#sell your home in winter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

borathae · 2 months ago

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↳ Index [Day 05 - Dragon Cock]

Pairing: Soft Dom!Yoongi x f.Reader

Genre: Dragon!Yoongi, Fantasy!AU, Secret Love!AU

Kinks: dragon cock, cunnilingus, magical spit, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetrative sex, he tries so hard to be gentle with her, breeding, creampie, multiple orgasms, praise, strength kink, size kink (he is a lot bigger ‘cause dragon yk), giddy aftercare

Wordcount: 5.5k

a/n: i love him i love him i love him!! he is my beloved pookie and i’ve only known him for one day! also, click this link if you wanna see his delicacies :) i’m serious, do it :)

You lived in Bailemon, which liked to consider itself a town, but it was very far from that. It was small, perhaps even small enough to be considered a village instead of a town. Not many outsiders visited Bailemon because it was far from big cities, nestled between two high mountain ranges and hidden in a dense forest. The roads were passable, but not good. People here lived from the forest and from the little mountainous farming they were able to do during the warmer months.

Your town – or village – had a village square where each second day, the farmers and merchants gathered to sell their goods. In autumn, there was a festival of fire held on the square to ward off the evil spirits of winter. Bailemon also had a place of worship, which was considered holy beyond comparison. It was said that on its grounds, evil cannot tread and in times of danger, one should run to it for shelter.

The people in your village were superstitious, they believed in ghosts, dark magic and demons. You knew their superstition to be justified. This world was dark. The nights during the cold months were too long not to bring forth evil. But you also knew that stuff like holy grounds were nothing but lies to make life in the village easier. Evil walks where it pleases, it takes what it wants and leaves no room for escape.

You lived in the village with your aging parents, taking care of them as their only surviving child. You had a brother once, but he walked into the forest one day and never returned. People say that evil spirits got him, but you know that this was a lie because you looked for him. At least you tried to because you never found him nor traces of evil spirits. You are convinced that it was simply a pack of hungry wolves which took him from your family. Or perhaps he ran away to somewhere warmer and happier. You wouldn’t blame him.

As the only living child of your parents, it became your duty to tend to them in their growing age. You earned money forging swords for the Queen’s army and went hunting whenever food ran out. You also helped the farmers shoe their horses and ox and sometimes scared villagers came to you asking for yet another lock for their front door. Your family lived well thanks to you, even if work by the forge was hard and difficult.

If you weren’t sweating by the scorching fire or hunting in the forest, you walked it in search of berries and mushrooms or to train with your sword. The reason however why you walked the woods most, was the dragon living high up in the northern mountains.

Dragons. Yes, they were as real as evil spirits and wicked demons were and your village was under the protection of one.

Dragons didn’t look as one might imagine a dragon to look like, at least not always. They could morph their enormous dragonic bodies into human-like bodies and walk among people. Their eyes, however, always remained a fiery yellow and their canine teeth were always sharp and pointy. They were also taller than normal humans and had scales down their necks and torsos. Some even had scales on their hands and sharp claws which sliced deeper than any blade ever could. In the lands of humans, dragons were considered gods.

The festival of fire was held because of the dragon living in the mountains. A brave soul is sent to his lair to ask him for his presence each year. Then once the dragon comes down from his high home, he lights the fire with his hot breath and with it, wards off the evil winter spirits. Once the fire burns bright, the villagers begin dancing around the fire in pairs, thanking the dragon for the fire and his protection while he sits on a wooden throne, overlooking the dance. He is always alone during these festivities, drinking wine and eating meat, except for when one of the many willing women – and men – try catching his attention. He never reciprocates.

Marrying a dragon was considered a gift from the gods and not many were successful. Dragons were a distant people – perhaps that is why they became so rare these days – and scarcely engaged with humans except for when they were needed. They lived longer than any human ever would and because of their bigger bodies, many who tried to be intimate with a human, ended up hurting their beloved counterpart. So for the safety of humans, of whom the dragons were very fond, they stayed away from them.

That doesn’t stop you however from regularly walking the path to the dragon’s lair. Sword strapped to your back and with a thick dress warming your body, you walk the steep and stony path. You put your parents to sleep already and locked the cottage. The priest spoke of evil spirits dancing on the wind tonight and you didn’t want to risk anything. You knew that they were safe in your house because you placed dragon ash by each window and door. It was the only thing which truly kept evil away and it is a regular present the dragon gives you.

You take a deep breather once you reach the mountain plateau in front of his cave. Marks of his dragon body landing dig deep into the grey gravel. Small autumn flowers grow in its deep crevices. The dragon placed a pot of flowers next to the cave entrance. You have to chuckle each time you pass it because of its peculiarity. It looks so out of place and yet fits his character so well.

“Yoongi!” you call out the dragon’s name, voice echoing in the big cave. You venture deeper into the cave, leaving the cold autumn air behind. “Yoongi, are you home?”

His lair consisted of two caves. One big and deep and one smaller. The big cave was in the front, welcoming you with endless darkness as it dug deep into the mountain. It smelled ancient and wet in here and there was always a faint sound of water trickling somewhere. Yoongi can fly in it when he is in his true form and hide on the ceiling when he doesn’t want to be found. The smaller cave was where he lived however. You have to take a sharp turn to the right for it and walk through a corridor-like walkway. The ceiling shrinks in height until it was but six meters.

“Yoongi, are you in here?” you try again, entering his true lair. Your voice doesn’t echo anymore. Lantern and torches light up the walls, a fireplace warms the space, expensive rugs cover the stone ground and golden furniture fills the room. Gold, jewels and crystals are scattered all around the cave in heaps or stuffed into big treasure chests. It feels homely here and tonight it is empty.

“Where the heavens are you?” you murmur, looking around the lair. An especially golden cup calls your attention. You bend down to inspect it better, fluttering your lashes at your own distorted reflection. It brings a chuckle to your lips and you straighten up, “how silly I looked.”

You ghost your fingers over a set of earrings next. They sparkle like stars in the sky. They are so beautiful.

“Careful, they’re worth more than your entire village.”

“Oh heavens”, you startle, pulling your sword in instinct and whipping around quickly. The blade graces against your stalker’s throat without cutting them.

“Don’t strike me down just yet”, Yoongi says, lifting his hands.

“You scared me”, you say, touching his chin with the tip of your sharp sword.

The right corner of his lips curls into an amused smirk, revealing glimpses of his long fangs.

“I could tell”, he says blithely despite the sword against his throat.

You put pressure on his chin, forcing his head to tilt up and for his amused smirk to grow. His fiery eyes flicker, a deep growl rumbles in his chest.

“I could have cut your head off”, you say.

“And yet you didn’t.”

You flip the blade to its side, forcing him to gulp because of the sharpness against his skin.

“Careful now”, he rasps.

“Mhm”, you decide with a cock of your brow, pulling your sword back. You twirl it once then put it back into its sheath, features warming as you laugh.

His golden eyes soften and a smile curls his lips. He closes the distance, placing his big hands on your waist and bending down to kiss your lips. You rest your hands on his strong chest, getting on your tiptoes to reach him better. He breaks the kiss, rubbing his nose against yours gently. His breath smells fresh and feels warm.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“The cottage was too cold.”

He laughs, “this is the only reason?”

You snicker, dancing your hands to the nape of his strong neck to trace the scales. You shake your head, “no, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“You did?”

“Mh-hm very much so.”

He draws a giggle to your lips. He smiles, tasting it with a tender kiss. “Come here you”, he mumbles and deepens the kiss. He lifts you off the ground for it just enough that you didn’t have to stand on your tiptoes any longer.

You break the kiss to talk, even if he disagrees with a low growl. His golden eyes gaze longingly at your lips.

“Where were you before I called for you?”

“Deep in the caves, digging for gold.”

“I see and were-”

He interrupts you in laughed words, “will you kiss me or do I have to steal it from you?”

“No. No, I will kiss you. I got the message”, you laugh, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Yoongi purrs deeply, holding you tighter against him as his lips fall into a passionate dance with yours.

You met Yoongi in the year your brother died. You knew him long before that, but up until then, never talked to him. You simply watched from a distance as he lit the fire and then sat on his throne overlooking the dance. You also watched him refuse countless suitors and return to his cave alone once the festival ended. Other than that, you never engaged with him. You had always found him interesting, because dragons are gods after all and he looked so very beautiful in his human form. His hair was as black as soot, his eyes as golden as flames and his scales were an iridescent of black and gold. He didn’t possess sharp claws, which made his touch so very gentle and tender and his lips were soft and pouty which made his kiss so very addicting.

You talked to Yoongi in the year your brother died. You spent too many days to count in the dense forest in search for him and it happened that one day, you got lost. You tried and tried to find your way back, but couldn’t. Night replaced the day and you already saw yourself freezing to death when he came. At first you thought him to be a bear, but then he asked you if you were lost and you knew that you were saved. You told him about why you were in the forest and he offered you comfort in your painful times of grief. He allowed you to talk about your brother as he walked you back to the village, he even allowed you to cry and assured you that your tears were not “entirely silly”. Once he led you back to your cottage, he gave you a bag of dragon ash and told you to spread it on each window and door to keep the rest of your family safe and you thanked him with promises of praying to him in the worship hall tomorrow. Back then, you thought that you were blessed and lucky to have an interaction with him, but you never could have imagined that this one time interaction became a regular thing.

Ever since that day, he began waiting for you by the forest road, offering you companionship in your search for your brother and like this, your walks in the forest became a regular thing until one day, you took his hand and he took yours, never wanting to let go again.

The people in the village didn’t know about your relationship with Yoongi. It was your wish to keep it secret because you knew that they would ruin it. They would force you to marry him, to bear his children, to become their goddess. You didn’t want this life, you wanted to take care of your parents and help the people with your smithies, not be someone to worship.

Yoongi didn’t mind that you wanted to keep him a secret. He liked it. He had many treasures taken from him because they were precious to him and if it was revealed that you were the most precious treasure of all, it would kill you and him in the process. He cannot lose you, not ever. Not when he walked the earth alone for so long, not when his fiery heart finally had someone to burn for.

Yoongi was lonely before he met you. He had other dragons to talk to, but he enjoyed the company of only a very, very few. He also had lots of suitors, which could have made the nights easier, but Yoongi wasn’t one for meaningless fucking. Yoongi craved connection above all. He craved intimacy and trust and conversation. He craved someone to care for and someone to see him as another living being not as a god. You give him all of this and more, but Yoongi knows that even if you didn’t give him any of that, he would love you. He loves you without reason after all. He loves you simply because it was right.

You break the kiss for air, vision just a little blurry as you look at him. You are eye to eye when you are in his arms, hands running along his scaly neck and strong shoulders. A black tunic sits on his torso, allowing his higher body heat to reach your palms. Even in the iciest nights he will warm you. Sometimes in winter, when your parents were already sleeping and the village was quiet, Yoongi sneaks into your cottage through the window (which is always hilarious because he is very big in comparison to the small frame) so he could warm you as you fell asleep. He is always gone the next morning, only having left behind a fresh bag of dragon ash and a few gold coins you could spent in the big city on food.

“You are so warm”, you say, making his eyes smile.

“You are such a delight.”

Your eyes race between the other’s, you and he feel breathless. Your fingers run up to his slightly pointy ears, scratching him behind them.

Yoongi purrs, tilting his head back as his lids flutter.

“If you touch me like this…”

“I know.”

It is a silent understanding between you and him. Yoongi sighs your name and pulls you into a kiss. His fangs clash with yours before he naturally fixes his roughness, kissing you oh so tenderly. Tenderly, but also incredibly hungry. You moan, fingers twisting his black locks and legs closing around his waist. He answers you in a guttural growl, fingers grasping you harder.

This is also why you walked the difficult path. Not only did you want to see him, you wanted his body and touch. You craved it like fire craves wood to burn.

Yoongi walks to his bed with you, laying you atop the big mattress. He climbs over you, caging you under his big, strong body. You open your legs willingly, hands slipping from his hair to grasp the sheets instead.

The kiss breaks because he broke it. His hot breath graces your skin. He cradles your cheek, thumb caressing your temple.

“My treasure, I”, he begins, fingers dimpling your soft thigh possessively, “I need you. I need you so much, I can scarcely breathe. Will you have me?”

You nod your head vigorously, stomach fluttering in what was to come.

“I need to hear it, please.”

“I will. I will have you”, you allow him, parting your legs.

Yoongi moans your name and kisses you, pulling you up into a sitting position to take off your sword. Your fingers are busy with his shirt, undoing the knots and bows. You break apart for just a moment, taking off your clothes. You cannot bother to be dressed.

A moment of calm after the undressing, used to stare at each other. You are both kneeling on the bed, facing each other. He is panting, growling deeply each time he exhales like a dragon ready to spit fire. The sound makes you wetter each time he does it. His torso is muscular and his scales hug his form as if he was wearing armour. They are mostly around his chest and upper back and fade out on his lower torso. His legs and crotch are free of scales, skin golden and sun-kissed and looking so human. You touch him, tracing the scales first before making your way down to his legs.

He lets you, eyes mesmerised by the plumpness of your breasts and the curves of your bared body. He reaches out, sending his fingers on a walk along your landscape.

“You are so beautiful”, he speaks softly, eyes gazing at the goosebumps his touch draws to the surface.

“You are just as beautiful”, you tell him, caressing the silken skin of his stomach.

You reach his hips. His skin is so soft there and sensitive to scratches. You give him exactly that, making his cock twitch between his thighs.

Yoongi’s cock wasn’t human and the first time you saw it in its full size, you understood why so many dragons ended up hurting their lovers. It was the cock of a dragon, made for dragon. If he was in his true form, you are actually unable to take it because of its enormous size. If he was in his human form, it shrunk with him, but it was still insanely big in comparison to human cocks. His cock curved slightly in the shape of an S. He wasn’t smooth as humans were, instead his length had an engorged tip with a textured shaft, which stimulated even your deepest spots. When he released inside you, his base swelled up, keeping his cock lodged inside you until your quivering walls had enough of drinking his nectar.

