing for sometimes days. In my opinion she's not fit to be a queen.

Fresh air finally. I think to myself as me and the idiot behind me climb out the carriage into the town square. People have crowded near the carriage. Ofcourse they have. Their "queen" is here. I grumble slightly as the guards help down y/n. Gods she can't even get out a carriage by herself what a useless idiot. I don't know why but my thoughts of rage and hatred have increased towards y/n. Perhaps it's to make up for the fact she's cute and her hands are soft and she really nice. Like right now with how she's thanking the guard who helped her over and over like the absolute sweetheart she is. What. No. Absolutely not. Y/n is a idiot on the throne and I will murder her. I don't find her cute I don't find her sweet and Queen y/n is not a sweetheart.

There's a wyvern on that houses roof. I wonder if y/n will notice it and rant about its species. I already know it's a wyvern because y/n said earl- why am I thinking that. It's just an idiot dragon. And boom y/n has seen it. She's ranting again. Gods I hate it. What on earth is a blood bellied wyvern and why does it matter. That dragon was black not red. I hate cobblestone too now that I think about it. My heels keep threatening to buckle beneath me. Good thing I'm an absolute goddess and can walk in heels anywhere.

Y/n pov

The carriage ride to the town square was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt Natasha too much. And if I spoke even a word I'm pretty sure she'd tell me to shut it anyway. Besides looking out the window was fun. I saw so many different dragons. I wish I could've been able to get a proper look so I could see what species they are. There's so many people outside watching the carriage though. I should've held this off until my social battery filled again. I am going to hate this trip. I really should stop letting Natasha's parents coerce me into stuff.

Finally the carriage stops and the doors open and fresh air hits me like a train. I go to step out but a guard offers me a hand. I have told them to stop doing that. They really should listen I can get out of my own carriage. But I accept his help not wanting him to feel foolish. The cobblestone streets are filled with people and horses and carriages. I like the town. Aside from the bustling people and market stalls scattered around the town square it's a nice break from the palace. A nice break from being a queen. Princess Natasha is scowling. Like always. I am pretty sure it's her default expression.

Me and the princess have walk a little now. Passed a stall selling dragon egg remains. I don't like those stalls. They often steal and break dragon eggs to get the product. I shudder slightly. Natasha hasn't been paying any attention. She's been grumbling about idiots and cobblestone. She wore heels so I guess that's why. Should've worn flat shoes like me. I did tell her so. I look up at the houses around us and.. no way. A blood bellied wyvern right there on the rooftop of a civilian house. They only come down this way in the winter! I've never seen one before aside from in books.

My mouth is running again. I never know why I do this. But I excuse myself mentally this time since I've never witnessed this dragon before. Their scales are reflective of their blood colour which is why they're called blood bellied wyverns. Well the belly part is because you see the actual veins and blood but still. I haven't had a single interruption from Natasha yet. She's just walking silently beside me as I rant. I slow down and pause looking at the queen feeling a bit bad now. I must've pissed her off in some way again.

"are you ok princess?"

I ask hesitantly. I don't like the way Natasha has paused. She's staring at me funny and I'm prepared for her to scowl and scream at me. She huffs instead.

"I'm fine just keep walking."

I blink surprised as Natasha keeps walking and I speed up to catch up to her.

Natasha pov

She's still ranting. Something about the wyverns scales reflecting their blood colour.. oh that's why it's called whatever it was. I can't help but steal glances at y/n. She's so annoying. So very annoying. And absolutely perfect at the exact same time. No. I won't go down that rabbit hole. I am not stupid. Falling in love is for pitiful useless peasants. Not royalty. Why does my heart not agree with my head. It's stupid. I'll fix it.

"are you ok princess?"

Y/n's voice stops me. That's not about dragons. I glance down at her attempting a scowl but I can't respond. She's looking at me with wide y/e/c eyes and I can't help but find her expression adorable. No. No no no no no. She's not adorable and she's not cute. I huff slightly shaking away all those intrusive thoughts

"I'm fine just keep walking"

I scowl again as I pick up pace once more. Y/n speeding up to get back to my side. She's so small. Like a puppy. No. Absolutely not. Puppies and y/n have nothing in common. I'll kill her. And I won't feel bad about it and I won't regret it. Everything will be fine. I go to yell at y/n as per normal but she's not by me anymore. I glance around and.. there. By a stall selling books and scrolls. I stand and watch her annoyed. Ofcourse she'd stop to look at scrolls and books. And judging by her expression it's dragon bullshit again. The woman serving her is leaning over the counter and talking to y/n about different species. That grin on the merchants face. That's not a friendly grin...

