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yanderefarm · 2 months ago

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"HSSHSJDNDJDBBS i thought the yanderes were the cattle but it's actually y'all"

.....Prized bull reader x Nephite

can you tell i like hucows. can you tell. can you-.

i love this weird fucking idea of cow hybrids turning their partners into cows with cum.... i didn't include a lot of it but if you're curious about the ending that's what it is.

reader is like a big ole bull because ofc

cw;; nsft, omegaverse, heat, knotting mention, pregnancy mention, lactation, milking, animal characteristics (cough cough dicks), overstimulation, size kink, belly bulge, lots of cum, cum inflation, hucow, moo-ing

nephite loves tending to the animals on his family's farm! he loves taking care of the cute little chickens or feeding the pigs or bottle feeding the baby goats. but most of all he loves taking care of the cows. among all the regular animals the family had a small handful of hybrid cows. 4 female milking cows and 2 large bulls, with the best milk in the whole state. but they only produced their sweetest milk when they were milked without any stress, something the alphas on the farm couldn't provide. the smell of unfamiliar alphas would cause them to naturally become distressed and nervous, that's why there were the alpha bulls who protected the herd. one of the bulls was more friendly and sweet to the family than the other was and that was why nephite loved taking care of the cows so much.

he was skipping as he approached the barn.

"good mornin'" came the warm voice of the biggest bull, you. you were smiling and welcoming and you made his heart flutter.

"good morning! how did you sleep?" he brought one hand up to gently rub one of your ears, fingers scratching at the spot right behind it that you couldn't ever seem to get on your own.

"heard some animals last night but it was just a dog that got out." you leaned down into his touch to lessen the amount he had to reach.

"oh no... did everyone else stay calm?"

"of course. I'm here to protect everyone." you snorted proudly and nephite gave a little giggle.

"oh of course! you're the strongest alpha around. no doggies would ever mess with you!" he was just teasing you but you noticeably stiffened. he pulled his hand away instinctively and looked at you in concern.

"mhm... I'll protect everyone." you said it softer this time looking down at him with a fondness that made his heart thump.

nephite went to work as opposed to worrying about those pesky feelings that you gave him. though he probably should have paid attention. his hands were trembling as he hooked the machine to the 3rd cow who looked at him concerned.

"is everything ok, dear?"

"ah- oh... I'm sorry... did I hurt you?"

"not at all, sugar. but you're shaking like a leaf."

"its just really... hot? isn't it?"

she blinked at him before her eyebrows furrowed as she gave him a look like a concerned mother. she gestured something to one of the other cows before she turned back to him.

"oh darlin' how long have you been feeling hot?"

"i was feeling fine this morning! well... it was pretty hot yesterday and my stomach felt weird but I'm ok."

"when did you start feeling hot today."

"ah- after i saw mr.(y/n)."

just as he said that you came walking over with one of the other cows, the other bull who usually just sat in the corner got up and headed towards the door of the barn. nephite felt a sense of dread as you two surrounded him but he couldn't bring himself to move at all, the feeling in his stomach was forcing him to sit still. you gave him a pitying look before you sat down next to him. the other cow moved in to take his place preparing the milking machine.

"oh! no its ok-" nephite was interrupted by your large hand gently grabbing his face.

"you poor thing... let me take care of you." your warm words went straight to his head and his cheeks erupted into a deep blush.

"we can finish all your work here, puddin'. just get some love." the other cow said waving him off with a smile.

"wh-what does that-" he couldn't finish his sentence as you easily lifted him like he was nothing.

nephite was too hot and dizzy to argue, resigning himself to being carried wherever you wanted. his face rubbed against your chest as he let out soft little moans. he didn't even notice you brought him to your stall, too absorbed in your scent to form some coherence. you gently set him down on your bed, a pile of hay covered in some thick blankets with another heated blanket as your comforter. he let out a soft whine as he reached back for you. you felt bad for him, your sweet caretaker, he'd been working so hard not even realizing that his heat was coming strong. and now he was laying in your bed rubbing your blankets against his nose just to get more of your scent. you turned the heated blanket on for him before you left to grab something else.

nephite was too hot but not hot enough and this scent, the scent he knew was his alpha's wasn't strong enough. he didn't even think about it as he started pulling his dress off, then his turtleneck. he needed more of his alpha's scent, he needed to bathe in it. he wrapped your large heated blanket around his body, thankfully covering up his nudity.

you returned with some water, food, and lubricant, expecting to have to convince the farmer out of his clothes so you could help him. instead he was already making a makeshift nest out of your belongings. you brought a water bottle to his flushed forehead, earning a little squeak before he realized what was happening. he turned to you and threw himself into your arms.

"hi there, beautiful." you cooed as you pulled him up against your body. he was practically purring as he rubbed his face against your neck.

you stopped only for a moment to stare at his exposed neck, hands trailing down his warm and soft body. you found yourself giving his soft ass a firm squeeze before you could help yourself. the pretty little moan that left his lips didn't help with calming down but you steeled yourself. you gently set him back in the bed.

"pretty omega..." you ran your fingers through his long hair.

"alpha." his voice was so cute and sweet like a prayer.

"i know you're pretty dizzy right now... you wouldn't be lying here if you weren't but is there any chance you let me take care of you?"

nephite bat his eyelashes at you flirtily as his face spread into a big silly smile. he spread his legs open as an invitation for you. you couldn't resist the temptation any longer and your eyes traveled down his soft but slim body down to the curve of his thick hips and his squishy thighs that spread to expose a little patch of blue hair and an odd black metal object that wrapped around his body like underwear. you blinked at it for a minute before trying to hook your fingers into the metal and pry it off. it didn't move.

you wanted to ask what it was but nephite was too deep into his heat to answer any questions. he was much too busy pouting and whining because you weren't fucking him yet. you let out a heavy sigh and decided that whatever it was it could be replaced later you just had to get some bolt cutters. you leaned down and gave the omega a quick kiss before leaving him again.

when you returned this time nephite practically tackled you, he was covering you in kisses while he whined. you had to craddle him in your arms as you kissed him all over his cute face. he was less willing to lay back down this time as he whined not to leave him again. you shushed him with more kisses as you settled next to him, shifting his makeshift nest. you pulled one of his legs onto your hips and he tried in vain to roll his own hips against you. such a cute little thing.

you were gentle with the bolt cutters but you still left a greasy little bruise in his hip. you wiped off the black grease stain before giving it a little kiss to get better. of course the needy omega underneath of you whined and tried in vain to grind against you again. you took mercy on the sweet thing, hooking one of his legs onto your shoulders to give you access to his tight hole.

"you always take such good care of everyone, sugar. let me take such good care of you." you pressed one of your thick fingers to his tight entrance.

nephite's head rolled back and he let out a loud sinful moan throughout the barn. even with his hole absolutely soaked in slick it was such a tight fit just to push knuckle deep inside of him. he didn't even seem to know how tight he was as he kept clenching and whining. you felt bad for him, he was so cute. you grabbed the lubricant with your free hand and poured it over your hand, coating it.

even as your thick fingers worked him slowly open, just barely getting the second one inside his warmth without tears, you knew your thick cock wasn't going to fit. he wasn't built like a normal heifer, his body was so much smaller than even the runt of your herd and considering you were the largest bull, the math wasn't working out. still the cute thing was losing his mind on your fingers, moaning and whimpering and holding back tears as you scissored and prodded his leaking hole. you managed to bury your fingers just a little bit deeper and his tears finally spilled.

"oh, honey." you kissed away his tears from his red cheeks. "it's ok, I've got you."

"alpha..." his voice was trembling and weak. "'s too much... want.. want your knot..."

you gave him another kiss on the cheek, trailing your lips down to his mouth as your fingers worked. your mouth swallowed the sinful moans that poured off his tongue as you forced his tight hole to spread. your kisses relaxed his body just enough to make it easier to scissor him nice and wide. he was relaxed enough that a third finger started to push into his cute cunt causing him to roll his eyes back. you could feel his first orgasm spill against his chest as he clawed at your back.

he was getting bolder and more demanding. his hips rolled up against you as he let out another moan into your mouth. he was trying so hard to tell you he's ready. you finally dragged your mouth away, a trail of saliva still connecting your tongues as his hung from his mouth panting.

"such a pretty boy. can you be a good heifer for me?" you cooed as you pressed your fingers deeper into him.

"mmmhm i can i can be good. pwease le-lemme be good, alpha." nephite's golden eyes had hearts in them as he looked at you.

you gave him another quick kiss before you moved to line your massive length up with his hole. you pressed the blunt tip against his tight boy cunt, closing your eyes as he struggled to take you. even with all your prepping you were just so big. the tip just barely pushed into him and his useless cock spurted all over his stomach, his body clenching so tight around your cock. the poor thing couldn't see straight and his mouth hung open, drool dripping down his chin. when you finally moved again? a garbled moan drew from deep in his body as he arched his back.

you folded the drooling mess of an omega in half as you worked inch by painful inch into his virgin hole. he was so small and tight you couldn't even fit half of your cock inside before you saw his cum covered stomach bulging. you took one hand and pressed down on the bulge pushing your cock right into his sweet spot. another mind shattering orgasm wracked his little body and he screamed this time. you leaned down and kissed his screams away before licking up his salty tears.

"i know it's so much omega." you pressed your nose against his.

"s too much... knot... knot..." he babbled his eyes still unfocused and his head dizzy.