You were scared at first and Yoongi, feeling just a little insecure that you couldn’t like his cock, told you that you could still escape if you so wished to do. The fear in his voice drew you closer to him back then and you assured him that you could make it work because you wanted nobody else to fill you than him. He took your virginity that night and for not one second, you felt pain or discomfort, lying in his arms afterwards while his fingertips drew shapes of adoration on your skin and he whispered how much he adored you.

The memories of countless shared nights draw you closer to him and your hand to his cock, tracing his textured shaft. Despite his many pumps and crevices, his skin was soft to the touch. He was hotter than humans and it made his length feel incredible inside. It is best described as a feeling of burning from the inside in the most pleasurable of ways and once he releases inside, oh, once his hot cream fills your belly to the point of bloating, the heat is so intense that you often end up screaming in ecstasy.

You close your fingers around his base tightly and drag them up to his tip. The pressure is enough to squeeze droplets of precum out of his slit, eliciting a deep growl from him.

He frowns, exhaling a hot swirl of breath on your face. It wasn’t painful, simply insanely arousing. His fingers dimple your hips as he grabs you. You wobble slightly from the intense touch, hand trembling around his large cockhead.

“You are playing with fire”, he lulls, eyelids heavy in pleasure.

“I like it hot”, you taunt, twisting your fist around his tip.

“You drive me insane”, he gets out and slaps your hand away for the sole purpose of pushing you into the sheets. He pins your hands above your head. “One day it will end in your punishment.”

You moan, writhing under him. You wouldn’t mind being punished if it meant that you could feel his touch.

“Stay like this.”

You whimper, nodding your head in obedience.

“I will be gentle, I promise.”

He lowers his lips to your neck, kissing a path down to your heat. He is hasty in his kisses, letting his impatience shine through this way. Dragons, so he told you, are a greedy people. Once they lust for something - or in his case, someone - they would do anything to claim it as quickly as possible. Stuff like taking it slow and preparing you are foreign to his people, but he does it for you. He is so good in being patient, but sometimes his greed shines through. Tonight for example when he kisses a greedy and hasty path down your body just so he could be between your legs faster.

He places one kiss on each of your inner thighs, strong fingers gripping your flesh afterwards to pull your legs apart. His fiery eyes race over your exposed cunt, flickering hungrily.

“You are so wet already”, he rasps.

“I wanted you all week.”

“I wanted you more, you have no idea.”

Patience finally leaves him and he claims what he lusts for most, drawing a yelp of pleasure from you. You arch your back, legs shaking in his hold and fingers grasping his thick hair as he feasts on your cunt sloppily.

Yoongi pleases you with his mouth for two reasons, he told you. The first reason is his insatiable hunger and greed. You are sweeter than anything he could ever taste and your cunt’s nectar makes his head blurry in pleasure. The second reason is the more important one. It is to make you ready for his dragonic cock. The spit of a dragon is relaxing to a human, it contains elements which not only heighten the sensitivity of their nerve endings, but which also relaxes the muscles so their holes could take a dragon’s cock easily. Yoongi confessed to you back then that the reason why so many dragons hurt their human lovers is because they don’t take time to properly relax them. They let their lust and greed control them and as a result hurt their humans.

Yoongi would never. Yoongi takes his time with you. He licks every inch of your dripping heat, buries his long tongue deep in your walls and pumps it into you until your tightened walls loosened up and you are gaping for his cock. He licks you to orgasm whenever he prepares you and you always shake in his grip, forcing his greed to grow to unbearable levels. Yoongi loves your orgasms as much as he loves gold.

Tonight is no different, Yoongi draws an overwhelming orgasm out of you. You scream, legs trying to close on his head and weakened body helplessly shaking on the sheets. Yoongi growls into you, pushing his fingers deep into your loose cunt so he could feel your walls tremble.

He keeps them inside you after your high ebbed down, curling them greedily while his soiled lips kiss up your body. He grabs your wrists and holds them together, big body draped over yours and fingers rubbing your sensitive insides.

“You’re sweating”, he rasps, gazing at you obsessively.

“Please fuck me, please”, you beg, voice so close to a sob. His fingers aren’t enough. “I need your cock, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

“I will be gentle, I promise”, he says, slipping his fingers from your cunt to jerk his own cock. He guides it to your gaping cunt, rubbing it through your folds. “You are so beautiful, my treasure”, he breathes, giving you all his adoration by pushing into you.

You gasp, tensing up under him at the feeling of his engorged tip pushing past your entrance.

“Are you hurting?” he asks, moving as slowly as possible.

You shake your head, gazing up at him droopily.

“Tell me if it does. You are doing so well, my treasure”, he whispers, fingers rubbing your swollen clit to make the breach easier.

“It feels so good…”

You can feel his large tip as it digs deeper and deeper, but what truly feels like heaven are the many pumps and crevices filling you. Your entrance is on pleasurable fire, feeling every texture inch by inch. His saliva made your walls sensitive to the very end, forcing you to feel his textured cock even deep inside. He curves so perfectly that his large tip presses against you deepest pleasure spot, forcing your belly to bulge just a little because he was so, so big.

“I’m in. Does it hurt?” he asks, keeping still for your sake. His greed tells him to take you rough. It takes everything inside him not to give into his animalistic side.

You spill tears.

“No. No, I’m sorry I-” he panics, but gets stopped when you rip your hands free from his grasp to cradle his face instead.

“I love you, Yoongi.”

He shudders, melting into your hands.

“I love you too”, he gets out and twists the pillow above your head as he begins pumping his cock into you. “Does this please you?”

“A-ah”, you let out, trembling in reaction.

“Is it too much?”

“No, please…don’t stop”, you croak, rolling your eyes back as you fall into the pleasurable fire. Your lips part, making way for the endless noises of bliss he draws out of you. It feels so good. He feels so good.

“You are so beautiful. Oh, I need you. I want you. I crave you, argh”, he growls, twisting the pillow rougher as his greedy hips pick up speed. Your moans drive him wild, the view of your glowing face has the same effect on him than the view of fresh gold does. He feels high, head pounding as he feeds his insatiable lust with each heavy, deep thrust.

Your body is so small under him, looking so fragile and breakable and yet you take him so easily. Yoongi rips the pillow, grinding his fangs as he growls. He buries his cock deeper in your gaping walls, forcing your back to arch off the mattress and for your voice to rise in pitch. He lets his tail grow just so he could wrap it around your waist and hold you in this position while he rubbed your pulsating clit and fucked your soft cunt.

“You’re mine. My treasure, my everything, my beloved”, he chants, deep voice contorted in pleasure.

He is still in disbelief that you can take him so easily. So small, so fragile, so soft and yet you can house him entirely. The first time he laid with you, Yoongi barely went past his first two inches, moving carefully and slowly just so he wouldn’t hurt you. He would have been fine if that was all that you could ever take, but you proved him so wrong. He can be free with you. You can fully take him and it makes you moan so blissfully that Yoongi feels high just from the sound of it.

He is so blessed to have you. His treasure, his beloved, his everything. His tail tightens around your waist possessively, angling your hips so he could go so much deeper.

You wail his name, fingers gripping his strong arms and legs dropping as they stop working. Only his tail holds you up right now while you shake under him.

“Are you?”

“Yes”, you wail, moaning loudly afterwards.

“I need you, I fucking need you”, he spits, cursing because you anger him in pure lust, “I’m going to fill you with my seed until you’re bursting. I will paint your walls golden, you will be mine. Mine forever, urgh.”

“Please! Please make me yours, please!”

Yoongi lets out a dragonic growl, ripping the pillow apart and throwing his head back as your pleas break him. His big balls empty themselves in your trembling heat, giving you so much pleasure that you orgasm again with screams of his name. There is so much of his seed and it doesn’t want to stop, filling you up past your limits so it squirts out of you with each angry thrust. And Yoongi keeps going until his base swells and he genuinely cannot move his cock anymore.

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, huffing and puffing demonically. His cock is still releasing into you, making you sob because the pressure of his engorged base and swollen tip against your overly sensitive walls makes you orgasm again.

“Yoongi, I can’t do this. I can’t, it feels too good”, you plead, walls clenching around his swollen cock as they drink his golden seed greedily.

“I know, my treasure, I know”, he soothes you, “I can’t stop. I’m so greedy, I can’t stop. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this, Yoongi. Yoongi please”, you beg, barely able to breathe. While dragon’s spit relaxes, their seed gives a human a rush of pleasure. The first time it happened, you cried because it was so overwhelming. You still need to cry often whenever he breeds you and tonight all that holds you back is the loving embrace of his tail around your waist. It feels so good but also like too much because you cannot stop orgasming.

“Not again, ah please Yoongi!!”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s almost over, I promise. Please hold onto me, it’s almost over”, he soothes you, massaging your engorged clit to make it easier to bear.

Your stomach is so bloated from his seed, you are sweating so much. He can feel one more load building up.

“I need you to breathe for me. One last time, I promise”, he lulls and rolls his hips into you.

You writhe and scream, scratching down his neck with all your might. You don’t draw blood because his scales protect him, but he still feels it as a pleasurable tingle.

Yoongi lifts his head to look at you. It lasts one second because then his eyes roll back as the view of your ruined, drugged body sets him off.

“I love you”, he wails, bursting into you one last time. He makes you orgasm with him, walls tightening to the point of milking him dry.

This is what you both needed. To be so connected.

He drops his head back into your neck, fingers slipping from the ruined pillow to pet your head instead.

“My treasure, oh my treasure, my golden beloved”, he croaks, kissing you gently, “I’m sorry for being so greedy, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. I’m so happy”, you get out, body laying limp and ruined under him. His swollen cock is still inside you, keeping every droplet of his golden seed in you. It warms you so much, makes you feel so good.

“You are? You’re happy?” he asks.

“So happy.” You hug him with your weak arms, barely able to close them around his broad back. “I’m yours.”

He whimpers, seeking your closeness by hugging you against his chest with his strong arm and his tail.

“Oh my most loved treasure.” He kisses a slow path up to your face, cradling your cheek with his unoccupied hand. “Will you stay the night? I promise to fly you down to the village by morning.”

“Yes, I’d like to stay. I couldn’t possibly walk tonight. Not after how you ruined me.”

A shy giggle slips from his lips. You open your eyes, meeting his giddy gaze. His cheeks are flushed, his dark hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead. The view of him makes his cock feel so much better inside you. You are his. So entirely and willingly his.

“I couldn’t help it. I missed you so much and, and you are so tempting. Did I hurt you?”

“No, it felt so good. You still do”, you say, clenching around his swollen cock. He shudders slightly, drawing closer to you.

“I promise my cock will soften soon, you just feel so good. I’m trying, but he wants to bask in you longer, I’m sorry.”

“I hope he doesn’t soften soon. I don’t want this to end.”

He blushes, but needs to seek more reassurance still.

“Please forgive me for the way I acted when I bred you. I acted like a greedy animal.”

“Mhm, you did. Because you are a greedy animal. My greedy dragon, mine”, you say caressing his soft cheek.

He leans into your touch, eyes lowering in adoration. You giggle, scrunching your nose cutely. He smiles, brushing some messy strands of hair out of your forehead.

“I love you, my little human.”

“And I love you, my strong dragon.”

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charliemwrites · 10 months ago

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As promised some time ago: Gaz!

The new house is… well, you don’t dislike it. It’s beautiful, already renovated while you were busy selling the old house. Just new, unfamiliar. You’re unaccustomed to the noises it makes, the shadows it casts, the echoes off the walls.

You’re not too proud to admit (to yourself and your dogs) that you’re a bit of a chicken the first couple weeks. Too many nights watching spooky media about people living in walls or stalking new tenants — despite Skipper’s best efforts. So you keep one or more of the dogs with you at all times, fingers in their fur and lights on as you go. Ghost has been especially tolerant, leaning against your leg when the sun goes down and the house feels too strange.

You’ve always been grateful for the peace of mind that four huge wolf-dogs brings, but never more than now. With several sets of teeth surrounding your bed and guarding your locked doors, they’ve made the transition so much easier on your nerves.

The new forest behind the house is also some cause for concern. The first day you brought them home, you went out by yourself for quick inspection of the yard and immediate area. Sharp-eyed looking for glass, metal, or anything else dubious.

You came back to four extremely grumpy pups and were basically bullied out of leaving them alone again. Skipper was especially huffy that night.

But things feel like they’re beginning to settle. You’ve gotten a bigger couch, bigger floor cushions. There’s a second story to this new house — or more of a half-floor really. A loft? It consists of the master bedroom, master bathroom, and a sort of open-spaced landing that you’re using as a satellite collection zone for toys.

Sometimes, when you’re on the couch, you’ll catch a bit of movement and get spooked by one of the boys staring from the railing that overlooks the den. Have fussed at wagging Johnny twice now for it.

Still, the transition to your new home has been as smooth as you could ask for with four giant, protective dogs. You miss the old place a bit; have the irrational fear that you’re going to miss another displaced dog in need of a home, but you try not to think about it.

Maybe you should have thought about it a little more.

One evening, you let the boys out for their pre-bed potty. There’s a cup of chamomile tea in your hand, a blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. Winter will be setting in soon. It’s already cold enough to set your teeth on edge. Never mind that it’s been raining all day, only just letting up to light patter at sunset.

Commotion at the edge of the (much larger) yard catches your attention. All of your boys seem to be gathered around something. They’re not barking or growling, and from the dim porch light, you don’t see hackles raised but still. Anything that catches their attention is worth investigating.

Cursing under your breath, you set your mug aside, slip into some shoes, and snatch up your phone for the flashlight. It’s only when you’re halfway there that you remember to pray that it’s not something dead. Or dying. Or creepy.

“Please don’t let this be a spooky doll or something,” you whisper to yourself.

Skipper must hear you, because his head pops up. He doesn’t… look concerned. But he’s a dog, how would he know that something in the yard is of human concern?

He trots away from their little congregation to meet you, almost like he’s escorting you to whatever they’re gathered around. You realize why when the flashlight illuminates a ball of soaked fur.

“Oh,” you breathe, “oh no…”

You gently nudge Konig aside to kneel down, a dry sob bubbling up in the back of your throat when you hear a quiet, miserable mew. A pair of brilliant green eyes squint and shy from the light, wide and sad.

“Oh, baby,” you coo. “Please come here. C’mon.”