It's been ten minutes and y/n has not stopped talking to the merchant. She's bought atleast three books and five scrolls. And that merchant is clearly flirting with y/n. Doesn't she know the queen is engaged. To me no less. Why is this bothering me. I mean I should be annoyed it's taking so long that's normal but why am I pissed that the queen is being flirted with. Why does it irritate me more than the books. I want to tear that merchant's eyes out and turn them into a necklace for y/n to wear and I don't know why.

She touched her arm. That merchant touched y/n's arm. And I don't like it. Rage hits me like a brick. That bitch can't touch what's mine. There is a clear engagement ring on the queen's finger and it's public knowledge that y/n is betrothed to me. I storm over absolutely enraged at this pathetic sellers attempt to steal MY y/n. Swiftly wrapping an arm around y/ns waist I glare down my nose at this merchant. Watching in sick satisfaction as she backs up scared. Good to know she recognises me.

"back the fuck away from my fiancee."

I snarl. Pulling y/n closer to me. She's so small and she's looking at me shocked. I'll deal with it later. That merchant gets the hint and backs up mumbling apologies and handing y/n her books. I grab them and pull the queen with me away and back towards the carriage. I don't y/n until we are both in the carriage and leaving.

Y/n pov

I saw a dragons scroll and books stall. That looked fun so I told Natasha I was looking at it and went over. I haven't seen this stall before and it has so many books and scrolls. Most I already own but a few I don't! I immediately purchase the scrolls and books I don't have. It would be foolish if I didn't. A waste. Besides I'm the queen I can do as I please. The merchant running the stall is wonderful too. She's really friendly. Immediately we are in conversation about gilded bronze dragons and their subspecies. I haven't met a single other person who could talk dragons with me.

Don't recognise the touch at first. The seller just put her hand on my arm and smirked at me. I blink and smile back not really knowing what's happening before I'm grabbed into someone and the merchant is backing away. I frown wanting to continue talking about dragons and books still. I glance at the person who grabbed me prepared to tell them off for grabbing me politely because yelling at people is Soo mean and I don't have the heart until I realise the person who grabbed me is princess Natasha romanoff.

"back the fuck away from my fiancee."

Natasha scowls at the merchant as she pulls me closer. I didn't realise how much taller the princess was compared to me. Jesus Christ am I actually that short. I blink slightly and glance around trying to gouge out if this is normal or weird and nope this is definitely weird the townspeople are looking at us funny. I'm about to speak until Natasha grabs my books and scrolls and begins dragging me back to the carriage. I don't even argue with her I'm in a state of shock. I never thought I'd see the day Natasha would get... Jealous?

A/n: I am sorry this is so late I didn't like the ending originally and rewrote it like three times so I haven't been on much but I've started chapter four and I will go back to normal posting again I promise.

Tag list:

@cd-4848

@idkwhatever580

@gemz5

If you wanna be added to the taglist just ask in the comments:)

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x you #black widow #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #black widow x reader

217 notes · View notes

thecavalryranch · 2 years ago

Text

Essential Horse Riding Equipment for Riders of All Levels

Horse riding is a thrilling and rewarding activity that allows riders to connect with these majestic animals while enjoying the outdoors. Whether you are a beginner or an experienced equestrian, having the right horseback riding equipment is crucial for your safety and comfort. In this blog post, we will explore some essential horse riding equipment that riders of all levels should have.

Riding Helmet

Safety should always be the top priority when it comes to horse riding. A well-fitted riding helmet is a must-have item to protect your head in case of a fall or collision. Look for helmets that meet safety standards and ensure a proper fit to provide maximum protection.

Riding Boots

Proper footwear is essential for maintaining stability and control while riding. Invest in a pair of sturdy riding boots with a low heel to prevent your foot from slipping through the stirrup. Riding boots should be comfortable and provide ankle support for a secure riding experience.

Breeches or Jodhpurs

Riding breeches or jodhpurs are specialized pants that are designed to provide comfort and flexibility while riding. They typically have a reinforced knee patch or full-seat grip for better grip and durability. Look for breeches made of breathable materials that allow freedom of movement.