"don't speak. you don't need to talk baby." you pet his hair away from his sweaty face. "whenever you feel good i just want you to go like this; mooooo."

"moooo-" he moaned out.

"mhm good omega. just forget everything and moo like a good little heifer." you slowly rolled your hips into him.

"moooooo~"

soon the barn filled with his chorus of moos as he lost himself completely on your cock. his mind melted away as you fucked into him as much as would fit. it was all he could do to moo and drool as every thrust forced more cum to dribble out of his tiny cock. you couldn't believe how good his little body took you, even if it couldn't even fit half of your cock his sloppy hole was working hard to milk you. he clenched with every pretty moo off his lips and you were fighting not to flood his guts with cum. it was about fucking him through his heat not your own pleasure, atleast that's what you kept telling yourself.

"maaark me-" were the first coherent words the fucked out little omega said. it was like he could feel how close you were getting with every messy rough thrust of your body into his.

"baby... mm wanna mark you..." you moaned as you dragged your hips out nice and slow before slamming into him again. he let out a happy little moo as more cum soaked his stomach.

"ngh ..i wanna knot you...." your knot had formed at your base where he couldn't even reach. you gave another long thrust into him.

"pw-pwease..?" he whimpered so pathetically, so needy for his alpha.

"mmngh- fuck-" you grunted as you couldn't help but jerk your hips into him. "fuck- baby... when- when you can take my knot in your pretty cunt I'll mark you. do-do you like that?"

all he did was let out another happy moo. you leaned down to give him a sloppy kiss between moans. it was getting to be too much for you, you moved his body into a mating press your massive body and weight holding him down. the new angle got your cock just a bit deeper into his messy hole. you used the new angle to start relentlessly fucking the rest of his heat out of him. using your body weight to slam your cock deep into his boy cunt before you would pull out a little bit and begin jack hammering him. you could hear the sound of his soaking cunt as you stirred up his insides, the slap of his own cock hitting his messy stomach, those sweet moos that had turned shakey from the force. he was so erotically fucked out underneath of you and his cute cock had grown soft as it pathetically dribbled precum.

you were pleased with yourself for having shown your lovely farmer so much pleasure. you buried yourself as deep as you could, hips jerking forward and rocking into him repeatedly until you finally let yourself go. thick ropes of cum filled his already stuffed stomach as his eyes rolled back. you came buckets into the poor thing, his little stomach bloating with cum and cock but you held him still on your cock the whole time. you found yourself hoping he was getting pregnant with your calf.

when you finally dragged your length from his hole it was gaping and cum was trying to spill out. you instinctively pushed the cum back in with your fingers before you could stop yourself. you expected your pretty omega to whimper and cry but no, the poor thing had passed out while being stuffed full of cum. you chuckled to yourself as you continued to push your cum back into him.

"so good for me...." you muttered to yourself and he let out a content moan.

———

a few things changed after you mated with nephite. at first he had been awkward and nervous and even scared to be around you but when he found out you were serious about being his mate and you were devoted to him he slowly warmed up to you. you two would secretly meet up and you would spend hours stretching him open and training him to take you better.

and the other more concerning change was the growth. he took pregnancy test after pregnancy test and they all came back negative so why was milk leaking out of his chest every morning? why was his stomach getting softer? why did he let out a happy little moo every time he saw you?

#replies #yandere oc #sub yandere #yandere x male reader #top male reader #yandere cultist #male reader #dom male reader #cow hybrid!reader #yandere mlm #yandere x reader

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bitterrfruit · 11 months ago

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price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

#bet his handprint is the size of a dinner plate #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

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reasonsforhope · 5 days ago

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"In short:

Victorian farmers and volunteers have planted 750,000 trees to restore habitat for a critically endangered bird.

The Regent Honeyeater Project has brought together volunteers from all walks of life since it was launched in the 1990s.

What's next?

An ornithologist says the project is working wonders for the species and other wildlife.

John Paul Murphy is not an ecologist, but he knows a thing or two about trees.

The young cattle farmer from Winton in north-east Victoria has helped plant more than 750,000 trees as part of the Regent Honeyeater Project.

"Our involvement as a family goes back to the early 1990s, when the project first kicked off," Mr Murphy said.

The regent honeyeater is a critically endangered bird known for its black-and-bright-yellow colouring.

"Back in the day, millions of these birds would darken the sky from Adelaide up to Queensland," ornithologist Maggie Watson said.

"They're quite large compared to other honeyeaters, are highly nectar-dependent, and are one of the main pollinators of eucalypt trees."

Dr Watson, based in Burrumbuttock, New South Wales, said habitat fragmentation was a major reason the bird was threatened.

"When people started clearing farmland as part of colonisation in the 1800s, they removed all the productive, nectar-producing trees," she said.

"So that essentially wiped out the regent honeyeater's main food-base."

'Great for all wildlife'

Benalla cattle farmer and Regent Honeyeater Project president Rob Richardson said agriculture had claimed its share of the environment.

"We've destroyed a lot of habitat to create grazing and cropping land to the point where there are less than 500 wild regent honeyeaters left in Australia," he said.

"So now we're trying to restore the balance.

"We propagate all the trees in our plant nursery, and then plant them across the landscape to establish vegetation corridors."

Dr Watson said the project would significantly benefit the regent honeyeater population.

"The birds need to have 'roads' to get to flowering trees like eucalypts, and those roads happen to be other trees — so the more you plant, the better," she said.

"Tackling habitat fragmentation is great for all wildlife."

Huge volunteer effort

Mr Richardson said local volunteers were at the heart of the project.

"Over the last 30 years we've had many farmers donate land to be revegetated and over 40,000 volunteers help plant all the trees," he said.

Mr Murphy said the volunteers came from all walks of life.

"At our planting days, I've met university students, doctors, lawyers, biologists … and many of them come back year after year," he said.

Mr Murphy said it was nice to have a chance to get to know with people he may not otherwise have met.

"Farming can be pretty isolating," he said.

"But when you're planting, learning, and just getting your hands dirty together, the conversations you have are really unique.""

-via ABC News Australia, December 2, 2024

#birds #ornithology #australia #honeyeater #bird photography #wild birds #birdblr #endangered species #ecosystem restoration #habitat #conservation #good news #hope

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imnotditzy · 3 months ago

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I feel like once Billy learns how to use social media all of Captain Marvel’s posts would be unhinged.

Captain Marvel: Residents of Fawcett, please notify me if you’ve seen a guy running around like a chicken with their head cut off. Mr. Mind forgot his glasses and missed.

Captain Marvel: If a little girl comes knocking on your door selling Girl Scout cookies, DO NOT give her your signature, business card or whatever else has your name related to it, this INCLUDES your name. She will not give it back AND she only has somoas left anyway.

Captain Marvel: I hate it when people are like, “you placed a curse on my bloodline and now every time I butcher cattle someone I know dies” And stuff. Like 1. That wasn’t even me, and 2. That was literally in 4300 B.C I don’t get why you still care that much 😑

Captain Marvel: Hey guys, did you hear about King Midas? Do you think it’s true, about his ears? 🫢😬

#he would also be the shadiest person ever as well #dc #dcu #billy batson #captain marvel #shazam #social media

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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 5 months ago

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TOUGH- P.B PARKER

Pairing- Dilf! Cowboy! Peter Parker x Innocent! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 6.5k

Summary: Your school girl crush on your employer, Mr. Parker grows as you spend more time with him helping out around his farm, and soon he wants you to meet his friends for a night out at the local dive bar (to simply show you off :) )

Warnings: SMUT, consentual bondage, daddy kink, mentions of sexual activities, sexual implications, flirting, use of drugs, drinks and guns, slight dumbification kink, praise kink, breeding kink, peter just grabbing ur body/ feeling you up, teasing, swearing, age gap ofc (reader mid 20s, peter 40s) peter really just takes pride and care of his girl, making sure she is safe and satsified :)

" life's gonna do what it does, sure as the good lord's up above, i'm cut like a diamond shinin' in the rough.. tough"- tough, lana del rey & quavo

part two to save a horse, ride a cowboy - but no need to read to understand this fic <3

It wasn't the caw of the rooster that woke you this morning.

It was the feeling of a large, solid bicep that curled, caging your body in against another. His skin was warm to the touch, faint red farmers tan poking out at you as you snuggled deeper into the crisp,cool white linen sheets.

You felt Peters bare chest against your backside, the steady rise and fall of his chest soothing as you fought back sleep. The hands on his beside clock ticked, the minutes seeming to spin by faster then your eyes could follow as they fluttered open and shut.

Mornings like these were the best mornings you could've asked for.

They were rare, but they were precious.

The odd night you had managed to sneak out to visit Peter, which ended up with him taking care of you, from the beginning of the night to the ends of the morning.

It wasn't the cool morning breeze that slithered through the opened window that made you shiver, but the thought of Peter.

He had been teaching you how to ride, not horses- but him.

“Fuck darlin’ youre taking me so good. I know, I know-” he would coo as you whimpered, his cock stretching you out as he guided your hips to sink down onto him- to take him all.

“You’re doing such a good job honey, such a good job. You’re daddy's lil cowgirl aren't you? Learning how to ride me like a good girl.”

It made you squirm. Especially when after a while, he’d grow tired of your slower, gentler movements, gripping your hips and pounding up into you so hard you nearly fell off the couch if he hadn't been holding you.

You felt something poking out at your ass between the sheets, and you wiggled your body slightly, getting a low murmur from the sleepy older man beside you.