You slowly, carefully extend a hand. Palm up, just a couple fingers. You’re not as familiar with cats anymore, but you remember enough to know that there‘ll be no scooping it up, even if it needs help. It’ll have to come to you of its own accord.

Relief floods you when you get the briefest cursory sniffle, and then the kitty is bumping its head against your hand for a scritch. You take a moment to pet what you can, heart breaking a bit with each shiver in the cold.

You keep coaxing it closer, gentle words and patient petting, getting bolder with your touch. When it’s finally close enough, the faintest purr rattling in its chest, you decide to try.

Apart from a nervous glance, the cat remarkably tolerant about letting you wrap your now-wet blanket around it, then scooping it up.

“Oof, you’re a big kid, huh?” You mutter, pausing to get a better hold. The darkness and hunkering down to preserve body heat was deceptive. This cat feels huge. “That’s alright, I’m used to it.”

You breathe a huge sigh when you enter the house again. It’s toasty inside — or at least it feels that way after sitting in the cold rain for fifteen minutes.

The boys files in after you, politely shaking off at the door before stepping into the mudroom. (Another upgrade you’ve been extremely grateful for.

You pause, try to get your bearings. You’ve got four soaked dogs, one possibly hypothermic cat, and you.

Christ, sometimes you wish you had an extra pair of hands.

“Okay. Let’s get the heater first.”

It’s already going, so you just turn it up a bit more, warm enough to start drying everyone. Then you go to the cupboard, sparing an arm from your oversized bundle to extract a towel.

You cross back to the heater and sit down, gently nestling your cat-burrito into the well of your legs.

The same big green eyes blink up at you, another mewl comes from it.

“Hi,” you croon, “isn’t that better already? Much warmer in here.”

You present the towel for inspection, let it sniff and decide it’s non-threatening before gently wiping it along the clumped fur. The dogs, to your surprise, don’t crowd to investigate. Skipper stops by to give the cat a sniff, before ultimately flopping down against your hip. But the other three arrange themselves around you, watching, but giving you and the kitty some space.

Remarkably thoughtful of them, and you tell them as much, praising their good behavior. The kitty, in the meantime, just… stares. It’s been a long time since you interacted with one, but you don’t remember your grandma’s tabby being so…

“Can I help you, little one?” You ask, grinning when it blinks at you slowly. You brush a finger under its chin, grinning when its eyes go half-lidded and nearly cross. “You’re worse than my Johnny boy with the staring.”

You receive a huff for that and laugh softly, making kissy noises at him until his tail thumps against the absorbent floor mat.

The cat is back to staring, though, ears up. You hum and keep up the half-scratching, half-drying technique until its fur starts to fluff up and you can take proper stock of the animal you’ve just rescued.

You weren’t kidding about it being big. Biggest cat you’ve ever seen — you’d almost think it was wild if not for the sweet face. You’re sure you might have seen the breed somewhere before…

Maine coon, maybe? Or… Siberian something or other? It’s fluffy, that’s for sure. But even without all the fluff that’s beginning to poof out like a dirty cotton ball, it’s a big cat. Big enough to be an average dog.

You huff in amusement that more it dries out.

“You look like a little storm cloud,” you giggle. “Well, little being relative.”

You receive a more normal-sounding meow for that. It thrills you that it’s already sounding better. Less sad, for sure.

The purring even start up again, developing into a deep hum like a running motor. It’s instantly soothing, the same way listening to the dogs’ breathing is. It lulls you until you’re nearly dozing sitting up. Only the wet nose of Skipper against your cheek rousing you.

“Jesus, right,” you say, jolting. Take a drowsy look around. All the boys seem dry or mostly dry. The only damp spot left on your new feline friend seems to be the feet, which won’t take much longer. “Let’s get inside proper.”

You lock up the mudroom and turn the heater low again, then urge everyone into the den. The cat doesn’t even hesitate, threading cleverly between your moving legs as you shuffle to the kitchen.

You prep an extra bowl of food and leave it up for the cat where the dogs can’t get it. Give it one last stroke from head to tail before trudging for the bathroom.

Normally, you’d be more concerned about leaving a cat in a house full of dogs. But the boys proved already that they have no interest in hurting the cat, despite the earlier crowding. Figure there are plenty of places to hide if they do make the kitty uncomfortable regardless.

The hot shower only serves to thicken the drowsiness blanketing you, leaving you heavy-lidded and sluggish. You pull the curtain aside to the usual audience of huge eyes, a new pair among them — the cat perched on the bathroom sink.

When you lean to grab your towel, they stick their face close for a sniff and you pause, always patient for curious creatures. When the little nose gets too close to your mouth, you twist and drop a quick peck to its snout before leaning back. The flabbergasted look makes you laugh as you begin toweling off.

“What a funny little thing you are,” you coo. “Would you like to be mind.”

“Mrrrow!”

“Yeah, I made a good first showing, huh?”

You have absolutely zero supplies for a cat, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, you just want to climb into bed and conk out. Home-making and animal-saving takes a lot out of you.

As always, the furry procession to your room leaves you warm and happy. Johnny always the first to hop into bed, licking your shoulder when you climb in beside him. Konig takes your other side, much more willing to snuggle now that you have the California King mattress to accommodate your pack. Ghost licks at Skipper’s chin in the doorway, then jumps up to lie by your hip, cuddling Johnny.

Skipper comes up last, padding over to receive one last kiss from you before lying by your feet, on the side closest to the door. You’re less concerned about kicking him now with the extra room, and enjoy the heat for your toes.

You almost startle at the soft thump next to your head. Turn and blink to see big green eyes blinking down at you, a purr nearly rattling your brain.

“Oh, hi,” you murmur, “make yourself at home.”

The cat does just that, curling himself onto a pillow and pressing his forehead into your neck. You nearly melt as you flick off the light. It’s warm and quiet and dark, just the breathing of warm bodies and soft tap of rain.

“I love you all so much,” you whisper, fingers threading into Konig’s coat. “My loves.”

The house’s new echoes are still unfamiliar, so it’s just a product of being half-asleep that makes you think you hear voices in the middle of the night.

Main Story | Price pt. 2

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #1fur1 #dog john mactavish #dog john price #dog konig #dog simon Riley #cat Kyle Garrick #woof woof au

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jar0fhoney · 3 months ago

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PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 (NSFW) - PART 4 - PART 5 (NSFW)

Your family did fine. You were more comfortable than some, but not so comfortable that you could sit idle. The crops had started to bud, and the shop was filled with all manner of pickled vegetables, fresh eggs, and flowers. You counted the coppers and silvers in the little lock box under the counter. Business was the same as usual, but your brow still furrowed.

Mother was getting tired. The decades of tilling, sowing, reaping, and harvesting had started to toll on her. Especially after your father left. The bastard. Your mother labored at home with an aching back and bad knees. Before long the crops would flourish and need tending. It was more than enough work for two, unfathomable for just you alone.

Jeering came from outside the shop. A band of orc hunters with their catches. They were a threatening bunch. Hard and strong. One orc could have the strength of two men. In the great cities they faced more discrimination, but out here someone either hunted for their meat, or payed other people to do the hunting for them. And the orcs… they were masterful at what they did. And so they were welcomed.

The rusted hinges of your shop door creaked. “Did you miss me?”

Any desire to feign positivity drained from your person. You didn’t even try to hide the sour look on your face. Milo was a repugnant leech that had been stalking your family for years. He had tried courting each one of your elder sisters, losing them each time to men better than him. And now you were the last sister on the list. Unmarried. And running out of time. The latter fact he was quite aware of.

”How is Celina?” You never liked how he called your mother by her first name. It was too familiar. You don’t bother to look up from your coin counting. “My Mother’s wellbeing is none of your concern.” Milo sauntered up to the counter, “y/n-“

You slammed your fist, sending a few coins into the air. “When will you get the idea that my family wants nothing to do with you?” You still couldn’t look him in the eye. He sighed, picking up one of the coppers from the floor, “You would rather your mother toil in the field? You would rather surrender yourself to the life of a shopkeep? It’s a waste.”

You had no answer for him. Because he was right to question your choices. Yes you truly enjoyed running the family shop, but you couldn’t possibly keep this up for long without your mother. She deserved peace and rest. But he was just… a nuisance at best. Frightening at worst. His family owned half the town, and how easy it would be for them to blacklist you and your mother from ever doing business in their marketplace again.

”Anyways…” He dropped the coin down onto your counter with a clank, “Winter will come. And will you be prepared? If your mother cannot help you work the fields…”

”Are you trying to give me an ultimatum?” You had pushed the idea of next winter out of your head the second the ice started to melt. But he was right, what would you do? He didn’t entertain your question with a response. No… it wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a threat. A threat that when winter came you would get what was coming to you. He made his way out the door, the rusty hinges screeching. “You should really fix that.” He gave a nasty grin and let the door slam behind him.

You pushed all the thoughts of worry from your head. It was something you had grown skilled at doing. Gods be damned if you let him spoil such a lovely morning. You threw the windows of the shop open, arranging bouquets from your flower garden for the street to see.

At night when you and your mother pray over dinner, you beg anyone listening for an eternal spring.

Two weeks pass uneventfully. You sell many bouquets of flowers to well-to-do ladies, and your mother’s special pickled red onions fly off the shelves as usual. In the early morning you sit counting your coins, listening to the soft bustling of the market just beginning to wake up.

”You know you can pickle these eggs right?”

You keep your eyes trained on the coins, trying not to lose count. There is a long pause, but you can tell the man hasn’t walked away, “We don’t sell any here.”

“You should.” You raise your head to cock an eyebrow at him. You try to stifle a gasp from your chest. An orc man with olive green skin is leaned slightly through the window of your shop. You had never had an orc approach your little shop. They always had bigger and better things to sell and buy.

”We don’t sell those here.” A more rational person would have thought twice before talking back to an orc hunter. But you were tired of men questioning you. A young lady entered the shop, eyeing the orc man still leaning on your window sill. The door squealed unpleasantly, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Fine,” The orc smirked and shrugged, exiting your window.

The next day, there was a basket waiting for you on your shop’s doorstep. You groan. This wouldn’t be the first time Milo left gifts for you to find. You take a peek into the bracket and… what was this? Spices? Salt? Garlic cloves? Underneath the goods were two silver coins.

You yelped at the sound of fingers rapping against the window pane. You reeled around expecting Milo. But… it was the orc man. The orc man from the day before. He pointed at the little latch holding the window closed. You were sure he could punch his way right through the window if he really wanted in. “I don’t want any trouble!” You yelled at him through the window.

Another smirk crept onto his face, “I bring no trouble with me, Miss. I just thought you might like a chance to make some more coin.”

What this lecherous orc seriously propositioning you for pay? Before he could say another thing, you hurled an egg at him. You hoped it would have just broken against the window to frighten him off. But to your horror it crashed through the glass, making a direct impact with his face. “Fuck!” You heard him fall on his ass in the street.

You rushed to the window. The orc was splayed out on the cobblestones, his forehead bleeding from the broken glass. He lay motionless, and you started to panic. Oh Gods. Oh Gods no. You just assaulted an orc. A big strong orc man who kills things for his living. Not even Milo or his family’s status could protect you from the wrath of an angry orc. You threw open the screeching rusted front door. Oh gods he was huge. He knew where you worked. He could follow you home. What if he brought his fellow huntsmen with him? What if they hurt your mother as well?

You couldn’t stop any of the thoughts racing through your head. You were worried about making it through winter… now you might not even make it through the summer. You bit down on your fist, trying to keep composure.

”Got a hell of an arm…” The orc grunted, pulling you out of your trance. He sat himself up, bringing his fingers to the drops of blood running down his temple. “Ha!” He guffawed and made his way to stand up.

”Please… please.” You weren’t sure if you were praying to a high power or pleading to him. His eyes met yours but there was no rage, or fury. There was a look of annoyance, maybe a bit of mild amusement. Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck he said, “Miss. I only meant… you should make pickled eggs. There are a lot of orc boys out here far from the motherland. They would pay a premium for a taste of home.”

You were nearly speechless, “I- I don’t know how orcs prefer their pickled eggs-

“That basket has everything you need.”

“Oh… okay. Very well. Sir.” Your voice wavered and he could see how clearly frightened you were.

The orc groaned, wiping more blood off his face. “Sorry about this. See you around.” You hoped that wasn’t a threat, but with that he jogged his way down the street.

Blasted pickled eggs.

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gilverrwrites · 6 months ago

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Best friends to lovers, but it's Dick Grayson.

≈1.3K words, CWs: F!Reader, cunnilingus, dirty talk. Pet-names: Princess, baby girl, pretty girl. Rating: 18+ MINOR DNI

Your best friend Dick Grayson has no boundaries.

He helps himself to your food, swapping and changing dumplings for noodles, carrots for celery, dips his fries in your milkshake, without even asking.

He leaves his dirty clothes in your washing hamper, ‘borrows’ your lotions, and leaves his streaming services logged in on all your devices. In the winter he puts his cold hands under your shirt, stealing your warmth, and laughs when you flinch. “But you’re so hot!” He whines, hugging you tighter, “Let me hold you a while longer, please.”

In the summer he struts around your apartment, shirtless and sheening with sweat, eating your ice cream, pumping up the AC so he and Haley can chill out post-run. Not that you mind, it’s just that ‘oh, no, he’s my best friend’ is a hard sell when you bring dates home.

At random hours of the early morning, he wakes you up by crawling into bed with you, clings to the over-sized shirt you're sleeping in that is clearly his and makes fun of your tattered old underwear. “They’re comfy!” “They’re… something...” He trails off, all dreamy and quiet, refusing to expand before falling asleep, and is gone by the time you wake up.

Your best friend Dick Grayson brings you gifts from all over the world. Chocolates from that one mom-and-pop you once mentioned in Keystone, jewellery, and perfume he probably paid way too much for from market vendors in cities like Paris and Istanbul, risqué pieces of underwear from Milan.

On late nights, he rests his head on your tummy, settled between your thighs as you watch your favourite film series for the nth time, smiling to himself as you babble on about your favourite scenes, about facts he already knows because you already told him, but he wants to hear you say it again anyway. When you start falling asleep on the couch, he lifts you, bridal style with ease, and carries you to the bedroom. “Come on then princess, let’s get you to bed.” “I can do it myself.” “You can’t even keep your eyes open, let me.”