Riding Gloves

Riding gloves not only provide a better grip on the reins but also protect your hands from blisters and friction. Choose gloves made of lightweight and breathable materials that allow for proper airflow while providing a secure grip on the reins.

Riding Whip or Crop

A riding whip or crop can be a useful aid for communicating with your horse. It is important to use it responsibly and only when necessary. Choose a whip or crop of appropriate length and flexibility for your riding discipline.

Riding Saddle and Bridle

The saddle and bridle are essential pieces of equipment that allow you to control and communicate with your horse effectively. Invest in a well-fitted saddle that suits your riding style and a bridle with a bit that suits your horse’s comfort and needs.

Body Protector

Especially for beginners or riders participating in high-risk activities such as jumping or eventing, a body protector can provide an extra layer of protection. Body protectors are designed to absorb impact and protect your vital organs in case of a fall.

Reflective Gear

If you plan to ride during low-light conditions or on the road, it is essential to have reflective gear. Reflective vests or bands can make you more visible to motorists and reduce the risk of accidents.

Remember, horseback riding equipment should always be well-maintained and regularly checked for any signs of wear and tear. Additionally, it is important to seek professional guidance and advice when purchasing equipment to ensure the right fit and suitability for your specific needs.

Conclusion

In conclusion, having the right horseback riding equipment is crucial for the safety, comfort, and overall enjoyment of riders at all levels.

In this regard, Cavalry Ranch provides the best horseback riding classes in Panchkula. We will take care of your safety while training you. So you do not have to worry about your safety while you are at Cavalry Ranch.

#horse riding in tricity #horse riding training #horse riding training near me #horse riding #horseback riding #horseback riding classes

0 notes

zippyequestrain · 11 hours ago

Text

Why Horse Riding Camps in Bangalore Are Perfect for Digital Detox

In an age dominated by screens, constant notifications, and digital overload, finding opportunities for a true digital detox is more important than ever — especially for children and teens. One of the most refreshing and effective ways to disconnect from gadgets and reconnect with the real world is by enrolling in horse riding camps in Bangalore. These camps offer not just equestrian training but a holistic outdoor experience that promotes mindfulness, physical activity, and emotional balance.

Bangalore, with its pleasant climate and scenic outskirts, has become a hub for outdoor activities, and horseback riding camps are among the most sought-after experiences for both beginners and seasoned riders. These camps take participants away from city life and immerse them in natural surroundings where they engage with horses, breathe fresh air, and participate in physical activities. This environment provides the ideal backdrop for a digital detox, helping individuals recharge and refocus.

One of the key benefits of a horseback riding summer camp is the structured daily routine that leaves little room or need for electronic devices. Campers wake up early, take part in horse grooming and riding sessions, go on trail rides, and spend their time interacting with peers and nature. Without the constant distractions of smartphones and tablets, children are encouraged to be present in the moment, develop interpersonal skills, and build meaningful relationships — with both humans and animals.

These horse riding camps go beyond just riding. They teach responsibility, discipline, and empathy through hands-on experiences with horses. Learning how to care for and communicate with these gentle animals helps campers foster a deep connection to the natural world. The soothing presence of horses has even been shown to reduce stress and anxiety, making these camps an excellent alternative to the screen-heavy, overstimulated environment many children face at home.

Parents often find themselves searching online for horse riding camps near me, and Bangalore’s equestrian facilities provide top-tier options that cater to all age groups. Whether it’s a week-long summer program or a weekend retreat, these camps are designed to engage kids in healthy, active lifestyles. The peaceful countryside locations, away from the hustle and bustle, enhance the detox experience, offering tranquility and a break from digital distractions.

Additionally, the social environment at a horseback riding camp allows kids to bond over shared interests, build teamwork skills, and develop confidence. Instead of scrolling through social media, they spend time helping each other saddle horses, cheering on during riding drills, and laughing around campfires. These real-life interactions are invaluable in an age where face-to-face communication is becoming increasingly rare.

In conclusion, horse riding camps in Bangalore are more than just equestrian training grounds — they are sanctuaries for those seeking a meaningful escape from digital life. Whether you’re a parent looking for a healthy summer activity for your child or an adult needing a refreshing weekend away from screens, a horse riding camp offers the perfect blend of nature, animals, and personal growth. It’s not just about riding — it’s about reconnecting with what truly matters.