It was still early, and you knew your father wouldn't be awake any time soon, especially if he had been drinking. But you had cattle to tend to, and pigs to feed.

“Mr Parker…” you whispered, his arm still caging you in tightly.

“Mmm” he mumbled, eyes opening lazily, blinking slowly against the rising sun. “You’re not trying to escape from me, are ya?” he teased, pulling you in even closer, his morning wood flush against your ass, prodding at your lower back.

“I really don't want to leave sir I swear-”

“I’m joking sweet girl, I know. You have some calving happening don't you?”

You nodded.

I’ve been staying by them for most of the time when I’m not here. I like to think sometimes they like the company.” you smiled softly as he planted a kiss on the top of your head, then another.

“They most definitely enjoy it sweetheart. Especially yours. You're just such a sweet girl.” he hummed, large, calloused hands sliding under the sheets, down, down past your arms, slipping to give your ass a little squeeze before slipping up your little tank top to cup your breasts.

“Am I?” you asked, squirming in his grasp as his fingers toyed with you- a cat with its dinner, circling your hardened nipples.

“The sweetest. I just wanna keep you here baby, all the time, in this little bed so I can fill you up.”

You giggled, mind slipping from your duties for the day. His presence alone had your brain turning foggy, it was a miracle you could even think for yourself before he woke up.

But now? You were a goner.

“And why can’t you?”

He sighed, pinching the hardened bud between a thumb and finger. “Responsibilities honey. We both got them, and you're an independent girl.”

“I want you to take care of me though.” you pouted, giving him puppy dog eyes that drove him wild.

His tousled hair was soft between your fingers, his stubble harsher across his cheekbones. “Soon I will be sweetheart. I’ll make you my sweet lil cowgirl.”

You laughed as he kissed you all over, smothering you deeper into the pillows, his musky cologne engulfing you, lingering long after he had made his way to the bathroom, the sink handles cranking.

Cold water spewed out, captured in the same tender hands that had just cradled you as he rinsed his face. You called out for him, already missing his warmth, leaving him to stop dead in his tracks. You were fanned out on the bed- his bed, your body unfolding from under the sheets like an origami swan.

You lounged, eyes shut, your little shirt sliding further and further up your torso, tempting him. Before he could help himself, he grabbed his film camera that permanently was stationed on his old wooden dresser, the one his mother’s mother had before her, and so on.

Soon it would be covered in photos of you. His secret collection, a guilty pleasure of his favourite enigma that struck him down to his bones. You were a diamond in the rough in his life. You had consumed him, night and day. The way your voice sounded so sweet calling his name drove him to insanity.

The gentleness, the tenderness..

He needed to capture it.

“Mr. Parke- hey!” you protested as the shutter flickered a flash darting out between your heavy eyelids.

“You better not do anything with that, I look a mess.”

He snorted. “Was that a threat honey?” he asked, coy.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe hm?”

You shrieked as he set the camera down, taking a long stride before he was on top of you, caging you in as his hands pinned your wrists beside your head.

“You’re so beautiful my sweet… my beautiful, beautiful girl.” he murmured, eliciting a sigh as his forehead brushed yours, scruff grazing your neck as he inched closer to breath in the sweet scent of your perfume- always lingering on your skin.

You wiggled under him, attempting to free yourself from his grasp, and failing. It turned him on more then he cared to admit, to see you under him, almost helpless.

“Mr. Parker…”

“You know to call me Peter, sweetheart. You know what that name does to me.” He kissed your neck, once, twice and a third time.

“I should go… as much as I don’t want to…” you sighed, eyes darting over towards the ticking clock, hands seeming to move quicker and quicker as the minutes passed.

Your father would be awake soon, if not now, and that frightened you. If he woke up and found your bed empty…

“Come with me to the bar tonight. Please doll, I wanna show you off to all my friends, just to show them you’re mine.” he pleaded, seeming to make time stop completely, as you fell under his spell.

The way he was looking at you, yearning. Begging. You couldn't refuse. You didn't want to refuse.

“What time?” you asked softly, as he dipped his head back down to meet yours, a smile forming on his lips.

"Ten. I’ll pick you up at the house.”

You bit your lip. “You- you can’t. Father won’t-”

He nodded slowly, remembering how difficult your father could be.He would never allow it. Especially not with your employer. Though he was much… much more than that.

“I’ll sneak out again. Father will never find out, I’ve done it so many times, I can run out past the gate through the field…”

“Wait. Sweetheart, you need to be careful. I know you’ve done it so many times, and I hate making you do that, and putting you in danger-”

“You’re not making me do anything Mr. P- Peter.” you whispered as his lips brushed against yours. They tasted minty, the two cushions softly caressing yours, gente enough to feel as if they were a whisper.

“You don't know what's out there. So promise me you’ll be careful, I’ll be there at ten on the dot. Leave when you have to, no earlier and please, please bring a sweater darlin, it’s gonna be oh so chilly…” he trailed off and you smiled brightly with anticipation, cheeks hurting from the repetitive movement.

His forehead met yours again, a silent promise of reassurance.

It was sweet he cared for you this deeply. It made butterflies churn in your stomach like twisters, made your toes curl in excitement so tightly you feared they'd all stick together.

A drug you could never get enough of. A hope you were chasing, that this could work past the summer months that you meant more to him then you realised.

He was introducing you to his friends, that was a start. A huge start.

“I will. Promise.”

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

Mr. Parker was many things. One of those things was timely.

And truthful.

Not a minute past ten and his pickup was parked on the side of the road, nothing but red brake lights under the stars as guidance as you descended the old wooden fence on the other side of the field.

You had been pacing in anticipation all day, hardly able to stomach anything but crackers and cherries from the trees in the back. Braiding your hair just to unbraid it, to braid it again.

Peter had let you off for the day, he never really worked you- but of course your father didn't know that. So you were alone with your thoughts as you did your daily chores around the farm, tending to the sheep and cattle as the dogs nipped at your heels before darting after one another.

You didn't know where your father was when you got home. Asleep, you assumed. Or in town, to flirt with the general store owner. It didn't matter to you, what mattered was he was gone until he wasn't.

Dinner was quiet, not that you minded, just the sound of forks and knives scrapping fine china as the lanterns flickered in the dining room.

You were too focused on the night ahead, and what to expect. Or if you should be expecting anything.

No more than a quiet goodnight was said as you each tucked bodies behind wooden doors, and you wasted no time tugging on a little white lace dress, doing your hair the way you knew Peter liked the most.

You pumped the squeeze ball of your perfume, the little tassels brushing your skin and making you shiver as the scent hit your neck. The cool breeze slithered through your opened window, the curtains lashing out like branches in a storm that threatened to topple over the house.

Peter was right, it was cold. Colder than it should be for a summer night.

Normally it was stifling hot, the night time only allowing the temperature to drop just slightly. It had plummeted tonight.

You shrugged on a little cardigan over your shoulders, before slipping out the window, crawling down the large oak tree that lingered beside your house, threatening to topple over.

Now you found yourself here, whipping open the passenger door, laughing as the wind storm picked up, seeming to nearly topple you off balance.

The tires revved against the loose dirt road, gravel flying with the dust in the distance as you sped past your house. You felt like a teenager again, the way you were sneaking out, spending your night driving in cars with boys. Though they never treated you well- until Peter came along.

But he was a man you reminded yourself as you leaned your head back against the headrest, his large, veiny hand sliding over to rest on your thigh, thumb tracing little circles.

“You made it out okay?” he asked reassuringly, fawning over you as his eyes flickered from the road over to your body. Checking for scratches and gashes.

“Easy peasy.”

The radio hummed softly as his headlights flickered, and you listened to the sound of the turning signal as you gazed over at him. He was so beautiful in this light, it made your heart get stuck in your throat.

His soft locks blowing in the wind, the faded yellow beams in front of him illuminating his chiselled jaw, teeth tugging down on his bottom lip in concentration.

He was so soft in the night light, so gentle. Yet he remained possessive in such a comforting way, his hand tightening on your thigh as he turned a corner, or hit a bump.

“Are you warm enough darlin?” he asked, drinking in your little dress, and the shawl that did next to nothing to hide your shivers. You looked down, noticing your nipples had hardened on their own accord through the flimsy lace, from the chill wind or Peter's hands feeling you up- you couldn't tell.

“You’re gonna need a better jacket honey. You're a silly girl for thinking that would cover ya.”

You dipped your head and felt your cheeks heat as his teasing. You liked when he teased you. “Yes Mr. Parker.” you nodded, slipping your hand down to intertwine with his at your upper thigh.

He pulled a joint from his pocket, using his knees to steer the wheel as you endlessly grabbed the lighter from the dash and lit it for him. Smoke puffed out, trailing out the cracked opened window as he exhaled, like so many nights before.

It was routine at this point, lighting his smokes. He always shared with you, whether it was letting you have a hit, or by puffing the smoke into your mouth as he kissed you, simply intoxicating you.

“I’m nervous.” you stated bluntly as the truck rolled closer into the outskirts of town, where the local bar was. “Honey, you have no reason to be nervous, promise. They already love you.”

“They know me?” you asked.

“ ‘Course they do. Some of em might even try to snag you from me. You’re such a pretty lil thing they’ll want you all to themselves.”

You giggled at his claims, redeeming them false. Your nerves seem to grow as you pull into the parking lot, hands twisting at his fingers as if they were fidget toys. It was busy, though you didn't expect anything else for a Friday night.