He brushes stray pieces of hair out of your face when you’re too engrossed in something to do it yourself, when your hands are too full to reach, or when he wants to get a better look at you, just because he loves looking at your face.

“Um, what are you doing?” He nonchalantly hooks his finger into the waistband of your trousers, disappointed when he gets a not-too-subtle peek at neither your endearing threadbare usuals, nor the lacey Italian ones he’d bought for you.

Your best friend Dick Grayson flirts with you blatant and publicly;

“The red or the blue?” “Neither.” “I have to wear something!” “I’d love to see you wearing nothing.” “Wear the blue, always the blue.” Jason would never let it go otherwise. “What do you want?” “You.” “I meant to eat.” “Same answer.” “I could never be you.” “What? Why?” “Must be tiring, being that cute.”

He texts you when you’re not together. “Good morning pretty girl” “saw this and thought of you.” “What are you wearing?”

One day you text back a picture, a mirror selfie from behind, your skirt hiked up, showing off the tiny navy-blue thong and he doesn’t text back. You worry that you’ve taken it too far, overstepped a line.

Until your best friend Dick Grayson is waiting for you when you arrive home, sporting a nasty black eye and a smile the size of titan tower. In actuality, that image was exactly what he’d been hoping for every time he messaged. That image had been ingrained in his mind since you sent it, and it was one thousand times better than he’d imagined. That image was his hook, time to reel you in.

“Sorry I didn’t text back, I was speechless. No really, I got this” he points to the purple bruise forming around his eye “because I was distracted, thinking about you.”

“It’s cool, you didn’t have to say anything.” You lie. “Not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

“Can I see it again?”

In the middle of your cramped kitchen, your best friend Dick Grayson lifts your skirt above your waist and drops to his knees, brazenly eying your folds. On request, you take the skirt from his hands, holding it up, exposing yourself as you do a little twirl for him, letting him see the full picture.

When he lands a playful smack on your ass-cheek he grins, thrilled by the playfully petulant look you fire at him over your shoulder. When he runs a finger over your clothed slit, he’s even more delighted by the way your body shivers, by the hint of wetness he can feel seeping through the thin piece of fabric.

You don’t stop him when he hooks a finger in the crotch, pulling the obstructing lace to the side, or when he runs his fingers through your now exposed lips. Deft fingers tease you, ghosting over your clit with no real fiction, making your pussy clench around nothing.

“Want something?” The sight of him at your feet, watching you through defiant eyes has you weak.

“Yes, touch me.” The sight of you, spread and writhing has him near feral, but he wants something more.

“I’m already touching you, Princess.” He laughs, his warm breath against your slick tingles. If his breath is enough to make you quiver, he can’t wait to find out what his tongue will do to you. “Ask for something else. Nicely.”

You’re not sure exactly what he wants you to say, so you stammer the first words that come to mind; “Please Dick, stop teasing. Just do whatever you want to do, I want it too.”

It’s enough.

Your best friend Dick Grayson lifts you by your knees, setting you on the counter and securing your thighs over his shoulders as he descends on your folds. He’s messy and desperate, unable to get enough of your sweetness, darting his tongue in every direction until he finds the select few motions that have your fingers curling in his hair, have you panting his name between loose lips.

When you start to roll your hips, using his mouth for your own pleasure he can’t help but moan, the reverb sending further vibrations through your body that has your toes curling. He’s rock hard, itching to palm his cock, to grind it against the closest surface, but that’s an afterthought. He won’t get off until he’s lapped up your climax at least once.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” His words are slurred, muffled between your legs, unwilling to pull away long enough to get his words out cohesively. “I want you to cum all over my face, okay baby girl?”

If he wasn’t already salivating against you, Dick’s mouth would water at the sight of you. Your body begins to jerk, your back arching, head thrown back as your orgasm hits you, his firm hands tighten around your legs, locking your lower body in place until all your tension is gone, and his face is soaked with your fluids.

As you come down from your high, he savours the flavour, occasionally licking up stray droplets from your skin. He admires the way you look, head lolled to the side, eyes static under heavy lids, jaw slack, until it’s too much, until he needs to see you high on his doing once more. Without warning he lifts you. The collar of his shirt is damp, his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for round two.” Your best friend Dick Grayson says as he cradles your body in his arms.

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing #nightwing x reader #reader insert #dc #gilverrwrites #dick Grayson/reader #imagine #smut

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is-this-yuri · 2 months ago

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Only 2k more needed to turn my life around!

Please help me purchase a van so I can escape homelessness.

GFM

I'm currently living in a small car, and I need better conditions if I'm going to have a chance at making an income. My plan is to purchase a used van, sell my car, and put everything I need in the van to make it a home. It'll have electricity, running water and a shower, climate control, a kitchen, etc.

Living in a van will make my life significantly easier and open opportunities for me to make money one way or another. With your donation, I'll be able to have housing without worrying about predatory landlords or the housing market.

The goal is 10k, but I only need around 2k more to purchase a van. This is the urgent part. Once I have the van, I can sell my car and use that money to begin the conversion process while I wait for the rest of the goal. With only 2k more I will be able to quickly create an insulated home more suitable for the oncoming winter than my car.

Please help change my life 🙏

#fundraiser #gofundme #gfm #mutual aid #donation request #vanlife

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moonshine-nightlight · 5 months ago

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Voluntary Sacrifice

inspired by this prompt/setup by @snowkissedmonsters as well as their art

The local werebear is in heat and its become a town concern. You, who's always been fascinated by him and doesn't much to lose reputationally, volunteer to help him through it.

If only he believed you were doing so voluntarily, instead of being forced by the council.

Can you convince him of your sincerity before the full moon rises?

Male werebear x human reader, Heat, NSFW

Status: Complete (One-shot)

Length: 12k

AO3: Voluntary Sacrifice

Prompt:

You live in a human town in a fantasy world. In recent history, werecreatures enlisted to fight alongside humans throughout a bitter war in the territory. The result of that alliance is a (sometimes tense) tolerance between these two species who generally do not get along.

In the wilderness near your town, a werebear veteran has made his home. Bearish in appearance and manner, he vastly prefers solitude and is actively hostile to visitors. Sometimes he comes into town to sell meat and pelts from his hunts. The other humans are frightened, but you find him fascinating and peculiarly handsome.

A slew of livestock deaths precede an emergency town meeting. There's no question who the culprit is, or why. The town elders understand that a werecreature in heat is aggressive and dangerous. The town's interspecies liason officer, a veteran who fought beside the werebear, explains that it's not a deliberate attack on the town's livelihood, but even so, the maulings cannot continue. It may only be a matter of time before a human is injured.

The liason suggests hiring one of the workers at the town brothel to act as a "heat soother," but the brothel workers don't want the job. There's still a stigma over non-human creatures. The werebear is dangerous, violent, monstrous. Who knows if a human mate would even survive.

Tentatively, you volunteer for the role. You have no living family that could be shamed, you're naturally infertile so there's no concern over cubs, and... Well. You like the idea of it, though you keep that last point to yourself.

You are escorted to the werebears cabin by the eager liason officer, who's just glad the precarious human-werebeast alliance is no longer in jeopardy. Answering the door, the werebear looks surprised to see the two of you...

Then annoyed.

I told you, he growls at the liason, I will not take a forced mate.

The officer coos and assures the bear that you are here voluntarily, which he seems to doubt very much. He throws you both out of his cabin and slams the door.

“Good luck!”

You stare after Anton, the liaison officer, as he rides away, at a complete loss of what to do now. You’ve felt a headrush of sorts, like sliding down a hill in winter, since you first resolved to volunteer to help Temar and his slamming of the door in your face was an abrupt stop before you even reached the bottom. You cross your arms, telling yourself its because of the mild chill, not out of anxiety or embarrassment.

But you are, so so embarrassed. You don’t know exactly what you thought his reaction to you might be, but stonewalled indifference and complete refusal to even entertain the idea of mating with you wasn’t one of them. Heat licks at your cheeks from the way he’d looked at you, his lip curled in a snarl, something more than even just annoyance in his eyes. You’d felt the urge to shrink right then and there and only surprise kept you frozen upright.

You know you weren’t as young as the other unaffiliated women in town, weren’t as pretty, weren’t as agreeable, but surely he couldn’t smell your infertility or whatever made you feel so out of place with everyone else. What about you had been so offputting he’d not even considered you for a mate? You’d almost hoped that whatever made you so unappealing as a human mate might make you more appealing to a werebear. So much for that.

You’re not one for much dignity as it is, no one to stand on high graces, and you try not to let others’ opinions bother you, beyond where they interfere with your own ability to make your living. But even you can’t bring yourself to try to convince him to mate with you when he so clearly has absolutely no interest. Did you sacrifice what little standing you did have a reasonable and respectable person by volunteering for this only to not even be able to manage it? Was it for nothing?

You had only found the courage to approach him because of the surface-level reason of slaughtered livestock and fear for a person’s injury, but now, now you felt almost responsible for not being able to prevent such an occurrence. All because Temar found you unappealing.

You can’t leave without even saying more than a hasty word to him though. Maybe there’s some other way you can help. You’ve wanted an excuse to get to know him better for years, since you first saw him. Even before that, when someone stopped by your shop with some of the pelts they’d bought from him.

Beyond his attractive appearance being more than enough to draw your attention, he’s lived such an interesting life. The liaison was liberal with his stories and his own accomplishments in the war, but he never short-changed his friend. You also found the stories of people who have crossed him or questioned him entertaining more than scary. His refusal to play along with the petty etiquette of the town was funny, as were people’s puffed up reactions. Perhaps you should have expected this reaction after all, maybe he just doesn’t like humans.

The thought against brings embarrassed heat to your face once more as you remember how he’d looked in the doorway. His beard and mustache, short but full, the scar across his nose, those dark brown eyes. His hair was shaved on both sides, but long in the middle, pulled back into a loose bun and peppered with gray like his beard. Tall as you remember, but stockier—his frame particularly broad in the narrow doorway. You’d always found him especially handsome. There was no question what sort of were he was.

Before today, the closest you’d been was at the general store, behind him line for some flour, putting to rest the rumors that werecreatures only ate meat. His presence had fascinated you, large but contained. Wild but settled. Immovable, but not aggressive. Deliberate. You’d found your mind drifting to thoughts of him that night. Your mind liked to turn the idea of him over, half speculation, half pieced together clues from overheard gossip. When you were particularly lonely or even just particularly cold, it was comforting to know he was on his own too. He seemed to prefer it even. You preferred your solitude most of the time as well—half caught between feeling like an outsider for the inclination, half relieved since that’s where you ended up. You wouldn’t mind another friend who felt so, a bit of company you didn’t need to perform in front of. And it would be nice, to be useful to someone else who had no one.

You know he needs help now, more than ever. The liaison had assured them at the meeting that Temar was making every attempt to contain himself. Which reassured you that you’d not missed a callous trend in his nature, but also made you want to help more—not help with the abstract problem, but help him. The next best solution that had been discussed—and would likely need to be implemented now that it turned out you’d failed, you realize with a sinking heart—was to institute a town wide curfew until this ran its course. But maybe there is still some way you can aid him, even if not by soothing his heat directly.

You stand up straight, pushing off the railing you’d been leaning against, and resolve to at least try to talk to him. After all, you understood his continued solitude, but it felt silly during the meeting, that he wasn’t there to lend his own input. Surely he had the most insight into his situation. He must know what he needed. You raise you hand to knock on the door when it opens before you even get the chance.

“If you ain’t gonna have the sense leave, then get in,” a gruff voice orders.

Your feet are moving before you fully register the words. Relief floods your veins. Well, that was easier than you expected. Perhaps things were turning around.

They were not. Any hope you had for some softening of his attitude was quickly dashed.

It had seemed promising: the smell of cooking food, the heat that filled the main room from the large fire, the sound of crackling logs. All ease some of the tension in your bones immediately—not to mention that same deliberate air Temar had, the one that made you feel steady and safe. Safe enough to want what you want, without your usual instinct to hide such thoughts and feelings until you were alone lest others use them to hurt you.

You try to focus on the room itself, from the handmade furniture—you’d have recognized Ben’s work if it was—to the scant decoration. The cabin was simple, unadorned, but solid. It suited him. It made the few personal items he had stick out all the more. The large blanket and rug to make the room feel lived in. The well-cared for hunting gear in the corner. The collection of copper kitchenware, clearly used often.

Nearly as soon as you finished your preliminary survey of his home, he makes it very clear he still did not want you. “No notion of what’s going on in that fool Anton’s head, leaving you on my porch like bottles of milk,” he sighs, looking disgruntled and you fight the urge to apologize. He tucks a strand of hair that escaped his bun behind his ear and your fingers itch to do the same. You clench them tighter behind you, upset at how wild your thoughts are in the face of his rejection. “Fess up, what did they tell you? I don’t know what those old fearmongers at the counsel did to make you come here, but I’ll not hold it against you—only them.”

You tilt your head as you watch him pace over the fire, trying to keep your eyes on his head, not how well he fills out his trousers. You realize belatedly that you must still need to clarify. “There was a town meeting, but I volunteered, like Anton said,” you reply tentatively. He’d heard what his friend said. Right? Maybe that was why he’d refused? Not because he found you so abhorrent.

Temar scoffs. “Anton wouldn’t recognize subtle coercion if it stabbed him the back.”

You frown, starting to get a little frustrated with his seeming inability to hear you properly. “Be that as it may, I can. It’s the truth.”

Temar raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Right,” he says flatly. “Just like five years ago, when I moved here and Miss Ketevan was left on my doorstop around harvest time. She just wanted to offer some apples before high tailing it out of there once her grandfather was out-of-sight. Must have been crying and yelling for some other reason.”

Your frown deepens. The last of your family had died around then and you’d not joined a town meeting for a full year, plenty busy with grief and figuring out how to run the dye shop without any guidance. Keti was a younger than you but had a reputation as a troublemaker so she had been in the gossip plenty. Her grandfather, Carlos, was on the counsel and had seemed to consider her something of an embarrassment.