0 notes

silverlininghorsetraining · 15 days ago

Text

Horse Riding Classes | Beginner Lessons Near Me | Western Riding Lessons

Looking for horse riding classes or beginner lessons nearby? Silver Lining Horse Training offers expert western riding lessons and personalized riding instruction for all levels.

#horse training near me #horse riding lessons #horse riding lessons for adults #horse riding classes

0 notes

aheathen-conceivably · 2 months ago

Text

Antoine had barely been home a week when he received a worryingly short letter from Abe. The local postman had delivered it from Hines Ranch directly to his door, but its brevity read like a telegram.

Trouble with horses. When home, could use help.

If there was anyone he had never expected to hear the word “help” from, it was Abe. So the very next morning he put on his hat and made his way to the ranch. The anxious side of him spent every step imagining what could have gone wrong, fearing that the ranch itself was in trouble, or God help them, something had happened to one of Abe’s children. So when Antoine saw Will and his sister laughing childishly near the fence, he breathed a small sigh of relief. Will waved at him fondly, nodding his head toward the pen where he said his father could be found.

From ten paces away Antoine could see Abe staring stoically into the distance. Immediately, he found it odd that he wasn’t amongst the horses, fearlessly attempting to wrangle one or humming off key while he kept them clean. As Antoine walked nearer he realized that Abe was looking at not one, but two horses. The bigger of which he knew like the back of his hand, but the other a small foal he had never seen before.

Antoine let out a small whistle as he drew close, just loud enough to get Silver’s attention without spooking her. The horse looked up at him with calm recognition in her eyes, but she made no move away from the smaller horse she was shadowing like a hawk. Abe turned at the sound of his boots, gesturing behind him at the horses. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

Antoine’s feet came to a stop next to Abe’s. “She is. She one of yours?”

“Not exactly.” His words grew quiet, self conscious, even, if Antoine were to guess. “I was out in the canyon riding Banjo when I saw her. She was alone by the river bank, seemed to have an injured leg even from afar. I looked far and wide but I couldn’t find her mother. I imagine they were set on by coyotes in the night, but God knows how she managed to get free.”

A silent shake of his head told Antoine that Abe must have fretted over the details more than once. “Anyhow. She was mighty afraid of me, but Lord knows she was hungry. So I went back with a handful of food and led her back here. Bandaged her up and nursed her back to health. Only a couple days later I find her in Silver’s enclosure, and now she won’t let me anywhere near the foal.”

Antoine looked back to the horse he knew well, her beady brown eyes watching them from afar. Usually she would have walked to him by now, immediately recognizing his scent as her ever-present anger abated to trust. “She’s been fierce, Antoine. I swear to you I thought she would attack me that first night I tried to get the foal back. She won’t leave her side now. And I hate to do it to her but - “

Abe’s eyes found his feet and his voice went low. “Listen. It’s not the most honest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll admit. But that there’s a purebred American Quarter Horse. Bred for racing hundreds of years back. She’ll sell for more than any one of my herding breeds even at this age. Thing is, you know, most of the cowboys are on the show circuit now, so this is what they’re after. Hell I know I’m not the one to train her, so I lined up a deal with a show ranch. Not before talking with the neighbors, I swear it. If I knew who she belonged to I wouldn’t take the money but - I mean you know times are tough - and you saw Lillie Mae. She’s getting older. I could pay for her schooling with one sale. I think I’ve got to…”

The whole time Abe spoke, talking himself back into the deal with one reason after another, Antoine watched the two horses in the sun. Every few seconds, Silver would bring her muzzle to the foal, gently nudging her as though to ensure she was still there. He didn’t need any other motivation. “I’ll match their offer.”

Abe looked up from his feet and let out an incredulous laugh. “Hell you can’t be serious. How much are they paying you out there?”

Antoine smiled and shrugged, no need to tell Abe that this contract had come at double the rate of the first one, or that Jo had leveled a competing offer to get even more for their third after the fact. Abe whistled approvingly and then shook his head. “Listen, I appreciate the offer but you don’t need to do anything of the sort. I just need help keeping Silver calm while I get the foal to the show ranch. She’ll be alright in time. She’s a tough girl. You know that.”