The night was still young, and the party showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, people trickling in and out of the swinging wooden doors. Neon lights illuminated outside were bright, candy coloured-inticing you inside.

Before you could unlatch your seatbelt, Peter slid his hand to roughly hold your chin, huffing smoke between your lips as he kissed you harshly, teeth clashing against yours.

You barely had time to catch a breath as he gripped you tightly, holding you captive with his lips. They were swollen by the time he was done with you.

“Don't even think about reaching for that door handle sweets.” he whispered, winking as he slipped outside, cheeks tinged with pink as he took one last puff, before tossing the burnt end and crushed it with his boot.

The door was opened on your side, his hand holding yours as he guided you down from the high truck bed, steading you as you lept and swayed against him.

“My darlin’…” he murmured to himself as he took you in again, the heat of his stare sending shivers down your spine. The puff of weed made your head feel fuzzy, and you felt the heat between your thighs grow warmer as he lapped you up- like a dog begging for water.

A gentle tug broke you from your pink, doe eyed trance, and you mindlessly followed him inside, pushing past the little wooden doors.

Soft lights illuminated the room in a way that still felt dark and grungy, people in cowboy boots perched up on bar stools, or bent over with a pool cue. Some old country song trickled out of the speakers perched around the room, and your nose was overwhelmed with the scent of whisky and smoke.

You followed Peter towards the back of the bar, a group full of older looking men drinking beer over a hand of cards tossed on the table. Each of their eyes darted over towards the pair of you, one of them in the front smirking in satisfaction.

“So this is the pretty lady, is it Parker?” the man in the front asked, sliding out of the booth to tower over you, just as Peter always did.

“Bucky Barnes.” he smiled, hand sticking out to firmly grasp yours. You drank in his ocean blue eyes, the little tufts of grey in his beard, scattered like salt and pepper.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Barnes.” you nodded.

“Please hun, call me Bucky. No need for that formal silliness.”

“That's what I’ve told her. She’s just too polite I guess.” Peter laughed, his hand slipping down to your lower back, guiding you into the booth, atop his lap as you were introduced to his other buddies.

They were all extremely friendly, all having mini conversations amongst themselves while they sipped on their drinks, or smoked their cigarettes. Each of their hands were warm when you shook them, firm grapes from across the cluttered table.

Your attention was soon directed back to Peter, and a waitress who had so graciously appeared. “Darlin? What did ya want to drink?”

“Just a rum and coke for me please.” you smiled.

“One bill please.” Peter said before she disappeared back off into the bustling crowd.

“I can pay for my own Mr. Parker.” you frowned, annoyed with yourself for not thinking of saying that sooner. “I’m sure you can sweetheart. But I don't really care. Let me take care of you, okay?” he murmured in your ear, hitching his knee up so you had no choice but to slide back on his denim jeans, back against him fully to keep your balance.

“But-”

”No, no buts. You just enjoy this night okay? Are you doing okay, it’s not too loud in here?” he asked softly, whispering quiet enough not even Bucky, who sat next to you could hear what he said.

“I’m good. Do your friends like me, d’ya think?” you asked timidly, wanting his approval. “Oh darlin they love you. They wouldn't shut up about meeting you, they just wanted to see how pretty and smart you were in person. My words aren't enough I suppose.” he smiled, brushing a kiss just behind your ear as the server returned, two drinks in hand.

You thanked her, taking a sip from your staw, twirling around the ice cubes in the glass as they clinked against the side. Before you knew it, you were down three drinks, laughing so hard at jokes spewed from the other end of the table your sides started to ache.

A hand tugged you up to the dance floor, Bucky twirled you around in circles before dipping you down towards the floor. A smile never left your face, the room starting to slightly spin on its own accord, and you saw Peter eyeing the pair of you across the bar like a hawk, his cool stare never leaving the back of Bucky's head.

He had offered to show you around up towards the north, a place you hadn’t visited much but wished you had. “I’ll show you around.” he smiled when you asked about it, dipping you low again.

”When?”

“Whenever you're ready, call on me.” he winked in response.

By the time you had to call it quits to save your wobbly legs, you heard Bucky snicker at Peter, slapping his chest before heading back towards the group.

Oh relax Parker I wasn't trying to steal your girl, just woo her a lil.

He didn't seem to like that one very much.

“Can- can we step outside for a sec?” you asked, stumbling towards his strong, lean arms that encased you once more- a warm hug you very much needed.

“You need some fresh air darlin? It gets so loud, I know…” he trailed off, quite literally sweeping you off your feet into his arms. You curled in against his chest, feeling the sway of each long stride across the wooden floors, the crowd parting like the red sea as he passed them by, all of them gawking.

You didn't blame them. He was beautiful.

“Shh, shh” he murmured as you started to claw at his t-shirt, twisting it in circles to keep yourself steady. “I wanna shoot bottles.” you stated as the cool air hit your skin, and you instinctively curled into his warmth.

“You wanna shoot bottles now, do ya? Do you even know how to shoot a gun?” he asked, laughing. You slid down to your feet, looking up at the night sky, the stars twinkling dimly from under the rolling clouds.

“Course I don't. But you teach me.”

You heard some guys around the corner of the building laughing with their friends, the sound of cans clinking as they fell from bullet wounds. You had never shot a gun before- not really ever needing to, but you saw some of Peter's collection tucked away in one of his older storage buildings on the property.

They were vintage, slightly rusted but still in decent working condition you assumed. Peter had never shot a gun in front of you before, but you knew that he knew how. Your father had mentioned hunting trips with him back when they were kids.

Surely he couldn’t be that rusty.

“I’d teach ya eh? How do you know that I can shoot, pretty?”

You shrugged, trotting over to where the men had been previously, their guns leaned against the building.

“I’ve seen your guns.”

“Those are old. Real old, from my granddad. Brass ‘38s.” he said. “I still trust you to show me how.” you stated, toying with the barrel of a bb gun, swinging it back and forth.

“This isn’t smart while you’re drunk.”

“Not drunk.”

“So drunk.”

You huffed, picking up the gun anyways. “That’s why you show me so we don’t do anything stupid.”

“With you I always want to be stupid.” You smiled softly, pretending to aim the gun at him, mocking the sound of bullets flying through the air.

“Now you’re being stupid darlin. Don’t aim that at anyone, that’s the first rule. Though I don’t expect you to know that right now, in your condition.”

“You should show me Mr. Parker, so I can defend myself.” your voice was high, extra girly as you toyed with the weapon, feeling flirty to high hell. He chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he slid up behind you, hands wrapped around your waist as he leaned down.

“Stay around me forever and you’ll never have to defend yourself baby. You’ll never have to do anything again.”

You giggled, cheeks warming from the alcohol rushing through your blood at his remarks. He was so silly. You thought, but you wished life could be that simple.

You wanted to wake up next to him every morning, to the feeling of him deep inside, pumping his seed into you- breeding you. You wanted to fuck like rabbits, for him to stuff you full over and over again until you were dripping.

You wanted him to kiss you all over before serving you breakfast in bed, tending to your every need while you lay in his bed, legs spread.

Jesus Christ your thoughts were dangerous when you were intoxicated.

What did they say again, drunk words were sober thoughts?

“You gotta turn off the safety first sweetheart.” Peter murmured in your ear, his warm breath tickling your ear. You heard a soft click, and he guided your arms into position, hands closing over yours.

“Now look through that little eyepiece and aim towards that can there.”

You squinted, trying your very best to focus on the only can standing up on the nearby fence. It took you a few seconds, but finally you had steadied yourself with his guidance. Your finger hovered.

“And.. shoot.” he whispered, finger tightening around yours, the gun going off with a loud bang! The can crumpled in on itself quickly, the aluminium falling from its place. You squealed with delight.

“That's my girl!” he smirked, clicking the safety back on as you drunkenly wobbled into him, wanting to take the toy away before you hurt yourself.

“Did I do good?” you asked, knowing he did most of the work- but still wanting his praise anyways. “So good darlin, you’re such a good girl, y’know that?” he asked, slowly backing you up against the cold siding, caging you in his arms.

The gun was long forgotten, tossed somewhere on the ground. The way his eyes sparkled drove you wild, a hint of mischief but still a maturity- a gentleness eying you down, soaking you in.

Your breath seemed to get caught in your chest as you tilted your head up against the wall to meet his gaze fully. He was so tall, so big… and he smelt amazing.

God, you wanted to blurt all of this out loud. You couldn't keep your composure anymore… it was next to impossible around him. You melted like ice cream on a hot summer's day whenever you were in his mere prescience.

“I want you to fuck me.” you stated plainly, his eyes widening- a coy smirk forming on his face. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Mr. Parker, I really want you to fuck me. Please.”

Well he damn near fell to his knees at your sweet tone, and your puppy dog eyes as you begged. He could never say no to his baby, but he also knew the two of you couldn't do anything out in public like that.

At least not all the things he wanted to do to you.

But it didn't mean he couldn't edge you on a little more until you squirmed for him with want.

“Was that what you were so distracted with earlier? You thinkin about stuff?”

You nodded. “I was thinking about you breeding me, and filling me all up until I’mall sticky, and so tingly I can barely feel anything. And I was thinking about you pumping into me and hurting me in such a good way.” you confessed.

If he was only slightly hard before, he was rock solid now.

Fuck.

“Sweetheart fuck-.. I- I’m so much older then you-"

"Not by that much.” you insisted, hand slipping down to rub in between his legs, cupping his bulge between your smaller fingers as he suppressed a moan.