You thought she’d run off with the milkmaid, not because she was a failed sacrifice to the new werebear neighbor. It does throw into relief some other statements at the meeting. Like Anton’s emphasis on volunteers as he’d stared Carlos’ down, which had led to no one but you speaking up—not even the brothel workers. They’d not said but you knew they feared clients shunning whoever they sent, let alone however they felt about the stigma and fear associated with werecreatures.

“I have no idea what did or did not happen five years ago, I wasn’t at any of those meetings nor at your house,” you say with a shrug. “Keti’s moved to the other side of the river, according to her sister, and is quite satisfied there. None of which was brought up at the meeting today.”

“What do they have on you?” Temar asks, squatting to stoke the fire, as if you just didn’t want to tell the truth his face. Ignoring everything you were saying while still trying to get answers from you. You liked tell about how stubborn he was in gossip. You liked it less at this moment. “If I can aid you and you can go on home, you’re welcome to ask.”

“They don’t have anything on me,” you reply slowly, trying to match his even tone so he doesn’t think your lying. The embarrassment that comes with volunteering so plainly to mate with him comes and goes in waves, but having to repeat it to him is a different flavor all together. “I am here of my own free will.”

Temar scoffs and huffs. “If you don’t want to tell me then fine.” He heaves himself back to his feet and peers out the window. “Sun’s going down. You can stay here for dinner and for the night. That better satisfy them, because you’re leaving first light in the morning.”

You turn away from his back, staring blindly at the countertop covered in ingredients for dinner. The one you interrupted with this piss-poor intrusion. He was likely just trying to give you an out, an excuse to save some dignity. You should’ve known you’d have no skill at seduction, not that you’d believed you’d need it. You’d hoped he be satisfied enough, in need enough that you’d suffice by being willing and not unattractive. Or so you thought. How pathetic. “I just wanted to help,” you say softly, more to yourself than him.

You sigh before walking over to the counter and picking up a knife. “Thank you for your hospitality,” you manage, your voice stiff with discomfort, but unwilling to completely give up yet. “Allow me to assist with the food.”

Dinner preparation is tense, quiet, but a relatively smooth affair. Temar’s already got the chicken dumplings nearly done so you leave that to him and handle the rest.

He only speaks to point you toward where things are when you ask. You’re happy he’s letting you do this much as you’ve more than got the message he’d prefer to do it all alone. You try to concentrate hard enough not to think about anything else.

“These dumplings are delicious,” you say belatedly, after you’ve already scarfed down two of them. They really are, hot and flavorful.

Temar grunts in response and you can’t help but pout, wondering if he thinks everything you say is a lie. You try at some other small talk, but nothing gets more than a yes or no out of him—after the first few, he just makes some vague noise of acknowledgment as he steadily eats through three times the portion of food you got, which had been more than generous. You’d been skeptical of how much he was making until you’d seen how much he was eating.

Did he also have to eat more before winter, like a normal bear? Was he going to sleep through it too? You swear he still came in with pelts, but you don’t really know. You’re more than aware that he’s not likely to give a straight answer if you ask. You ask anyway.

He gives you a look like you’re touched in the head. “No, I don’t hibernate. I stay in more, sleep more since its dark more, but I’m not actually a bear.”

“I know!” you protest, blushing, “but I’ve heard there’s overlap of some kind, forgive me for not being an expert. You’re the only werebear I know by name.”

“You know nothing,” he retorts, words finally bursting from him in a fit of frustration. You’re taken aback, but eager for any information given his recent impression of a clam. “You say you volunteer and yet you don’t know the first thing about werebears, let alone heats. You expect me to think you know what you’re saying you got yourself into when its clear no one explained anything.”

“Well, then you tell me,” you bat back, fed up by now with being treated as a criminal for even entertaining the notion you might be a suitable mate for him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have called me a liar even if I’d written a book on werebears and their heats.”

As his way seems to be, he ignores you to keep focus on whatever incorrect train of thought he has stuck in his head. “Even if you’re ignorant, didn’t your family object? Doesn’t someone have sense or self-preservation?”

You glare. Of all the—. “No—” you reply hotly before he cuts in.

“I thought that was something y’all paid attention to,” he drawls, waving with his fork. “ Fraternizing with the werecreatures is still a no-no right?” He leans forward, eyes bright, like a predator finally spotting their prey. “Is it them that the council is leaning on?”

Unfortunately for him, its a false sighting. “Don’t have any,” you reply bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest. “They died. About five years ago.”

You wonder if he’ll make the connection and to your surprise, he seems to as his brow furrows. “I see.” He leans back in his chair as if surrpised to notice he’d moved at all.

“Besides, I’m grown,” you’re annoyed you even have to remind him. He’s treating you like a child, ignoring you, calling you ignorant, making you out as a liar. Like a fool. You’ve long resolved not to let anyone treat you like a fool. “I make my own choices.”

He scoffs in that same manner that’s truly getting under your skin. “Right. How could I forget.”

“I don’t know,” your voice is sharper than its been all evening. “Seeing as I keep reminding you.”

Discomfort creeps into his frame and he looks down at his plate to mutter, “What even made them come up with this plan? Was this Anton’s idea?” He warms up to this new wrong idea—it was Jessaly on the council who had mentioned “heat soothers” seconded by Carlos. Anton only stepped in to mention volunteers. “Because if so, I’ll be having words with him next chance I get, strong words. I anticipated an order to leave town or to be taken to jail or a fight. I’m surprised the council even risked the chance for cubs.”

That last part completely derails you from your planned support for Anton. “Oh,” you can dismiss that concern easy, so you don’t hesitate to, “I can’t have children.”

That stops him completely, freezes him in his chair. “What?”

His reaction surprises you. “I thought…” You thought he could smell the infertility on you. You thought that was part of why he’d refused, like the others. If he couldn’t tell, you still didn’t think he’d have a reaction like this, like everyone else. “I can’t. My monthlies stopped only a few years in and a doctor confirmed the nature of the issue. It’s noted in the records because my engagement to—” You don’t even want to say his name, for all you don’t blame your former fiance. You hadn’t even been that excited about the marriage, but the reality of no marriage ever, well, that had been more of blow the coming years dealt to you. You manage a shaky smile. “No risk of children with me.”

You meet his eyes valiantly and he stares back. You hope you’re right when you don’t see any blooming realization that you’re broken, that you’re any more undesirable, but you’ve long given up trying to tell. Still his focus makes you babble, “I don’t want children anyway.” That at least is the truth and the reminder steadies you. You thought you’d gotten over the worst of this self-recrimination years ago. You were happy not to have that burden, that expectation, that danger in your life. You just want Temar to think well of you, and this always changes how people perceive you, no matter how much you wish it didn’t. That is what truly gets under your skin. Your shoulders drop some tension as your smile softens, becomes more genuine. “Better me than someone who did. It worked out for the best that way.”

If only it meant no partner, no chance for sex beyond work at the brothel—which you were not interested in despite them asking—or visiting one, which you have in years past. Or the affairs some of the less reputable had tried for in the past. They always made it clear in the end, even if you were alright with the infidelity—it was only because you were ‘safe’ that they wanted you.

“Neither do I,” he says, causing you to look up at him. His expression turns defensive as he clarifies, “That doesn’t mean anything anyways. Still the most foolish idea I ever heard.” He stands up abruptly to refill his plate with a fourth helping.

You eat the remainder of the meal in silence.

Finally, your plate is clean and your belly is full. You manage to take Temar by surprise by snatching up his plate in addition to yours, bringing them over to the wash basin before he could do some himself. You’re determined to do something useful while you’re here and he’s feeding you.

Maybe all lack of eye contact was for him and not you. Maybe you’ll have better luck staring at the water. “So, is there anything you’ll actually let me do to help?”

Another huff, almost a growl of frustration, and Temar replies, grit in his tone, “I told you I ain’t taking a mate just because the town’s made my heat their business this year.”

You don’t even bother arguing the point again and consider his words. You hadn’t thought about other years. There’d never been notice of it so you assumed it wasn’t actually an annual event. What made this year so different? Instead of asking, you return his own volley. “I heard you. I didn’t mean that, though I must mention that the town is only involved because it has become their business this year.”

Temar doesn’t answer, but you can feel his gaze on your back. Being the focus of his attention is electrifying. “Other than having a mate,” you remind yourself outloud. “Are there other things that I can help with? Measures to be taken, information to be shared. Anything?”

There’s silence behind you before he stands up from the table, the scrape of his chair loud. You hope to the gods he’s actually doing something, thought of something in response to your question rather than just leaving. Although technically, you suppose, that would also be a response to your question.

You methodically scrub the dishes while you listen to him move about the main room of the cabin. He sits back down at the table, bringing something with him. You can’t dry this tankard any more thoroughly so you turn around to see if he’s simply ignoring you or not.

He’s bent over something on the table, a piece of paper? You frown and walk over to get a closer look. As if he can sense you, once you’re close enough he points one thick finger at the paper. “Who’s land is this?”

You frown as you study what you realize is a map of the town. Unlike most you’ve seen, it doesn’t have roads or even real buildings on it. Abstract symbols represent structures—you think—and the town center and main street buildings are one big marker. Nothing indicated for individual stores. It takes another minute to realize the outlined shapes covering the map are the property lines, not buildings, roads, or rivers, though some overlap with where you know those to be. Leave it to a werebear to have a map of the town by territory.

“If you don’t know—” he says, huffing per usual.

“Apologies if I need more than a minute,” you huff back, more than fed up and far more assured after the time spent with him that he has no plans to kick you out tonight. “I’ve never seen a map like this.”

He quiets down and you manage to follow your memory of the road out to… “The Meskal’s Farm, Evanna and Leon.” You also manage to make the connection, although you’re not sure he meant for you to. They’d been the most recent farm that had suffered from slaughtered livestock.

Temar brings over a slate with some notes in chalk already written out. He’s got shorthand notes, similar to those on the map, but all unlike any you’ve seen before. He jots down what must be their name above some already existing notes. You squint, trying to make sense of the letters and numbers. “Two ewes and one lamb,” you correct, hoping you decoded right.

He freezes and you hold your breath for annoyance or anger, but instead he merely erases one number and writes in another. “I assume this was discussed with the council?”

“Yeah,” you see no reason to beat around the bush. As you continue to squint at his notes, leaning over his broad shoulder to see better. “The Oche’s steer had to be put down, but they salvaged the meat. Anton reassured them it was edible and bought some himself so the rest of the town followed suit.”

“Still, I’ll be paying my debt, it just might take some time,” Temar replies gravely. “I’ll not have anyone say I don’t pay what I owe or think I don’t owe it, like some uncivilized beast.”

“I can pass that along,” you offer, still reaching for some way to contribute, to help. His integrity touches your heart, makes that urge to give aid stronger. Anton had something vague to the affect, but the town had little confidence in Anton’s assurances. You have confidence in Temar’s.

“I would appreciate that,” he sounds a little belligerent, a little abashed.

You smile, happy to have found anything useful to do and lean in again, to study his map more closely. You mentally map out the other families who had damage and notice they’re all in a line from his property west and against the forest. He does seem to be attempting to keep to limited area. How much control does he have? Could you help corral him somehow?

You reach to point. “Is this the river or—” You start to lose you balance from the awkward angle you’re at. Your other hand reaches for the next closest thing to steady yourself—Temar’s shoulder.

Next thing you know you’re knocking into the table and he’s standing several feet away, a snarl on his face. “Don’t.”

You’re stricken by the vehemence from a such a small, almost-touch of his person. It had been too easy to forget he disliked you so, is so offended by your very presence. “I’m sorry!” It’s as if he thinks you were attempting to trick him. You hasten to clarify, hands raised in surrender. “I wasn’t trying—”

Temar leaves the room before you even finish speaking.

Temar braces himself before he goes back in the main room, his forehead pressed against the solid wood of his walls.

He’s hoping he’s gotten used to your scent, built up a tolerance, but knows it’ll only have gotten stronger for each moment you’ve been here. Gods know he’s only become more susceptible to it. How anyone in all his life has such a bewitching scent, he’ll never know.

The second he’d opened his front door, he’d wanted to drag you inside and never let you out. The beast inside instantly proclaiming Mine. Only mine. He’d barely heard anything Anton said over the roaring in his ears. The slam of his door had been as much panic defensiveness as it had been frustrated aggression.

The line between those two does seem to blur most during heat.

You stayed out there, looking so lost and somber on the porch, lip caught between your teeth as you thought. He’d had to get you to stop before he took over the task for you. An early sign of heat madness surely because of fucking course it was far worse having you in his home. Where his beast said you belonged. Where you could say all the words he was salivating to hear as truth even though he knew them to be false.

Those council assholes would pay for putting him through this torture. Temar knew he was a werebeast and yet this was inhumane even for his kind. He tried to find a proper target for his aggression, but you’d given him nothing to work with, persistent in your tale. As if a kind, quick-witted, pretty thing like you would ever subject yourself to a beast like him unless you felt you had no other option.

Distractions haven’t been helping, trying to keep his eyes off you was impossible to sustain, and stonewalling didn’t ever seem to deter you for long. It’s as if you were perfectly designed to get past all of his defenses. There are still so many hours until sunrise—if Temar’s even going to last that long, even be able to let you go at that point. After you’d seeped into his home, his life. You seem to fit so well.

You play at being kind like a master actor and he hopes that’s not all a front. You’re smart, independent, but oh so willing to help. Duress, he reminds himself, you’re here under duress. The fuckers in town must have forced you here somehow. He can’t believe how low they’ve stooped, taking advantage of your lack of family, of your infertility to make you into a sacrifice. The perfect sacrifice.

His beast still wants to try to breed you, undeterred by logic, but it’s his human head that’s unfairly tempted by the knowledge. When he’s in his rational mind, he stands by what he said. The risk of children, others with his condition, his ostracization from society is something he’d never condemn an innocent soul to suffer. Not mention he likes his solitude, likes only being responsible for himself and only answerable to himself. It’s why the council involving itself is so frustrating. Its why the idea you might be here of your own free will is so appealing. Lack of such a child-bearing risk is even more appealing, more alluring than he’d ever realized it would be. Than it had any right to be. Why are you so damn perfect for him?

Clearly distance was not helping. Perhaps it was even making his beast stronger, without you to look at him and, for all your knowledge of his nature, expect a rationale man to look back.