Antoine turned to face him, his face impressing just how serious he was. “Listen. I’ve got one stipulation. And I know she was your grandfather’s, so if you don’t want to let her go then you just say the word; but I’ll match their offer only for them both. The foal and Silver. I’ll clean out the farm’s old barn, let her spend the rest of her days resting there.”

Abe smiled, clearly trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. “Play her a couple songs on that guitar, will you?”

“Every night I’m home. That’s a promise. Write it in the contract if it seals the deal.”

They looked back out to the field together, both horses trotting through the grass at their feet. “I’ll bring them over tomorrow, if that’s okay with you? Or if you need a bit more time -“

Antoine shook his head, a wide smile starting to take over his face. “No. Tomorrow is perfect. Just give me the evening to get the barn ready, and we’ll have them waiting to surprise Violette after school.”

Previous / Next

#1935 #sims 4 historical #ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #the darlingtons #ts4 story #sims 4 story #1930s #Antoine Duplanchier #abraham hines #William Hines

133 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Winter's King 15

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: One more day and I'm a homeowner

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You slow to a crawl amid the retinue of carts and horses. The sun beams down relentlessly on the summer fields. As you laze in a sheen of sweat, Bryce works to tie a swath of linen over the cart in a makeshift canopy. You thank him for his effort, his own brow slick with sweat as he tugs at his mail.

“I admit my winter’s hide is not made well for this sun,” he utters as he reaches to pet Daisy, the loyal steed tied to his new one as he rides in step with her. “Let’s hope we might reach the tundra in due time.”

“Mm, it is rather hot,” you murmur, exhausted from the endless blaze. It’s three days thus far and many more ahead of you.

“Little maid, cannot complain even when you should,” he tuts.

The cart rolls on, rocking your body as the hooves clomp down on dusty grass. As the train passes over the lands, they leave a trodden path in their stead. The progress is steady but sluggish.

The wheels creak and lurch to a halt as Bryce reins in both horses. You sit up and peer ahead, unable to see more than horse tails and overloaded carts, the helms of soldiers shining under the sun. The knight on his dark steed sits up straighter, alert as he leans forward.

“Eh, maid, keep watch on the mare,” he tosses the reins at you as the royal party comes to a halt.

His horse kicks up dirty as he gallops around the edge of the train. You watch him bend over the beast’s long neck and hurdle ahead of the clog of vehicles and bodies. Something is amiss.

You wait, nervous, as other servants cluster together and wonder aloud. Soldiers mill up and down the winding retinue, themselves sharing no more than looks. You climb out of the cart and walk on your cramped legs. You stroke Daisy’s head as she huffs through her nostrils and nuzzles your shoulder.

“I don’t know either,” you tell her softly.

The pause stretches on and Bryce returns, his horse in a lather. He swings off and lands solidly on his feet. He looks between you and the grey mare.

“Some hold-up, nothing to worry for,” he explains, “enough time to find some water for these beasts.”

He takes Daisy’s reins and hands them to you, “come, there is a river near. I can smell it.”

You peek ahead and squint. You don’t know that you believe it is nothing though you can’t find a reason to argue. You nod and tug on Daisy’s bit.

The soldier leads you across the grass, well away from the front of the train. Others disperse to sit in the meadow and chew on their rations. You continue into the trees and the trickle of the promised water has Bryce proudly exclaiming. He weaves his way around the trunks to come upon the bank, putting his dark brown horse to drink. As the larger stallion laps noisily, Daisy lowers her head and patiently gulps up the ripples.

“Where did you find Chestnut?” you ask. “He must be a castle horse.”

“Aye, he was locked away in some stall. They said he is vicious. Due to be horse pie.”

“Horse pie? But he is fast.”

“They did not lie. He likes to nip,” Bryce warns as you step between the horse, “watch your fingers, mouse.”

“Perhaps he only did not like being locked up,” you suggest and gently touch the horse’s long mane, working out a tangle in the hair. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Chestnut?” Bryce says, “you’ve given him a name of your own.”

“You didn’t say if he had one,” you brush your hand over the fine short hairs along the horse’s shoulder. “I thought it suited him.”

“Mm, I might call his Hellion but Chestnut is kinder, I s’pose.”

You chuckle. The horse lifts its head and you near the river’s edge. It turns to sniff you and Bryce reaches for your arm. The horse drips water onto you as it sniffs your neck. It lifts its lip, showing its square teeth, then touches its nose to yours, turning back to the water to nicker.