“You’re so naughty baby. D’you think about this all the time?”

“All the time. I wish you could fuck me now.”

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. Your nipples were so hard they strained the fabric, begging to be touched by him.

“Such a dirty mouth my lil cowgirl. You gonna let daddy fuck you hard tonight?” he breathed, hand slipping down to cup your breast. Yesss. You wanted to hiss, pleasure seeping over your body.

“Mhmm. Whenever.. Whenever you w-want.” you giggled, his hands slipping down to your thighs, hosting you up to his height- your legs wrapped around his solid middle.

He kissed your neck, teeth nipping the skin as he sucked, leaving little marks that scattered across your skin. Before he could go much further, a presence lingered from the parking lot, a man leaning against a wooden post- watching you.

He whistled sharply, causing you to whip your head in shock. “Lovebirds! If you’re gonna fuck- at least invite the rest of us!” Bucky called from the sidelines.

“You couldn’t even get it up old man!” you shouted, Peter bursting out laughing against your collarbone. Steve appeared, whistling at your remark.

“Oh she got you good Buck. Low blow cowgirl.” he laughed, clapping Bucky's back, a feline grin on your face as you walked towards the pair, adjusting your shoulder strap that had slipped down in your little rendezvous.

They definitely knew you were not wearing a bra, if they didn’t know before. Oh well, not your problem.

“If you want a ride, I’d watch your tongue sweetheart.”

You laughed, stumbling over to Peter’s truck. “We’re gonna leave that here and get it tomorrow darlin. Mr. Barnes is gonna give us a ride home.” Peter whistled at you, smacking Bucky upside the head at his remarks.

“Mkay…”

“There’s not enough seats, so the pretty lady is on Parker’s lap. Unless she wants to be on mine-“ he looked over at you, winking. “I’ll make sure to hit all the bumps.”

“You pervert.” Peter snarled- walking him again. “I’m joking, I’m joking!” Bucky laughed.

“Don’t listen to him doll, he’s being stupid. He doesn’t mean any of it.” Peter murmured to you, as he guided you from his truck down to Buckys, Steve already claiming shotgun, while Sam and Tony were in the back, leaving one spot open for you and Peter.

Great. For your sake, he hoped Bucky did hit all the bumps.

It was stuffed in the vehicle, arms touching as if you were sardines in a can. But you didn’t mind being on Peter's lap. He rolled the window down, allowing the cool air to slither into the back, cooling your skin.

The other men talked about whatever while Bucky's headlights flickered on as he slowly backed out of the parking lot- but all you could focus on was Peter. He was still hard under you, you could feel his bulge through his jeans, straining against his zipper.

Your dress fanned out, leaving nothing but your underwear to rub against the denim, which was now damp. You clenched your fists, fighting back moans as Bucky sped down the road, hitting massive potholes that nearly sent your head through the roof.

You caught a glint in his eye as he looked back at you from the rear view, knowing damn well he was doing it on purpose.

“Hold on tight.” was all he said as he continued on- and you squirmed against Peter's groin.

“You keep doing that, you’re gonna regret it.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Peter grumbled to himself, hands tightening their grip on your thighs as Bucky hit more bumps. He clenched his teeth, hissing as he rubbed against your panties, feeling the wetness drip down your thighs.

The weed had heightened everything tremendously; he seriously thought he would cum in his pants.

That’s some shit the guys her age would do- those immature pieces of shit. The thought alone made him hold you a little tighter, savouring the smell of your perfume and shampoo.

You felt delicious on him. He wanted you on his lap constantly. He just wished no one else was in the truck.

You laughed at something Steve said, as Bucky put his turn signal on, gravel rumbling under the tires as he turned down Peter's driveway.

Oh thank god.

“Thank you so, so much for the ride Mr. Barnes. It was so lovely to meet all of you.” you smiled, waving timidly as Peter opened the door, allowing you to slip off his lap and jump down to the ground, holding his hand for balance.

Peter grimly nodded, cursing your sweetness towards Bucky, that motherfucker. Bucky winked as Peter tried to subtly hide his boner as he stood- and failed.

“No problem sweetheart, just glad you’re home safe. Don’t forget my offer okay- you come around anytime and I’ll show ya around with Steve.” he nodded, and you said the rest of your goodbyes, waving to everyone before Peter slammed the door shut.

The tires squealed as Bucky put the gas to the floor, leaving nothing but dust in his wake. “They were really nice Mr. Parker. I think they liked me.” you smiled, skipping over to the front porch steps.

“Yeah, a little too much.” he muttered under his breath, catching up to you in quick, long strides. You squealed as he picked you up with ease from behind, draping you over his shoulder and carried you up the steps, unlocking the front door.

“Put me down!” you whined, letting out a yelp as he smacked your ass.

“Shh. And stop your squirming, you’re not going anywhere sweetheart.” he huffed, kicking the door shut behind you, tossing his keys on the counter.

The lights were soft and dim as he carried you up the stairs, past the closed doors to the one left open.

His bedroom.

You continued to squirm- defying his orders and you felt that sting again, the loud smack! echoing through the room as you whimpered.

You bounced down on the bed, wide eyed as you scooted back towards the headboard, legs splayed open. Watching as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek mindlessly.

“You still want me t’fuck you honey?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Use your words baby. Tell me what you want.”

“I’d like you to fuck me Mr. Parker. Please.” you added quickly. His thumb brushed over your parted lips and you opened them quickly, allowing him access- your tongue swirling around his digit as his hand forced you to look up at him.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded quickly.

“I wanna be so gentle with you darlin. You’re so sweet and soft… I just wanna be so delicate.” he sighed softly. “Fuck….”

He didn’t say he was still a little pissed at Bucky for his aimless flirting- not that it was your fault of course. Didn’t mean he didn’t want to be possessive though. He was mature enough he knew you belonged to him- he didn’t need that reassurance.

But he had to make sure you knew.

“That's okay.” you whispered, drool trickling off his thumb as he pulled it away, smearing it across your cheek. He chuckled lowly.

“You’re so good to me baby. Do you think we could try something a bit different tonight?” he asked, and you nodded.

Anxiety and excitement quelled in your chest as he started to unbuckle his belt, and unzip his jeans. You pulled off your little scrap of fabric you called a dress, instinctively covering yourself. It was a habit you tried to break- but you couldn't help it.

“No no, baby, show me.” Peter insisted, hands removing yours to reveal yourself to him. The heat in his gaze sent shivers down your spine, leaving you firmly planted in the sheets.

“You’re so beautiful. The gods write poems about your beauty, my sweet girl.” he cooed, grabbing your wrists, holding them out in front of you, planting a kiss on your forehead.

Grabbing the belt, he started to wrap them around your wrists. “Is this okay?” he looked at your face for reassurance, finding it in your gentle eyes as you smiled.

“Will it hurt?” you asked meekly.

“No, no honey I would never hurt you. You know that right?” he sat down on the bed next to you, stroking your skin in soft, calming circles.

“I know Mr. Parker.”

You knew he was your savouir. He would never- could never harm you. You trusted him with your life.

He kissed you again, the belt jangling as it was bound around your wrists. You wiggled your fingers, though unable to move your hands- helplessly bound before him.

And you had never felt so safe.

“That too tight for ya darlin?”

You shook your head.

“No Mr. Parker.”

He smirked, fingers finding there way down to brush your inner thighs, tugging at the fabric that covered where he wanted you the most. You wiggled, moaning as he teased you, his touches soft yet electric.

“Shh baby, thats it. Daddys gonna take such good care of you. I’ve got ya.” he whispered, tugging off your thong, throwing it somewhere to the floor, watching your back arch and bow off the mattress from his quick brush of his finger along your slit.

“Awh baby she’s so wet f’me. I’ve barely even touched ya, sweet thing.” he cooed, and you whined softly as he toyed with you.

“Please-“

“Please what? Hmm? Use your big girl words.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Please fuck me, please. Please.” you begged, squirming.

“Such naughty language. Tsk tsk” he clucked his tongue, prying your legs wide open as you fought to keep your knees together.

“You want me to do what you said earlier? You want to be full?”

You nodded.

“You can’t waste any baby. No leaking, okay? Need my baby stuffed.” he smirked, lifting your legs up, draping them over his buff shoulders.

“Do you want gentle?”

You shook your head.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded.

“Whatever my sweet girl wants.” he smiled, brushing his cock through your soaked folds, tapping your clit with the head lightly. You didn’t know how much more teasing you could take.

“Mr. Park- OH!” you cried out as he slid home, his happy trail brushing your clit. He wasted no time, lifting your thighs up so half your body was off the bed, getting the deepest angle he could as his hips began to snap into yours.

You couldn’t help but cry out, words becoming mindless babbles as he pistoned into you, hitting a certain spot that had you seeing stars. “Yeah that’s it baby. Taking me so good, you’re such a good girl.” he cooed, admiring as your arms lifted, hands over your head in the restraints as you attempted to claw onto the headboard, failing miserably.

“Aww poor thing. You got nowhere to go, do you? Stuck here just taking daddy’s cock. You’re so fucking tight jesus christ…” he trailed off, lost in his head as you squeezed him tighter, nothing but the sounds of the slapping of his balls on your skin, the sounds of your strangled noises and moans.

He couldn’t get enough of them, he never wanted them to end. Your legs began to slip from their position, turning to jello and he wasted no time quickly flipping you around with ease slipping right back in.