Temar walks back into the main room, feeling like a man condemned, only to immediately regret his choice as he rigidly locks every muscle he can to prevent his beast from pouncing. He’d thought you’d stopped trying to seduce him with your faux willingness and pretty eyes. Your soft, steady kindness…

Even he’d admitted to himself once alone that you likely hadn’t meant anything by hovering so close, by trying to steady yourself on him. Your fall onto the table, not to mention the complete startlement on your face from his reaction. But what the fuck is this?

“What are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, hoping the beast inside isn’t giving away the feral lust coursing through his veins.

“What?” You look up, surprised he’s back, but there’s no embarrassment in your face. If anything, your expression smooths back to usual faster than he feels it has a right to. “Oh, I hadn’t realized how wet my apron had gotten from the dishes, sorry about the wasted water.”

“Why have you removed it?” Temar’s voice was strangled as the words passed through his lips. Ordinarily, he knows it would barely register with him, but you removing any article of clothing has his beast pulling at the chains he’s trying to use to keep it inside where it belongs.

“Well, I didn’t know how else to dry off,” you reply, brow furrowing in confusion as you dab at yourself with part of the folded-up apron. Temar can see the damp stains where the water had soaked through the light green fabric underneath. “Besides, I don’t want to catch anything, sitting around in wet clothes. It’ll be dry by morning if I leave it by the fire.”

Temar’s mind is already overrun by the reminder he’d invited you, like the numbskull he is, to stay the night. You’re unlikely to sleep fully dressed. You’ll take more than just your apron off in his home. You’ll strip down to your chemise. He can see the edges of it under your dress—white cotton poking out. Nothing more under that except soft skin��skin he isn’t allowed to touch.

Temar tries to combat the pleasing images of you splayed naked in his bed with images of your bruised and bloody from his claws, his strength, his carelessness. They’re impossible to sustain with you so hale and unbothered in front of him. The comfort of his den discourages such violence from his thoughts, his heat poisoning his mind against him. You aren’t here by choice, he reminds himself.

It’s hard to believe when you cross his room with self-assured confidence, bending down to arrange your apron by his fire, acting as if you’ve no fears to worry you. Your hair is ruffled from either the dishes or taking off your apron and you pat at it absentmindedly. Temar wants it spread across his sheets, his pillow, mussed and messed by his hands while he claims you for himself. The town clearly doesn’t appreciate you, doesn’t value you what they have. He’d treat you right. He’d make sure you loved being his.

With a shake of his head, he blinks and the image before him resolves to you seated on a chair, delicately rebraiding your hair. He can’t keep his eyes off the swift movements of your fingers. Temar imagines what it would feel like if you did the same to him, this simple careful, everyday task. You look up at him from under your full eyelashes, looking perfectly innocent and not a creature pulled from his greatest nightmares and most sincere dreams. “So do you have a plan for managing however many days are left? Have you gone into heat in previous years? How did you manage then?”

The flush that blooms on your face is endearing and attractive. Temar wants desperately to know what you’re thinking when you say ‘heat’. You’ve avoided saying the word nearly the entire time you’ve been heard. Temar knows the rumors that fly about the human population about werebeasts, about heats, he’s overheard it all. From eating human mates to potent fertility and everything in between. Which ones have you heard? Which do you believe in? Likely none of the violent ones or you’d find the prospect far more intimidating than whatever bullshit the council is using to coerce you.

“Temar?”

“You’re right, I’ve already managed to work out a solution on my own, making you presence doubly wasteful.” You flinch at his words and every instinct screams at him to sooth you, to take it back—whatever is needed to make his mate stay. Temar turns rather than continue to watch your reactions to his harsh words. Despite knowing its necessary, it hurts to see your hurt and only encourages the beast to want to soothe, to steal your mind from any hurt by drowning it out with lust and heat. “Follow me.”

“You’ll sleep here,” Temar points out, continuing to refuse to look back at you or his bed for that matter.

His control would surely shatter if he saw you so close to it. He imagines how easily he could push you down on the furs and sheets until he had you spread out like a feast for him and him alone. How he would savor you. How he wouldn’t let you up until he was more than satisfied. A glutton of lust.

The cold metal of the door knob jolts him out of his thoughts. “I’ll be out back.” The crisp air, the brisk breeze, blow your scent from Temar and clear his head. He nearly sighs with relief as he walks off to the right, purpose in his steps, a reminder of his duty as he follows the familiar path.

“Here.” Its clear no matter where you thought he was leading you “pit” was not on the list. Your eyebrows lift nearly to your hairline as you stare down, allowing him precious seconds to gaze at you without a mask of stoicism or frustration, only naked hunger.

“You asked where I weathered heats of the past?” Temar neglects to mention that the first couple years in town rendered his heats short and taxing. Just a handful of nights around the late summer full moon, when the first chill to the air heralding the coming winter. Between his beast’s discomfort with new territory and his own war memories haunting him, his heats were not a concern. It’s only last year that his heat was how it used to be in his youth.

Wild. Hungry. Enduring.

This year is worst yet, not only because of the tight grip it has on him and how he can tell, despite more than a week in, that he has days to go, but also due circumstances outside of his control.

You’re smart enough to spot it. “Did something happen to this…?”

Temar puts you out of your awkward misery. “There was a flood after that storm a couple weeks ago. It dislodged that tree and a wall collapsed.” He’d hoped his heat wouldn’t return with the vengeance it did and so had put off excavating. “In the end, the den took longer than I thought to rebuild, to dig deep enough again. Still not sure I have,” he confesses when you look at him with such open, receptive eyes.

You frown and squint down at the den and Temar doesn’t like the reminder of how dark it’s getting. This entire evening has been a distraction, from the knock on his door, to the meal, to now. He ought not neglect the den any longer, not let his beast draw this out until it can overpower his conscience.

He puts down the ladder, hands grateful for something to do besides itch to settle on your hips. “I’ll be needing to get everything out of here, before the moon finishes rising.” Temar descends as quickly as he can, jumping the last few feet and turning to survey the den.

It was nicer before, he thinks with some dismay, some shame at you seeing such a bare hole in the ground. It’s primarily filled with tools for digging and fortifying, none of the minimal furs and blankets that should be givens for a den. The roof had been damaged when the tree fell in so he hopes it doesn’t rain. Temar resigns himself to waking up covered in dew. It’ll still be better than waking up covered in blood, even after verifying it was all from livestock.

“Temar?” His name on your lips draws his attention back up, like a flower to the sun, like a fish to water, like blood to a bear.

“Can I help you clear it out?” Temar just stares at you, part of his mind still surprised you’re here. Still here. Still offering to help. Help him. You cross your arms again and Temar wishes it didn’t look so good on you, the way it pushes up your chest, makes your arm muscles more prominent. What sort of shop did you say you had again? “Look, I’m another pair of hands, ain’t I?”

“Technically,” he allows, speaking without thinking. All his thought concentrated on your form above him, ripe for the plucking.

You seem to take that as permission and start climbing down the ladder. Temar turns so quickly to avert his eyes from your ass that he forgets to forbid you from coming down. You touch down lightly and Temar reluctantly faces you again, a puppet on the strings of his inner beast, to soak in the sight of you in its den.

The cabin belongs to Temar, the man. The den belongs to Temar, the beast.

Something of that must come across on his face as you pause, one hand on the ladder. “Does it break a rule, for me to be down here?”

A den is a personal, sacred space, with only those closest allowed entry. The beast does not allow you to lie. “No.” A prospective mate is more than a natural allowance. It’s expected.

You nod with satisfaction. The beast preens in approval at your persistence, at your ease in its den. “Then I’m helping. What’s next?”

Wordlessly, you point to the table with the hand tools.

“All of these?” you ask, even as you begin to gather them.

Temar turns away, unable to watch you ascend, and focuses on the final wheelbarrow he needs to move out, the planks he’s using as ramps he’ll need to remove. “Gotta get everything out of here so it don’t get broken.” Also so he can’t use it to escape. When he’s more beast than person, the use of tools doesn’t come naturally, but he’s relentless. Safer to keep them out of reach. That’s the real challenge—keep himself out of reach.

“Right.” There’s a pause while you move around behind him. Temar tries to focus on the feeling of the smooth wood of the wheelbarrow handles, the shudder of the wooden planks below as he moves it out of the den. “How come the walls are like this?”

You must be gesturing to the flat stones embedded in the dirt walls. “Harder to climb, although I haven’t had time to finish the back wall that collapsed yet. Claws don’t do well on smooth stone. A lot if the grout needs to be redone. Something for tomorrow.”

“Smart,” you say, sounding impressed.

Temar grunts in response, trying to focus on pulling the crude ramp out of the den and not on puffing up at your approval. Not seeing how else he might earn your esteem, might otherwise impress you.

“What’s it like,” you ask, quietly but clearly. Temar had been wondering if you’d ask. Waiting. “When…”

You trail off so he’s not sure if you meaning being a werebear or being one in heat. He supposes the answer isn’t terribly different. “Simpler, harsher, more vivid,” he says, “Less control when in heat than the rest of the time. In the army, we were trained to control the transformation, taught how to keep our minds more intact—it doesn’t work like that for heat. Getting locked up is how it was dealt with even there.” Not that they lasted long back then for anyone.

“I’ve heard of the loss of control.” You don’t specify if you mean in general or in heat, but Temar supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

Perhaps this would be a good time to remind both of you what’s at stake, how dangerous Temar is in heat to anyone vulnerable around him. “Just a beast at that point.” Temar doesn’t look you in the eye as he keeps talking, heading back down into the den now the planks are out and it’s the only way down. “Can’t understand human speech. Can barely tell human from animal. No reasoning with me. I’ll do what I want when I want to. Damn anyone else.”

Not that you’re as intimidated as he wishes you were. “What about other weres?”

“Aye.” Temar doesn’t mind confirming that, not when he knows it can’t encourage you. “Thats a mite different. We can handle each other better, can find that sliver of common ground. Family can calm you, your own territory, and of course, if you’ve got everything you want, you won’t go roaming for it. Won’t get angry and frustrated you can’t find it.”

“That all the time, or just in heat?” He can still hear the shyness in your voice whenever you say heat, but its obvious your curiosity is too great. Temar surveys the den while he considers his answer, hands you left over plates and cutlery from his noontime meal, eaten down in the den while he worked furiously to get it ready for tonight. He’s careful not to let his fingers brush yours, not to look you in the face, lest he see some fear there that hadn’t been before. Lest the beast see a lack of such fear. Temar truly felt caught between a rock and hard place.

He can see the question you’re dancing around and cuts to the quick, praying you’ll be sensible and leave since he wouldn’t be able to make you anymore. He’s not sure he even could back on the porch. “Its dangerous for any human to lay with a werebeast. Injury from strength or claws or teeth is impossible to prevent. Even if you’re mates.” He reminds himself as ruthlessly as tells you. It was rare, but it happened. Heartbreaking accidents. “Even if you’ve known each other for years. Someone in my troop had killed their husband in a heat frenzy once.”

“Not always though,” you reply, too hopeful by far, too logical not to notice the exaggeration. “It can’t be or weres would have died out.”

“No, not always,” Temar allows. “The tendency towards multiple children in a litter helps. But usually longer held relationships fare better. If the were isn’t in a bad mood, isn’t stressed—if the partner cooperates right.”

He hands you the last item that needs out and once you get to the top, he says, “Pull up that ladder, now.”

You pause, standing stock still and for a second he wonders if you’ll even listen. Temar’s not sure he has the strength to ask a second time.

“Sure.” You pull up the ladder.

His human mind eases at that, at the sight of you more than seven feet overhead, out of reach. His beast disagrees, seething in displeasure and unfulfilled lust. Naturally, you can’t leave well enough alone and sit down, legs dangling into the den. He knows he could grab your ankle at this, yank you down and—

Temar turns to study the den once more. It won’t stick in his mind with you clouding his judgment the way you are. He narrows his eyes, forcing himself to assess if its deep enough, the walls defended enough. “I still need to get the cover fixed, if that damn blacksmith ever manages to be around when I stop by. The back wall needs to be stoned, but if I try to climb it like it is, it’s just as likely to crumble which’ll keep me in just the same. It’ll do. It had better more than satisfy those bastards on the council.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it will.” You shrug, as if you’d forgotten about them. “Will you let me visit? After I leave in the morning—” you add swiftly as if to cut off a correction Temar for once wasn’t offering. “In case there’s anything else I can help with? I meant it when I said we could help each other out. I admit I do not relish the chore of fetching all fuel for my fire in these coming months and perhaps I can provide something for you? I’m a skilled weaver in addition to my work with dyes. If you would not be opposed?”

How can you forget the council so easily? Dismiss them offhand like that. Why do you speak of ‘after’ so lightly? As if you expect to see him again, as if that’s something you might want. Temar’s thoughts turn in circles once more over your duress. He must remember you cannot be here by choice. It’s getting harder by the minute. By each minute you sit on the edge of his den, not a care in the world. Not a notion of his steadily deteriorating self-control. His lack of giving any indication of his growing need has gone from helpful to sinister, a wolf in sheep’s clothing no longer trying to reassure, but to lure closer its prey.

“Perhaps,” he manages to say.

You continue to talk, but the words’ meaning slip through his fingers. The change is pushing itself on him while he wiles away a few more minutes in your presence. Just to try to burn off excess energy, Temar turns to push one of the stones in better, to align it flat with the rest of them. Except… he can feel your eyes on his back while he does so.

Your scent to spikes.

He wheels around, wildly, and belated realizes the height you’re at, brings your loins far more to a height with his nose than ever before. Did his display of strength inspire something of lust in you? His beast roars for you once more at this indication of receptiveness.

The moonlight colors your hair, emphasizing your etherealness, the wonder at your very presence. How much Temar wants to hold you in his hands, claim you for his own. How much he wants to bring you down to earth, push you under him and take his pleasure from you.

He takes a step closer and it feels like the first sprung leak in a dam. The first domino to fall. The spark of fire on dry, dry tinder.

“R-un.”

In retrospect perhaps the most provocative thing Temar could have done was instigate a chase. Actually, the most provocative was definitely you listening and running.

You pull your legs up swiftly, battling your skirts to get your feet under yourself with a haste that surprises even yourself. Only one word and a glimpse of those glowing eyes, and you’re dashing for the cabin. Adrenaline pours into your veins as you the image of the fur rippling out over Temar’s body as he gave that last command fills your mind.