“Mm, you do have a way of taming the wildest creatures, eh,” he muses as he lets you go. “Come, I saw some berries back in the bush.”

You leave the horses near the water and follow the soldier between the trees. As he squats to pluck out dark blackberries, you sway on your feet and glance back toward the road.

“Why have we stopped, sir?” You ask.

“Told ya, no matter to worry for,” he stands and offers you a handful, “be thankful for it. We’ve found a nice horde and it will do ya good to be out of the sun. And to eat.”

You accept the bounty and frown. You know he isn’t telling you all but you know he wouldn’t do so without reason. You stand and pick at the berries, biting in hungrily as the juices coat your mouth. The soldier eats as he picks, plucking a few into his purse as well.

“How do ya like squirrel meat?” He stands again, “I could find us a morsel for the evening fire. Perhaps a hare if I can.”

“If you like, sir,” you accept. You chew your lip and search the trees. “Is there truly nothing wrong?”

“I told ya not to worry,” he growls. “So don’t trouble yerself.”

He beckons you back towards the river. You follow, not asking any more questions. It’s expected that the road won’t be easy, something just feels awry.

⚔️

The party makes camp at the point of the delay. You return to the road as Bryce grumbles about the evening warmth. The dry heat lingers in the air even as the sun begins its descent.

“Come, you will need look in on the queen, I’m certain,” he ties the horses to the cart and urges you along.

You notice less soldiers as you stride through the train. It’s not so crowded as before. The missing bodies add to your uneasiness. Still, the queen’s tent has been erected and guards keep vigil right outside. You enter and find her alone. She has a veil over her hair as she taps the brim of a cup with her fingernail.

“Alas, a maid!” She snaps as she sees you, “I’ve been calling for wine all night and those damned soldiers only bring me water.”

“Your highness,” you back out of the tent. The soldiers do not move.

You go to the luggage and search for a bottle. You grab one and return to the tent. The soldier at your right extends his arm before you can enter.

“No wine,” he snatches the bottle, “king’s orders.”

You blanch and look ahead at the silken flap. You nod and thank the soldier as he keeps the wine under his arm. You blow out between your breath and once more push through the draped fabric.

“Your highness, there is to be no wine. The king has commanded it,” you say meekly.

“Pardon me? Who are you to refuse me?” She stands and snarls. “My head is on fire, I need wine.”

“Yes, your highness, but the king--”

“I am the queen. My order is a good as his. Bring me wine. Now. You little twit.”

You stare at her unmoving.

“They won’t allow it, your highness--”

A flurry of veil and skirts rushes towards you. Before you can react, a scalding heat radiates over your cheek, the force behind the queen’s slap rattling your head. You stagger back and clutch your head between your hands.

“You stupid girl! I am the queen! You are a dumb maid!” She strikes you again, her hand glancing off your forearm, “stupid stupid twit!”

She continues to hammer you with blows, closing her fists as she hits your shoulders and stomach. You shrink down, curling into yourself as you keep your head shielded. She huffs, tired from her assault, and twirls away.

“I don’t want to see you unless you have a bottle in hand,” she snarls and kicks over the stool. “Go before I have you gutted.”

You wine and stand straight, lip quivering. You turn and hold your left shoulder as it thrums. You step into the night air, aware that the soldiers could no doubt hear the queen’s fit. They say nothing and you don’t either.

You continue through the train of bodies. You feel your cheek pulsing and your brow swelling. You keep your head down and as you reach the cart, you relieved to find it alone but for the two dozing horses. You climb up and turn towards the wooden wall, hiding against it as you hug the cushion.

It isn’t so different from Debray, only that you don’t have Merinda to hold you, to share in your pain. You always preferred that it was you who faced the rather of the ladies. You only hope Lady Rezlyn isn’t issuing the same displeasure upon your companion.

⚔️

The morning comes with the tweeting of birds and a distant rumble. You sit up and look towards the sky. There are no clouds to forewarn a storm. You stare into the horizon where the thunderous noise rolls over the plains.

You see the figures on their approach. Men on horses. As soldiers rush to confront them, their alarm is eased by the wave of a familiar banner. It is the king and his party.