You moaned at the new position, as he hit a different spot- slapping your ass gently. “Atta girl. Cmon baby, make yourself feel good. Or d’ya need me to do it for ya since you’re so fuzzy?”

You mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow that sounded like “Please”, and he didn’t bother trying to make sense of it as he gripped your hips harder.

“M’so closeeee…” you hissed, clenching him tighter.

“You gonna cream on my cock? Yeah? Cream on my cock baby, atta girl darlin.” he growled possessively as you came with a sharp cry, soaking his cock.

He always let you cum first. Always. He wouldn’t be a gentleman if he didn’t. You were his princess, he wanted you to feel so good you wouldn’t even be able to remember your name.

Peter showered you in praise, rubbing your back soothingly as your legs shook from your orgasm, toes curling against the sheets.

“You’re okay sweetheart. Shhh that’s it. Good girl baby.” He flipped you back over, wanting nothing more than to see your pretty face. It was one of the things that got him off the most, seeing your eyes roll back in your head, your mouth let out those pretty noises while it rounded to an o shape.

Your chest rose quickly, up and down as you managed to catch your breath, head fuzzy.

“You okay honey?” he asked gently, forehead creasing in concern as he soothed you.

He always took such good care of you. Somehow that turned you on even more.

“M’so good.” you mumbled, meeting his soft smile.

“Well good. Cause I’m not done with ya yet darlin. Spread those legs again baby.”

841 notes · View notes

javier-pena · 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

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ellecdc · 11 months ago

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Come Back, Be Here (part 6)

p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7 // p8

Sirius Black x fem!reader - First Wizarding War Order of the Phoenix - 5.1k

CW: mentions of past abuse/torture, amnesia, mention of Bellatrix's cursed knife (same injury Hermione received in canon), racism/bigotry, swearing x a million cuz it's Remus' POV, angst, hurt/comfort, use of Y/N

Synopsis: After sacrificing yourself to save your friend and Order partner James months before, you're found on the brink of death. How will Sirius react when he finally gets his love back, only to have you snatched out from under him again?

“Where the FUCK is she?”

The headmaster calmly placed his teacup back on its saucer as the two men came barging into his office.

“Ah, Mr. Black. Mr. Lupin. Please, take a seat.”

So, Sirius did; he took the seat, and he threw it at the wall.

“I am not fucking around old man. Where. Is. She? Where is Y/N?” He barked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Sirius stopped in his pacing.

“You don’t know!?” Remus repeated incredulously.

Dumbledore nodded.

Sirius picked up a spinning orb from the headmaster’s desk and sent it careening to the window. The windows – the damned things – were charmed not to break, but the orb did. As pieces of crystal shattered and scattered onto the floor, many sleeping portraits of previous headmasters began waking. A few stayed behind to watch the spectacle, whilst many left to find other portraits to haunt for the time being.

“That’s not good enough.” Sirius fumed.

With a casual flick of his wand, Dumbledore righted the chair Sirius had thrown. “Why don’t you have a seat, son?”

“I am not your fucking son!” He shouted back, kicking the seat over again.

“Mr. Lupin, why don’t you encourage your friend here to calm down?” The portrait of a previous headmistress asked condescendingly.

“Get fucked, ma’am.” Was his muttered response.

With a huff, the headmistress decided to leave as well.

“I am so sick of being played like some pawn in this gods-awful game of yours! We are children! You fucking groomed us as students and enlisted us right out of the gates, fattening us up like cattle for slaughter!”

“Now, Mr. Black-”

“I’M NOT DONE.” Sirius roared.

Dumbledore shifted his eyes to Remus, who kept his gaze firmly on him.

“You – you’re supposed to be this powerful wizard with years of experience. You defeated that Grindel-fuck back in the sodding dark-ages or whenever, yet somehow, this is out of your wheelhouse!?”

“Mr. Black, everyone learned from the Global Wizarding World with Grindelwald; Tom Riddle how to cheat death, and myself to enlist the help of others.” Dumbledore said.

“But you didn’t get help! You got soldiers, and we’re the ones fighting this fucking war for you! You get to sit here in this bloody castle with powerful ancient wards protecting you, drinking your tea, wanking to the portraits of the other headmasters in your spare time, while the rest of us get their fucking heads blown off!

“We’re the ones being captured. We’re the ones being tortured. We’re the ones being killed. We’re the ones with blood on our hands fighting for our fucking lives, everyday! Bouncing from safe-house to safe-house whilst never being safe. And you know! You’ve known there was a spy, you’ve had contacts on the other side, but you give us nothing. You just send us off on these fucking missions, blind, and we all have to hope that that’s enough. That we’ll live to see another day. That we’ll make it home to our loved ones.”

Sirius paused to catch his breath. “You will not get away with using her like this, not anymore, not by me.”

Dumbledore’s crystal blue eyes bore into Sirius’ stormy grey ones. After a few moments, he offered him a subtle nod.

“Where is she?” He repeated, quieter this time.

“Sirius, the truth is that I do not know.”

Sirius groaned. “How can you not know!? Fine, fine. Who is your contact? Apparently, someone who was in league with the Black’s for the stupid fucking house-elf to betray me like this. So, who is it? Narcissa? Finally tired of the bleach fumes from that husband of hers? It can’t be Bellatrix.”

Dumbledore pursed his lips as he considered Sirius.

“It’s not Bellatrix, is it?” He asked in quiet disbelief.

“No, son, it is not Bellatrix.”

“’Kay well, tell me who it is, then. Reg’s dead so you’re leaving me with dear old Cissy here.”

Dumbledore leaned onto his forearms on his desk as he peered at Sirius over his half-moon spectacles.

“A house-elf will always be the most loyal to the head of the house it serves.”

Sirius scoffed. “Yeah, well my house-elf just up and fucked-off with the love of my life so I’d say his loyalty doesn’t exactly align with...me...” He trailed off as something seemed to dawn on him.

“Unless I’m not the head of the house.”

Remus’ neck snapped as he whipped his head to regard his friend.

“The deed and the vault at Gringotts were all moved to you, Sirius, you’re the head of the house.”

Sirius never pulled his gaze away from the headmaster. “Goblins can be tricked, and deeds can be forged.” He whispered. “But house-elf magic...”

Dumbledore leaned back into his chair.

“But Regulus is dead. He was pronounced dead – your mother offed herself because he was pronounced dead.” Remus argued.

“He was assumed dead.” Dumbledore corrected.

“Holy fucking shit.” Sirius breathed.

“Regulus has been in contact with me since this past spring. It appears that Miss. L/N was the turning point for him in this war.”

Sirius stared in bafflement. “What do you...”

“You may, one day, need to discuss with your brother. However, what he explained to me,” Dumbledore started. “Is that he had discovered Riddle’s secret of the horcruxes after becoming increasingly disenchanted by his rhetoric. He was intent on defeating Riddle himself, but came to me when he found Y/N.”

The colour drained from Remus’ face. “You knew? All this time.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze to the lycanthrope.

“You knew!?” He repeated.

“You must understand, I could not remove her from Riddle’s ranks without rousing suspicion from the other Death Eaters who knew she was there. We were also becoming increasingly aware of a spy within our ranks and could not jeopardize the intel by alerting the Death Eaters of our own spy.”

“I can’t fucking believe this.” Sirius cried out. “You let her suffer there so you could keep the upper hand!”

“It was for the greater good.”

“Fuck that!” Sirius barked. “Fuck that and fuck you!”

“You do not understand how differently this could have all played out without her, Sirius.”

Remus scoffed. “Oh the ‘could’s’, professor, really? We can sit here until our dying breath discussing all of the fucking could’s that could have taken place from the beginning of fucking time itself and it would mean nothing.”

“I don’t care what could have happened.” Sirius interjected. “You should have protected her. Protected all of us.”

Dumbledore looked between his two former students as he seemed to come to some kind of decision.

“The five horcruxes that Y/N brought us have been destroyed. I do not want to give Riddle time to realize that they are gone. I have discussed with our allies what will need to happen next.” Dumbledore stated.

“And what will need to happen next, professor?” Sirius sneered.

“It appears that Mr. Pettigrew told Riddle he would be the secret keeper by their next meeting.” Dumbledore said as Sirius swallowed bile rising in his throat. “I believe it would be best to lure Riddle out when he does not feel the need for an army.”

Remus leaned forward in his chair. “How do we do that?”

Dumbledore pursed his lips. “It would be best if Riddle remained unaware of our knowledge of Peter.”

“I think he’s going to figure it out when he misses their next club meeting.” Sirius scoffed.

“Unless he goes.” Remus murmured.

“Over my dead body do we release that rat bastard.” Sirius growled.

“I agree, Mr. Black, I do not believe we should entrust Peter. However, there may be another way.”

Sirius looked at Dumbledore blankly. “Tell me, headmaster, do you plan on breaking out some unforgiveables? Because short of imperio, I’m not sure-”

“Polyjuice.” Remus blurted.

Sirius whipped his head to his friend in shock, whilst a twinkle of pride appeared in Dumbledore’s eye.

“We could keep up the ruse.” Remus explained.

“I’ll go.” Sirius claimed.

Remus groaned. “Pads, do you really think you’re the best person for this job?”

Sirius looked at Remus with a look of ill-hidden betrayal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sirius, this is the most sensitive mission possibly anyone will ever have to take. You are passionate but you have a tendency to go in guns blazing and this is not the setting.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sirius argued.