In retrospect, the fur had been spreading steadily since you’d taken away the ladder without you fully registering it. His voice had been changing, although that you’d noticed plenty. The lower tone was a little harder to make out, even more pleasant to listen to, stirring up those lascivious thoughts that hadn’t left your mind since the town meeting was called. You swear his muscles had swelled too. The way they had moved beneath his shirt, which fit tighter with each minute that had passed. You’d felt spellbound, even though you swear that’s not a rumor associated with weres, and unconcerned by said compulsion.

Given the seriousness with which Temar gave the order as well as his earlier apprehension, you feel guilty for the mad sort of excitement rather than fear that courses through you. A roar, harsh and throaty, comes from the den behind you. It's one of rage and frustration. A beast that’s just realized it's been trapped. That it can’t get to what it wants. A loud thud follows. A growl of continued frustration hurries you on, feet pounding the ground as you run. You can almost trick yourself into thinking you hear your own name mixed in with the next roar that comes from where you’ve left Temar behind.

Due to your haste and unfamiliarity with Temar’s land and the fallen gloom, you end up missing the door along the back of the cabin and re-enter through the front. You lock that door with shaking hands and a pounding heart. The sounds of nature, of wind, of the echoes of Temar’s growl, are replaced by quiet solitude and the crackle of the fire, still burning in the hearth. You attempt to catch your breath. You try to let the mundane familiarity of the cabin and the silence calm your nerves. It’s not working very well.

You’re not sure what prompted his yell or his roar. Temar had said if he had everything he needed, he wouldn’t want to go searching for it, so it must have been his inner beast’s continued frustration at the lack of a desirable mate, which you continue to attempt not to take personally.

You’re still keyed up from the experience and seeing him actually start to transform, which still held some magic to you having never witnessed such a thing before, as well as all your interactions with him this evening. Temar seemed somewhat open to the idea of being friends, which was nice, you remind yourself. He is still immensely fascinating to you—this night has only made that more apparent. He feels less onerous to be around than some of your other acquaintances. He doesn’t put up any fronts and you feel like you don’t have to either. Even when he was clearly frustrated or angry—which you believe is exacerbated by whatever physical and mental toll his heat is putting on him—he never raised his voice. Temar only ever physically moved away from you, not towards you.

Speaking of physicality, he was so strong. The way he moved, carried, and shoved the tools out of his den had been impressive. The skill and strength it must have taken to make it in the first place, from the manual labor of digging it out, to stonework, to the manner of transportation in and out were all impressive. You’ll have to make sure to stop by Nicolas’ forge tomorrow to ensure Temar can get his roof fixed. But for now, your mind’s eye lingers on how his muscles had flexed, how easily he might be able to move you about, lifting you, arranging you to best please him.

You shake your head to try to rid yourself of such thoughts when none of them are going to come true. Temar is the one who’s having a hard time, not you here in his home. He hadn’t complained about the den, but you can tell it must be a far cry from what it was before the damage, it saddens you to think of him out there and alone. You long to comfort him, even though you know he doesn’t want your comfort. His roar had only proven his frustration and unhappiness, how unfulfilled he must be, stuck in the pit. You swear you can still hear yet another roar mixed with your name.

You take another look around the room and sigh, finding it far less interesting without him present. You’re still wound up from today’s jostling ship ride of events. Your hormones are out of balance after plans and hopes of helping Temar through his heat. While ending your night alone in Temar’s cabin, in his bed, while he’s stuck out in a hole in the ground isn’t where you expected or how you wanted the night to end, you suppose it's better than him still out in the woods where he might cause more damage or hurt someone.

Your hands go to your buttons as you start to undo them. An early night is in order. Just because Temar doesn’t want you, doesn’t mean you have to go unsatisfied. Your outer clothing drops to the floor, leaving you in your underthings. Draping the cloth over the couch, you wonder if he might be able to smell what you get up to in the morning. Would it be cruel to leave such a trace behind? you wonder as you slip over to the bedroom door. Or would it be your due after his refusal?

Something to worry about in the morning. You’re too hot and bothered to care much now. You turn the knob and enter the dark room. Your eyes just barely adjust enough to make out the outline of his large bed of furs when you’re pushed back against the door, slamming it shut.

An almost subsonic growl fills the small room as you look up and up to meet glowing yellow-green eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, even faster than it had when you’d been running only a few moments ago. A cloud moves from in front of the full moon and the beast that Temar must be now looms over you.

Heavy hands—or are they paws now?—pin you to the wall, one spread over your sternum and the other engulfing your hip. Your hands reflexively reach out and curl around his arm, fingers sinking into dense, soft fur. With the hand pressing against your chest, you barely manage to make a sound more than a surprised inhale, anything else compressed by Temar’s savage strength and your own shock.

Fight or flight seems to have tried to kick in only to unexpectedly leave you both at ‘freeze’ while you stare one another down. The moonlight illuminates his face, throwing into relief the complex mix of man and beast Temar now is. The same black salted with gray that had been evident in his beard is now more evident in the thin layer of fur covering his face. His jaw is larger to accommodate the sharp teeth and prominent fangs now present. His mouth is open as he pants and huffs, eyes fixated on you. You can still see the man in the beast, but he’s more than he was only moments ago.

You hold perfectly still as Temar leans down and starts to huff and sniff at your neck, shifting his fingers as he does so. You can feel his claws snag in the looser weave of your chemise as he does so. Has he always smelled like the forest? you think in a shocked haze, like the pine trees and the freshly turned earth with an undercurrent of musk. He growls into your neck while you stay pinned like an insect on a card, unable to do anything else when confronted by the reality of his transformed appearance, of his touch when he had recoiled from you so vehemently before.

You jolt when he manages to do more than growl, when you realize it isn’t your imagination that puts your name on his lips. Heat sears through you to hear the need in his voice, the demand, by the idea that you’ve managed to make such an impression on him that he managed to speak at all. Then those lips cover your own in an uncoordinated but wanting kiss. Instantly, your mind is wiped clean of rejection, and disinterest, and undesirability. Those ideas can’t exist in tandem when he kisses you like he’s starving.

When you break apart, you breathlessly gasp out his name, a hand cupping his jaw. You suck in shallow breaths, as if you only just stopped running, as if he’d been chasing you since he’d told you to run. You tremble with shameless lust at being sought after specifically—he hadn’t just been demanding after vague wants but for you.

He manages your name once more, tongue and jaw and teeth making the word hard to understand except that all your senses are straining for him, desperate for anything to help you understand him, to understand this change. “Mate.”

You don’t know if it's a question or not, but it's all you’ve been offering since you first showed up on his doorstep. “Yes,” you reply breathlessly, suddenly more desperate than ever in his hold. Desire burns through you for him. You tug futilely at his jaw, push desperately against the massive paw on your chest to reach him. “Temar. Mate.”

You don’t fool yourself into thinking your strength is what moves him, but perhaps your words do manage to penetrate his mind because he presses his lips to yours once more, immediately deepening the kiss. He fucks into your mouth with filthy promise. Your head is held between the door at your back and him, hot and massive, crowding you, boxing you in, cutting off any escape. Escape is the absolute furthest thing from your mind.

His grip on you strengthens, the hand on your sternum moving to bracket your neck. His thumb rests lightly against the column of your throat, the claw drawing a line of danger on your collarbone. His fingers hooked over your back, their claws digging into the meat of your shoulder. They haven’t broken your skin but you know they could, the sting of them makes you want to arch both away and into them.

You tremble as you realize how securely and sinfully caught you are by this werebear, by Temar. You know that he could hold onto you like this for hours and nothing you could do would be able to force him to let go. You never want him to. Instead you melt in his hold. His hand pinning you by your hip is likely the only thing keeping you on your feet and not just a pool of lust at his.

His need is evident given the way his hips rock against your own. The press of him against your whole body is unlocking some hidden need in you and you attempt to push back, to rut against him in return. You feel desperation growing in your bones, in the heart of you, something wild and wanting that can only be sated by him. Temar rumbles his approval, moving more deliberately against you until a growl of frustration escapes him.

When he pulls back, readjusting his hold on you, you open your mouth to protest, to say something, anything to get him back. It’s reflexive after how this night has gone, but unnecessary now. Temar picks you up with no apparent effort, only impatience, and tosses you onto the bed.

You land with an oof, scrambling to think around the rolling heat that moves through your body threatening to drown you at such a display. You’ve barely made any sense of yourself after being flung through the darkness when he’s dropped low and moved on top of you. His movements are strong and decisive as he pushes your chemise up. He noses his way between your thighs, spreading them apart to make room for him. You barely have time to consider being embarrassed about being exposed, at how wet you know you are, when his wide tongue, inhuman roughness obvious, covers your cunt.

Your yelp of surprise turns into a long drawn out moan as he licks at you, vigorously, hungrily. He places a massive hand on each of your thighs, claws stinging just enough to quicken the pulsing need between your legs. You twitch and shiver as he pushes your legs further apart to accommodate his bulk. Your heated skin finds the remaining fabric bunched around your waist too much and you hastily try to shuck it the rest of the way off as fast as you. It's the most uncoordinated you’ve ever felt due to the manner in which Temar is concentrating on sucking your mind out of your head via your cunt.

Free at last of the uncomfortable and restricting garment, you reach down, fingers threading into Temar’s wild mane of hair on instinct alone. You don’t kow if you’ve even stopped moaning since his tongue attached itself to your cunt. Simultaneously, it's too much and not enough and all you can do is try to hang on for the ride he’s determined to take you on. Sweeping you down into the heat of feral lust with him.

One of his hands leaves your thigh to clamp down across your stomach and hold down your hips. Your fingers tighten as he holds you in place to take what he wants from you. His unwavering focus is on eating you out, so starving for you that for now even the beast is content with your taste, leaving his hips rutting against the bedding.

Temar wrings sounds from you know you’ve never made before. You never want anyone else to even try. Fuck, so good, you think. Or maybe you say aloud because you swear he grunts his approval and his tongue somehow manages to reach deeper.

The black pad of his thumb rubs your clit perfectly and you scream you shatter. He growls triumphantly as he greedily drinks down every last drop of your release

You feel unspooled and languid, molten in your pleasure. Temar too seems satisfied with the meal he’s made of you for now as he pulls back, licking his lips. His fingers tighten their hold on your hips as your only warning before he flips you over. Dazedly, automatically, you try to brace yourself. He grunts in approval at how he has successfully maneuvered you onto your hands and knees. Right where you wanted to be ever since you first understood that he was in heat without a lover. Since you realized you wanted to be that lover.

One of his hands leaves your hip to stroke up your spine and you shudder at the feeling of calluses, iron strength, and claws. Instinctively, you arch into the motion, wanting to encourage him to touch you as much as possible. You’re so grateful you’ve already tossed your chemise gods know where. “Please,” you gasp out.

He rumbles with approval and as if having heard your unarticulated thoughts, drapes himself further over you. He pulls you against the cradle of his hips with one firm motion eliciting a squeal from your lips. It's evidently not close enough, as he wraps his fingers around your shoulder and pulls again until he can rut his cock against where you feel oh so empty.

With you where he wants you, Temar releases his hold on your shoulder to lurch you both forward, him bracing you both with that hand on the bed. It leaves you clearly trapped under him. You close your eyes to savor the position and you’re struck by the image you two would paint, were you able to see. Perhaps that should be more intimidating or even frightening than it is, but you like the heavy weight of him, the power evident in his body as he cages you in.

The ache between your legs only grows more acute. “Temar,” you plead, attempting to move your hips against him despite the hold he still has on one of your hips. The gnawing hunger and persistent emptiness are starting to hurt, desire buzzing along your every nerve.

“Mine,” Temar proclaims as the head of his cock finally catches perfectly and he starts to drive into you. The stretch and ache of him causes your moan to fracture under the strain. It’s been so long, but you're so wet it almost doesn’t matter. He’s so thick, so long, you’re losing all sense of anything outside of where the two of you are joined. The last few inches cause a pleasurable burn as you clench around him. Gods it's been too long since you were filled like this, if you’ve ever even had someone with his girth before.

Temar growls contentedly once he’s fully seated inside you and you gladly take the precious few seconds to adjust. Soon enough, he pulls nearly all the way out of you causing a desperate whine to build up in the back of your throat until he thrusts back in, ripping a ragged sound from your throat that might resemble his name.

He picks up speed with each movement of his hips, getting surer and stronger each time. You feel your whole body move and jolt with his each and every thrust. Your hands scrabble fruitlessly at the bedding under you, trying to brace yourself or get a grip but you can’t, uncoordinated and weak from your previous orgasm as well as the overwhelming way Temar is fucking you.

He’s going to ruin you and you’re going to thank him.

His control seems to be fraying the longer he’s inside you. You can see the claws tipping his fingers get longer where they dig into the bedding and you can feel the way they dig into your hip. The pain is the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure of him finally hitting that perfect spot inside. You can feel your inner walls flutter from the sensation. Temar must like that because he groans and makes a noticeable effort to strike that same spot repeatedly.

The unrelenting attention pays off immediately as you can feel your need wind tighter and tighter while your mind empties of thought except for the sensation and heat Temar is bringing forth from the depths you. The continual barrage of his cock finally shoves you over the edge of pleasure once more and you obligingly shatter.

He groans as your clenching around him seems to be all he needs to let go. He hilts in you one last time and you feel him come hard. He fills you up with his seed, warmth spreading, and continuing to make little half thrusts, as if trying to make sure it stays deep within you. You’re still coming down from your orgasm but the sense of satisfaction expands in your chest now that Temar’s reached his peak too.

You close your eyes, limp underneath him, but more content than you’ve felt in ages, in perfect harmony with your werebeast mate.

At some point, you feel him tip you both over onto your sides, though he keeps his cock firmly seated within your heat, keeping you full. Temar’s rumble is full of satisfaction and he engulfs you in his hold, making it clear neither of you are separating anytime soon.

You don’t know how long you lay there on your side, blissfully fuck out, still full of him. You don’t care. You enjoy floating in the hazy afterglow. Eventually he slips out of you, pulling a gasp from you and a whine from him. He nuzzles against you, as if to comfort you. You’re too boneless and witless to do anything more than nuzzle him back.