Bryce grumbles as Daisy sniffs him and the coughs into his hand. He shakes his head as you lean out of the cart, watching the specks on the tapestry of green grass. You gasp as you feel him grip your wrist.

“Eh, mouse, what’s happened to ya?” He demands as he pulls your attention back from the distance.

You look at him and the tenderness in your cheek reminds you of the queen’s wrath. You wiggle free of his grasp and sit back against the side of the wagon. You shake your head.

“I went to... the bushes to relieve myself, sir. I tripped.”

He squints at you, his square jaw gritting. He stares daggers at you. You’re not a good liar but you can’t tell him the truth.

“Tripped?” He echoes as his thick brows furrow.

“Yes, sir, it was dark,” you say. “I’ll be alright.”

“Mm, you look as if you were caught by a bear.”

“Really, sir, I am well,” you put your head down.

He growls under his breath and turns away. He fiddles around with his saddle bag before he returns to the cart. He reaches over the top, holding a folded cloth with an acrid smell roiling off of it.

“Put it on ya face,” he demands. “It’ll soothe ya, make you a little less puffy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You don’t go trippin’ no more. If ya do, ya let me know,” he scowls.

You nod, sinking into a tense silence. You both know it’s a lie but neither of you will admit it. You put the cloth to your cheek and exhale. It cools your skin though the smell burns your nose.

⚔️

That night you don’t return to the queen’s tent. Bryce claims there’s no need for it. She needs her sleep, as do you. It’s another lie you won’t call out.

Several days pass in the cart. Short nights followed by sweltering days. It’s as if there is no end to the road or the heat.

You sit on your knees, looking ahead as Bryce chews sweet leaves and spits onto the ground. Daisy’s tail sweeps behind her as she keeps a steady trot. You watch the progress with impatience, each moment feeling more and more trapped in the cart.

“...down in Debray...” you hear a voice drift back.

“...don’t like traitors, suppose...” another returns and you search over the carts to try to place the speakers.

“Careful, mouse,” Bryce warns, “you’ll fall under the wheels.

You sit back and face him, holding onto the side of the cart, “sir, what happened?”

“What do ya mean? We’ve been riding,” he sniffs.

“No, days ago, when we stopped. Something... in Debray?”

He grimaces and spits out the leaves completely. He shakes his head, clearing his throat.

“Nothing a maid needs worry about,” he girds.

“I know, sir, my apologies. I’m only curious...” you hang your head, “I... I was raised there, is all.”

He hums and rocks with the motion of Chestnut’s steps, “skirmish up a ways. Party on their way to the castle. Certainly, you know your former master’s deceit has bought him little good will.”

“A skirmish?”

“Ah, so it was, but nothing very dire. The king returned in good spirits, that rat lord—the duke with him,” Bryce explains, “course, it only suits that the lord should see to the defence of his own castle.” He chortles, “shouldn’t tell ya, maid, so ya keeps your lips sealed, but the duke meant to hide in the queen’s tent.” He shakes his head and sighs, “in the Hinterlands, them sortsa lords aren’t lords for long.”

“Mm,” you purse your lips thoughtfully, “but... but the duke, he helped end the war.”

“By betraying his kingdom. We didn’t come to conquer; we came to unite. Turns out, there’s more fractures than those between winter and summer. Shoulda know by Yellow Waleran’s deeds.”

“Yellow?” You wonder.

“Mouse, it is a lot you needn’t worry for. All I can say is a king isn’t much of one if he don’t keep his word,” he sighs, “any lord or man lacks substance if he melts like ice.”

You look down and watch Chestnut’s legs. You slant your lips.

“King Geralt, did he have some agreement with Waleran then?”

Bryce snorts, “too clever. Promises. Broken promises. Deadly things.”

You nod and hold your chin, “and King Geralt, he is a good king?”

“Do you not know by now?” He asks with a smirk, “he is a man who keeps his word. A man who fights for his people, not for gold and a name. No good winter lord would kneel to a man built on coin. Blood, that buys crowns. It buys loyalty.”

You lower yourself onto your bottom and draw your knees up, “for his people?”

“You heard him say it, you summer’s blood are one with us now. Once he has his heir, it will all be set in flesh. A prince to join the realm,” Bryce says, “let us hope he comes soon. The king’s done his part, he’s fought his battles, now it is up to your queen to claim her victory.”

#winter's king #geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher

354 notes · View notes