“You are going to hear and see things that will infuriate and you will not be able to react. You will have to put your morals aside.”

“Rem, honestly, I grew up with the pureblood bullshit, I can handle it.” Sirius insisted.

“It nearly killed you, Pads. I was there when you showed up at the Potter’s.”

“Remus, I’m going.”

“Perhaps it should be me.” Remus stated as if Sirius hadn’t said anything at all.

“Are you insane?”

“Obviously the answer to that is yes but listen: no one would be able to use legillimency on me due to lunar magic, I stand a better chance at keeping a level head, and I’m perhaps just a touch less emotionally invested in this than you are.” Remus argued.

“Besides,” he continued, “I’ve spent my entire life pretending that I’m not a monster. I’m sure I can pretend to be one for a little bit.”

“You’re not a monster.” Sirius sighed.

Remus gave him a sad smile. “See? I’ve fooled you all.”

Dumbledore hummed. “I think Mr. Lupin may be right, Sirius. Perhaps you should trust him with this.”

“Of course I trust him, but-” Sirius started, turning to look at Remus. “I can’t lose you too.” He admitted quietly.

Though the sentiment caused a twinge of pain in Remus’ chest, he couldn’t waste an opportunity to razz his mate. “Awe, Pads. Don’t tell me you’re gonna miss me.” He cheeked as he pinched Sirius’ arm.

“Oh, sod off you wanker.” Sirius muttered and crossed his arms.

“I suppose it’s settled.” Dumbledore claimed. “Please await my correspondence with further instructions.”

October 29th

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” James could be heard muttering as he paced the family room of 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Why isn’t Dumbledore doing this himself?” Lily muttered darkly.

“I’m not leaving Y/N in his hands, not again.” Sirius murmured into his hand as he stared at the fire. “It should be me going. Remus, I should go.”

With a sigh, Remus stood from the wingback chair. “No, Pads. It’s too late to change the plan now. It’s going to be fine.”

Sirius shook his head and looked at the ceiling.

“She’s fucking strong, Sirius. And she’s got more people on her side this time. We’re gonna finish this.” Remus pressed.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed and everyone took a steadying breath.

“Be careful, Rem.” Lily tearfully murmured as she gave him a hug.

“I hate this.” James repeated just as quietly as he too hugged the lycanthrope.

Remus smiled at them both before he moved to Sirius, who had shifted his gaze back to the fire.

“We’re close, Pads.” He whispered.

Sirius nodded, keeping his gaze on the fire. “Thank you, Moony. For going after her.”

“She’s pack.” Remus said simply causing Sirius to let out a shuddering breath.

“Be careful.”

Remus nodded in agreement and took a swig from his pocket flask. He grunted slightly as he felt his body shifting and changing, but it was nothing close to the pain he experienced every full moon.

Sirius, Lily, and James all looked in various levels of disgust as Remus – now in the form of Peter Pettigrew – stood to his full height. “How do I look?”

The three friends looked at each other awkwardly before turning back to Remus...Peter?

“Fuck, this is weird.” James muttered.

“Yeah, honestly mate, I think you should go.” Sirius agreed.

Remus rolled his eyes. “You know I’m not actually him, right?”

Lily grimaced. “Yeah, yeah Judas. Get going.”

Sirius and James looked at her inquisitively, but Remus snorted a laugh offering everyone a wave as he stepped into the street. He walked a short distance to a hidden alleyway where he could apparate to the location of the Death Eater meeting. Remus sent one silent prayer to any god who’d listen.

Please let this go smoothly.

Lestrange Manor loomed dauntingly in front of Remus as he tried to muster the courage to walk up the brick path leading to the door. Purebloods and their gaudy houses he mused silently.

“Petty-Pettigrew!” A voice sing-songed behind him, causing him to turn.

Barty Crouch Jr skipped towards him merrily as if he were an alt-punk Dorothy on his way to Oz. He paused in front of Remus and tapped his cheek twice, slightly too hard to be considered just condescending and bordering on aggressive. “How’s our favourite little rat?”

Remus grimaced but tried to play it off as a smile. “Er, I’m-”

“Oh, Salazar. No, I don’t actually care.” Barty chuckled, looking back at his entourage like can you believe this guy? His friendly façade fell as he turned back to Remus. “Better have something for the Dark Lord today, otherwise we’ll find other uses for our little lab rat.” He finished with a slimy wink as he continued up the path to the manor.

Well, Remus thought, welcome to Hell, I suppose.

He followed Barty The Deranged and company up the walkway, fighting the urge to hum: We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz as he went.

If Remus thought the outside of Lestrange Manor was counteracting the anti-depressants coursing through his system, the inside of it made him want to grab the closest silver fork and end it all. He walked along what had to be a fourty-foot table trying to find the best seat before he realized that this was the wrong approach – every seat was terrible.

“Don’t be absurd, Pettigrew.” Mulciber sneered at Remus. “A lowly like you stands at the back.”

Remus fought the urge to roll his eyes and nodded, moving to stand near the wall by the door. At least I’ll be close if I need a quick exit. He also fought the biting urge to lunge at the sight of Fenrir Greyback. You’re here for a reason, Lupin.

Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bellatrix Lestrange entered the...Remus didn’t know what the hell purebloods wont to call rooms like this...a grand room? A dining room? A reception hall? Whatever it was called, it fucking sucked, and it sucked worse when those three walked in. The brothers mostly regarded themselves with proper decorum, but Bellatrix and her certain flare seemed to suck the air out of the room causing everyone to stand a little more at attention.

Bellatrix Lestrange walked like she was the Queen of Hearts attending her own coronation. She smiled wickedly at those seated around the table, pausing briefly to share terse words with Lucius Malfoy, before then double-cheek-kissing his wife and her sister, Narcissa.

There seemed to be some sort of disagreement about who should sit in one of the two seats at the head of the table next to the Dark Lord’s seat (throne for all intents and purposes), but a silent conversation that passed between Bellatrix and her brother-in-law resulted in the latter finding another chair.

Voldemort walked into the room and those who had been sitting stood suddenly, falling deathly silent as Voldemort moved to stand at the head of the table. The sickening smell of dark magic accosted Remus who felt his eyes water; he swallowed hard against his gag reflex as a giant python type snake slithered its way into the room.

If there was ever any speculation that Nagini was the sixth horcrux before, Remus now felt confident that he could confirm it.

“My Lord.” Rodolphus said reverently as he bowed his head. Remus watched as the rest of the room did the same, and quickly followed suit – he wanted to throw up.

Remus’ plan of attack here was to be as non-descript as possible. He was here for one reason – tell Voldemort he was the secret keeper and plan a course of ‘attack’ on the Potter home in Godric’s Hollow – otherwise, he was to be invisible. He could not be invisible if he was angry, and if he listened too closely, he’d get angry, so...

He almost missed it when Voldemort addressed him.

“Now, I trust that you were successful in your task?” Voldemort’s voice echoed through the room, sounding more like an actor in a Greek tragedy than a tyrannical fascist leader addressing his followers.

A throat cleared before something hit Remus on the shin. He looked up and realised everyone’s eyes were on him.

“Oh erm, uh yes. My apologies...my Lord...” He tried to regain his footing. “Uhm, I was successful. I am officially the Potter’s secret keeper.”

Bellatrix barely waited until the end of the sentence to stand and begin cackling maniacally. “We’re going to kill the child! We’re going to kill the child!” She sang as she jumped and clapped her hands.

Voldemort hardly spared Bellatrix a sideways gaze as he lifted one hand – she fell silent and returned to her seat, continuing to smile and wiggle as if it were difficult to keep her obvious joy at bay.

“Though I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he began, “I’d like to eliminate this specific threat myself.”

By the end of the sentence, he was offering Remus a chilling smile. Remus worked to keep his breathing even as he tried to reciprocate it.

“Where is this hide away located?” Voldemort asked.

“Erm, Godric’s Hollow, m’Lord.”

“You will take me to them. You shall meet me in the town square at eight in the evening the day after tomorrow. We shall eliminate this threat to me once and for all.”

“Any threat to you is a threat to all of us, my Lord.” Alecto Carrow said severely which was met with a muttering of agreement from around the table.

“You will all be rewarded greatly for your dedication and loyalty to me.” Voldemort declared, and Bellatrix began a round of applause.

The meeting carried on and Remus ensured to take two more swigs of the Polyjuice potion to avoid turning back into himself prematurely.

A black cat had materialized beside Remus at some point throughout the meeting and appeared to make itself at home beside his left foot. The feline seemed to watch as Remus would lift the flask to his mouth, and he became increasingly paranoid that this cat somehow knew he was an imposter. Was this cat a spy? Was this a spy cat who somehow knew Peter was caught for being a spy for the Death Eaters and that I, as a spy, came to this meeting as Peter as a spy for the Order pretending to be Peter who was acting as a spy for the Death Eaters.

Fuck, Remus was losing it.

Get a grip you stupid bastard. He scolded himself.

The meeting appeared to conclude as Voldemort stood, and everyone followed suit. A few higher pointing Death Eaters seemed to congregate at the head of the table – Malfoy, the Lestranges, Mulciber, Snape, Nott, Goyle, and the Carrows encircled Voldemort.

Remus began looking for the door when he felt the cat brush up against his leg. He looked down to the black cat who was peering back up at him – the eyes were light, nearly blue but not quite – and they looked disturbingly familiar. The cat seemed to be cocking an eyebrow at him, if cats could do such a thing, as Remus considered it.

“What?” Remus whispered.

“Make a habit o’ talkin’ to rodents, do ye Pettigrew?” The sickening sound of Greyback’s voice permeated Remus' hearing – as well as his other senses. Suddenly, Remus was four years old again, waking to the sound of screaming that turned out the be his own as a wolf locked its jaw upon his chest. He ignored the stinging in his eyes as he thought of his mothers screams and sobs, begging the healers to do something – anything – to help her boy, whilst everyone murmured it’d be kindest to just ‘put the boy out of his misery’.

“I do, actually,” Remus said, lacing his words with venom. “I’ve found they often make better company than a mangey wolf.”

Greyback seemed taken aback as he considered Remus.

“Why you little-”

“Ah, there you are, Splash.” A posh accent commented from Remus’ other side. He turned to see the form of Narcissa Malfoy bending to pick up the black cat.

“Good work, Pettigrew.” She commented as Splash weaseled its way back out of Narcissa’s arms and took a few paces to the door. “Don’t let us keep you.”

Remus nodded at Narcissa, feeling off kilter at her cordial behaviour; he couldn’t imagine Peter ever making friends with the likes of her. He moved toward the door and as he walked, he realized that the cat had paused and was watching Remus before carrying on ahead.

Remus felt like he could finally take a deep breath once he stepped beyond the gated entrance of the manor. His peace didn’t last long when he realized the cat had paused again and was once again watching him.

“Seriously, what the hell do you want?” He muttered quietly.

The cat looked as though it rolled its eyes at him as he walked a few more feet ahead, turning back to Remus.

“Are you expecting me to follow you? I’m not as dumb as I look.” He commented again, though realizing too late that he may actually be as dumb as he looks, seeing as he was currently talking to a cat.

He heard a low growl emanate from the cat’s chest before it turned and walked away without turning back this time to confirm Remus was following it.

“It seems as though curiosity may kill the wolf today.” Remus muttered to himself as he begrudgingly followed the cat against every one of his instincts which were screaming at him to just get the fuck out of there.

The cat stopped in a densely wooded area and seemed to scan the are before turning back to Remus, who in turn stood and stared at the cat dumbly.

“I don’t see a pentagram anywhere, is this not where you plan to sacrifice me to the devil?” He asked as he too scanned the woods for potential threats.

“Salazar, you Gryffindor’s are bloody exhausting.” A voice rang through the woods. Remus whipped his head back towards the sound, and where the cat once stood was none other than Regulus Black.

“Holy fucking shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, “and so eloquent, as always.” He muttered.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead.” Remus seethed.

“Disappointed, are you?”

Remus gritted his teeth. “Where’s Y/N?”

Regulus’ eyes softened considerably, though his posture remained stiff as he considered Remus.

“Safe. That is all you need to know.”

“Fuck that, Black. Where is she?”

Regulus sucked in a breath, appearing to attempt to steady himself at having to deal with the likes of Remus.

“The Dark Lord’s followers became aware that she was not as dead as they had previously assumed. We could not risk them searching for her.” Regulus admitted.

“How could they have known she wasn’t dead? The only person who could have reported that to them is Peter and he’s a little tied up right now.” Remus said darkly.

“My cousin’s little art project on her arm was done with a cursed blade – the dark magic left a trace on her. When Yaxley tried to claim that she had died while trying to escape from his hold instead of admitting he let her get away, Bellatrix was quick to prove him wrong.”

“What?” Remus asked in shock.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Good gods, which of you imbeciles did that old man send?” He asked before casting a quick finite over Remus.

Remus felt the Polyjuice potion wash away from his form as he stretched out to his correct height.

“Aren’t you wolves supposed to have superhuman hearing?” He asked condescendingly.

“Fuck off.” Remus spat.

“Now, now. There is no need for such language, Lupin; we are on the same side, after all.”

“Like fuck we are. You’re a marked Death Eater, and you abducted Y/N.” He spat.

“I think it should be obvious by now that I have clearly defected here, Lupin.” Regulus responded.

“Why?”

This seemed to catch Regulus off guard. “Pardon?”

“Why defect?”

Remus watched as Regulus stared hard at him, when suddenly a filmy haze seemed to overtake Regulus’ grey eyes and his face grew hard.

“I hardly think that is relevant.”

The two men stared at each other sizing one another up.

Remus felt conflicted. He knew Sirius hated his family, but Sirius never really could bring himself to hate Regulus – he was only a child, just like Sirius was. Regulus was a victim too. They were each dealt a shitty hand, but the way they played their cards were different. Regulus chose the path of least resistance by adapting and adhering to his parent’s wishes. Sirius rebelled, pushed back, and decided to fold, leaving the game altogether.

Sirius wanted to hate Regulus; when he got his Dark Mark, and then again when he died. But he couldn’t bring himself to, because part of it felt like it was his fault; Regulus took the role that Sirius himself was born into – and in many ways, Sirius felt as though he forced his little brother into this. And in the end, it cost Regulus his life.

But Remus, looking at Regulus now; having faked his own death, defected from not only his family’s legacy but also the reign of the 'Lord' that he had sworn himself to, all whilst helping the other side; how different were the two brothers, really?

Twin Renegades.

“Sirius is beside himself.” Remus admitted quietly.

Regulus seemed pained by this admission.

“I wouldn’t have given her back yet if I knew it wasn’t safe.”

Remus’ heart stuttered. “Wait, you – you’re the one who brought her to Godric’s Hollow?”

He was responded with a single curt nod.

“But, but how? How did you know? The house is...”

“Y/N. She had described to me what she called ‘location seven’. I apparated her there.”

Remus balked. Each Order team had several secret locations they would be able to travel to in case anything went sideways during a mission. Remus wasn’t as familiar, seeing as he was the only Order member who could attend his particular missions, but he had heard his friends discussing it before. Even Lily and Sirius didn’t know the areas of James and your secret locations; they were for your safety, and your safety only.

“Location seven was the cottage in Godric’s Hollow?”

“No, it was the wooded area behind it. I could feel the familiar sense of a fidelius charm nearby, so I brought her as close to it as I could before I ran, we...” Regulus heaved a sigh, “we had fought our way out, we’d barely made it.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s safe.”

“Regulus.”

“I’m sorry, Lupin. You may not believe me, but I am. I... I saved her because I could not watch the woman my brother loved die in front of me. I saved her for him, but the other’s discovered I had rescued her, and suddenly it became much bigger than him. I couldn’t just return her at the time.” Regulus admitted.

“The last time you saved her, she was hardly safe. How do we know she’s safe now?” Remus pleaded.

Regulus grimaced. “Again, the others had known I had rescued her last time. This time, they do not know she is here. They do not even know I am here.”

“How is she safer with you than she is at home with Sirius? With us?”

“You moved five members of the Order plus an infant with a bounty on its head into one house. If they had gone searching for Y/N and found you, it would have been devastating for the cause.” He explained. “Listen; you will escort the Dark Lord to the Potter’s cottage in two days. He plans to attend with you as Peter Pettigrew, alone; he will show up unknowingly out numbered. He goes nowhere without Nagini, and we will be able to destroy the last horcrux before finally ending the Dark Lord’s reign of tyranny. She will be home to you soon.”

“What about you?” Remus asked.

Regulus’ eyebrows furrowed. “What about me?”

“When this is over, what about you?”

Regulus looked Remus up and down. “I hardly think it matters.”

“Of course it does; of course you matter.”

Regulus’ eyes turned stormy. “Do not pretend to know anything about me, Lupin. I have never once mattered; not to my brother, hardly to my parents until I was the last one standing, never to Dumbledore, and rarely to the Dark Lord, lest my family’s money benefitted his cause.”

“You matter to Sirius.”

“Enough!” Regulus shouted, seeming to forget himself. Remus was sure he’d never even heard of Regulus having ever raised his voice before. “Do not fuck this up, Lupin. We have one chance to end this.”

And with a quick spin, Remus was left in the dense woods alone. He hadn’t noticed how late it was until now, the darkness seeping into his bones leaving him chilled in the late October evening.

It didn’t exactly go well, but it sure could have gone a lot worse.

He walked towards where Regulus had been standing and noticed a small piece of parchment laying in the wet leaves. He picked it up and unfolded it.

“Stay safe. 1, 2, 3. V.”

It could have gone a lot worse.

October 30th

Regulus sighed – he felt exhausted from the meeting with Remus Lupin yesterday. He hated raising his temper, it made him feel like Sirius; it made him feel like a Gryffindor.

Regulus’ cat form pushed past a vine covered gate and entered a grandiose stone outbuilding before shifting back to his human form.

“Can Kreacher get master a drink before Kreacher leaves?”

Regulus sighed. “You should not return until this is over, Kreacher. My brother is surely not happy with you.”

The house-elf scoffed. “Kreacher is not afraid of blood-traitors. Besides, Kreacher serves the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; Kreacher belongs at Grimmauld Place.”

“Underestimate my brother, Kreacher, and it will be your head on the wall.” Regulus muttered.

“Now cousin, do try to keep your patience.” Narcissa said as she opened the door to her hidden library located in a small building behind the gardens of Malfoy Manor.

You sat on a Victorian style settee in Narcissa’s library with a babbling Draco on your knee as you cast colourful butterflies above him, causing the toddler to coo and clap.

“We’re in.” Regulus announced, causing your head to snap forward and Draco to make grabby hands at him. “This ends tomorrow.”

Continue to part seven here.

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