At some point you do notice him start to move against you once more. His large hands are running along your body, as if committing it to memory. It’s not until he starts to focus on your nipples, rubbing his thumb in increasingly tight circles. Desire starts to zip through your sluggish veins and you whine, twitching in his loose hold. He seems to appreciate your reaction, nudging your head with his until you turn it to face him better. He catches your mouth in a consuming kiss, more coordinating than any previously but just as hungry. It's deep and filthy and leaves you vibrating for me.

His hand covers your cunt, still swollen and wet from your combined cum, in addition to the desire within you he’s stroking back up into a blaze. Your sensitivity causes your hips to stutter as you’re caught between wanting more and being too tender for it. He loses interest in using his hand once you’re pushing towards him more than you are moving away. Pulling you down his body once more, his fur causing goosebumps to ripple across your flesh until you’re back where Temar at least seems to think you belong: in the cradle of his hips.

“Oh! Temar, you—mm, o-oh,” you attempt to say something to address the reignition of his desire, but before you can, his stiffening cock has managed to press against your cunt just right, moving through your lingering wetness and the spend that’s leaked out of you since said cock last left you.

“Mate,” he intones, lust certainly back into his voice. He pulls you up off the bed, securing you to his chest with the hand still clutching your chest. You’re not sure his other hand he's left your hip since it settled there. “More.”

“I, yes,” you reply, trying to pull yourself back together. Of course while in heat, he’d want to—you cut your own thoughts off with a surprised moan as he pushes back into you. Your fingers clench in the sheets as your sore, but slick muscles allow him back inside. The overstimulation is giving your head a rush.

Luckily, this time Temar seems more deliberate and rhythmic with his thrusting rather than frenzied and desperate. His other hand resumes kneading your chest and rubbing against your stiffened nipple. The change in angle seems to keep him from going too fast and luckily requires none of your strength. In fact, the sensation of him fucking you while you lay limp in his grasp is quickly bring your own lust back at a dizzying pace you don’t expect.

He shifts and the angle gets even better, causing you to moan loudly in encouragement. You sag against him, your bones feel liquid from the way he’s been relentlessly thrusting within your cunt. His grunts and your pants fill the room. You’re still so hot, with sweat rolling down your back only to be absorbed into his fur. The sensation ensures you never forget who and what is taking you. You glory in it, in knowing he chose you.

You feel like he’s determined to fuck you until you can’t see straight, can’t move and you’re beyond willing for him to try.

Gods, he’s going to make you forget your own name.

Something curls deep in you, winding around itself with each passing second he continues moving within you. He hunches forward, just enough to press against you, to change the angle some minuscule amount, and that spring releases. You fracture around him. As before, that appears to be all he needs to push as deep as he can and spill his seed in you one more time. The sensation of his release, of the desperate way he continues to try to fill you are the last things you remember before the pleasure pulls you under.

-/-

In the morning, or given the angle of the sun, the afternoon when you wake after a sleep longer than an hour, Temar surrounds you still. You’re in no rush as you take the time to regain your bearings and take stock of your aches. Without opening your eyes you can tell he’s looking at you. “Regret?” you ask simply, stock still in his hold, voice scratchy from overuse. You lost count of how many times aTemar fucked you last night. It's all a blur of heat and desire.

“No,” Temar rumbles, adjusting his hold. “Mine.” The added growl behind the words even in his human form sends a shiver down your spine and reignites the ache in your muscles in the most pleasing manner.

It's more than you were hoping for, and yet you can’t help but ask, cautiously, “For the rest of your heat?” Some small part of you is still expecting to be sent on your way far sooner than you’d like to be.

“I suppose you’ve convinced me,” Temar replies, the amusement in his voice unable to stay hidden under his put upon reluctance. “If you’ve made this foolish choice, I suppose I’ll let it stand—for now.”

“You may be stubborn, but I think we can agree I won this battle,” you point out. You finally blink your eyes open for long enough to look over your shoulder and meet his brown ones. He looks indulgent when you cup his cheek. “What makes you think you’ll fare better in the next one? I’m not sure I want for this to end with your heat.”

“I thought you’d say something of the sort,” Temar replies with a roll of eyes. He nips at your ear and pats you on the hip. “We can discuss after your bath.”

You hum, pleased immensely by the prospect. “See? Perhaps it’s you who is mine after all.”

---

Extra thanks to everyone who followed along with the original posting! all your comments and tags and asks were super encouraging!!

#my writing #terato #voluntary sacrifice #werebear #werebear x reader #monsterfucker prompt #heat #complete #not osha compliant #werebear heatsoother #now helpfully combined in one posting #and up on AO3 #story: voluntary sacrifice

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lethalchiralium · 9 days ago

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Seasons Change ⋆⭒ Part One

Retired!Cowboy!John Price x F!Reader, ��arranged” marriage AU - Series Masterlist

summary: You’ve responded to the ad, traveling for days to a secluded farm in Montana to marry a man who would free you from the loneliness that infested your life back home - at the cost of your freedom. Or so you think.

Are you truly sure about this?

Your coach wasn’t extravagant by any means, wood splintered off of its wall and the cushions almost as old as you. You were sure that if you placed your Mama’s suitcase onto the floor, it would fall through. Your nicest shoes were on your feet, tied tightly and uncomfortable as they ghosted the top of the rotting wood floorboards.

Your hands were settled in a pair of your finest gloves, which shielded away the nicks you got from farming at your parent’s small ranch; lima beans, beets, sugar peas, radishes and tomatoes. The ground was tough in Illinois, trying to learn how to farm behind your mother’s back was essential - for you to be able to have freedom when you leave for the West, you had to have a source of income. Unless, God gives you a little ad from Montana on a Sunday afternoon.

Your nails hurt every time you scraped off the top soil from your radishes, the hot sun boiled your back through your stifling dress. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand before you pulled out the last one, a sore hand wiped away dirt to show a deep violet color. There was a smirk on your face, the vegetable settled in your small basket. Your Pa was to be back by noon, taking his horse to town for some supplies and a new sewing kit for Mama. Her time was spent inside, usually under the watchful eye of a needle and feeder as her brand new sewing machine droned on. Pa spent the better part of the money from last year’s harvest for that, she took it with a soft smile.

Mama’s clothes were good, she can sew four shirts by noon and sell them by two o’clock, her blankets still have a waitlist from last winter. You were lucky to have her sew you a new dress with how busy she’s gotten - it’s good for you, it means you can learn how to tend a farm from Pa. Independent living always intrigued you, wanting to live off the land in a quiet house with a shepherd dog. People weren’t interesting enough for you - you got that from Mama - but romance was. Wanting to be loved without the hassle of courting was a dream of yours, but it wasn’t feasible. No good man would want a woman with cuts on her hands, your Mama always said, a lady doing a man’s work insults God. That and you didn’t go to town much, never going without your Pa for fear of being harassed by men like you had been before. You were always escorted through town by your Pa, he always had a smile and a swift draw with his revolver.

You twisted a tomato from the vine, a decent size yet still not big enough - it seemed the soil was beginning to lose its strength of growing your crops bigger than the palm of your hand. Every year they kept growing smaller, every year it seemed that Mama’s sewing hobby was looking more profitable than the cornfields Pa tended to alone. Even your contribution of an array of vegetables wouldn’t bring four dollars to the table; when it used to bring seven.

There were footsteps along the side of the house, heavy and with a gentle huff as he walked on the solid Earth. It wasn’t hard to recognize your Pa by sound, your hands kept twisting off undersized tomatoes as he approached from the side.

“I’ve got something for you, Sugar Pea.”

You shook your head. “If it’s one of those Seed boys’ letters, I don’t want it.”

“It’s somethin’ you oughta consider.”

The trail began to grow bumpy, your hands held onto your small suitcase as you gazed out the window. The fields expanded as far as your eye could see, mountains clustered in the distance made you excited. You had never seen mountains before - Illinois was flatter than most states. It had taken you a day by coach then three days by train from busy Chicago to reach the calm Montana landscape, excitement bubbled in your skin. This is where you would be living the rest of your life, you hoped. You prayed this ad your father had given you wasn’t a trick for the man you had been corresponding with for the past two months.

The coach was stuffy, you already tried to open the windows in the doors but they were sealed shut, your hand waved your fan to try and keep cool in the brand new dress you sewed just for this occasion.

“No daughter of mine is leaving to go to Montana by herself!”

“Ellen, she wants to go! I won’t stop her.”

“And how did she get this ad? She certainly doesn’t have the penny to pay the damn clerk for the newspaper.”

“If she wants to go to Montana to marry a farmhand, let her. None of these boys here are worth the scum on my shoe.”

You laid in your bed, you watched as your curtain billowed from the night time breeze - moonlight dancing along with the thin fabric as the only sound you heard was your parents arguing.

“What if we need her? What if the soil runs dry?”

“I’ll learn to sew.”

“It’s a woman’s job.”

“It’s also her job to be married by now. She’s 20 for God’s sake, Ellen, she needs to have her own freedom.”

“And it’s a world’s away from us?”

Your fingers tapped your nightgown, tears running down the side of your face. You hated that you would be so far from them, but this was your chance. Romance without courting, hopefully. You were naive enough to not understand that romance is nothing without courting.

“She’s not a child anymore. She just wants to be wed.”

“And not have her husband love her?! Courting is how she should be doing it, that Joseph is a fine boy-“

“Not again with that preacher’s son-“

“-that would treat her right!”

“She doesn’t want to be here! She just wants to be wed and to be left alone, this man promised us a cash amount if she replies. All she would need to do is wed him, give him a child-“

“Gerald-“

“-then shoot him if she likes, just like I taught ‘er.”

Pa’s silver revolver was smothered by an old scarf in the deepest part of your suitcase, just in case this man in the ad turned out to have lied about his identity. A 35 year old man in need of a wife to start a family with. Payment to family if wed. You had written to him four times during the winter, spring had come in full bloom to welcome you to your new home. He had promised a warm house and a dog in his lengthy letters, detailing where he lived and where his family came from. Said he was a farmhand, tending to horses and a farm he partially owned. You didn’t have much to say back, only that you lived on flat farm land your whole life, you know how to garden, cook, and sew. And to your surprise, he found that knowing how to garden was great. You always had the idea that men hated women doing any of the dirty work, but that always came from Mama’s mouth. He wrote in detail that he found your hobbies interesting and would be more than happy to let them continue, if you agreed to marry him.

“You’re set on meeting this man. Are ya sure you want to go?”

“I am.”

“Get up. Pack quickly before your Mama hears ya.”

“Pa-“

“Hurry. The train leaves soon and the carriage can only go so fast.”

And here you were, in a coach this mysterious John Price had rented to bring you from the center of Missoula to his farm an hour away. You had enough money to get you to him, but he insisted on paying the train ticket and for you to be promptly delivered to him. Perhaps you should have considered if he was truly lying and was a one-eyed bald man named Bob. That or it was that crazy preacher’s son trying to get you to marry him again. You silently prayed that this seemingly sweet man you had been writing to all winter was actually kind and respectful.

The coach stopped abruptly, it jerked you forwards and forced you to press your shoes into the withered floorboards - yet nothing happened; you were surprised. Your gaze fell to the window, gazing out to see beautiful fields and dozens of trees. Even in the early spring with the remaining spray of snow on the ground, it was gorgeous. You could hear talking, the horse neighed at the front and all you could do was gaze out the window to the massive farm.

There was talking, a deep voice who initiated the conversation with the coach driver - your heart rose into your throat. Was this where you were going to live the rest of your life? Sprawling countryside with whinnying horses, barking dogs, lush trees and dark mountains as far as the eye could see? If it was, you were content - it was better than the flat farmland you lived on your entire life. You spotted a dark brown horse, coming into your view - a nice saddle sat on its back, deep brown hair combed and black spots dotted its belly. You would have spent the next hour admiring the gorgeous horse if it wasn’t for the coach door opening. Your eyes settled on the man who held open the door, covered by a long brown coat and brown shirt. He then held his hand out, you handed him your suitcase.

The man held out his free hand to you with a smile, eyes blue like a stormy sky. It shocked you just how gentle his gaze was, every man who ever looked at you always seemed like they would rip you apart at the seams.

Not this one.

He set your suitcase down, still holding your hand in his calloused one.

Oh. He is pretty.

Dark brown beard with mutton chops somewhat kept neat, teeth a light yellow - better than most men you’ve seen.

“What if he’s mean, Papa?”

“Then you leave.”

“If I can’t?”

“Shoot him in the head. You know how.”

His hold was gentle, better than any man who had grabbed at you when you were a teenager. Disgusting men laying hands on a young girl in the streets, but scrambling back like cats when Pa snapped at them.

“You’re prettier than what I imagined.”

Your jaw almost went slack with shock - he was British? He never disclaimed that to you in his letters, but his subtle drawl of his accent made your stomach quiver. Your lips pulled a smile.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“She speaks.” He chuckled a little. “Thank you, Miss.”

The coachman closed the door behind you, John then began to lead you towards the horse you were admiring earlier - now noticing the cart attached to it. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something to pull heavy items around. Your trunk already sat on it, he led you towards the seats.

You gazed at his face, the jawline that faded into his neat beard - the way his brown hair seemed to glitter in the sunshine. He was perfect - like the daydreams you had for years.

“It’s a small ride to the house,” John turned to you, holding up your hand to help you into the seat. You stepped up onto the cart, settling down and letting go of his gentle hand so he could set your suitcase beside your trunk. You looked down at your powder blue dress, one you spent all winter making by hand - Mama wasn’t fond of you using her machine. You were proud of this dress, even if it was meant to wear for one day, you’d always be so proud of how nicely it came together, how your first meeting with the man you were to spend the rest of your life with was perfect. Being optimistic is a good trait, Papa always said.

You spent your time watching the landscape as if it moved with you, the short journey felt centuries long as your heart beat faster than a race horse. Life here would certainly be harder than home, seeing that neither of your parents allowed you to help them most days - you were left on your own. Always alone, always doing what was needed without overstepping. This was a whole new challenge; learning where to push and where to pull boundaries with one John Price.

“Have you eaten?”

You glanced to John, noting his one hand on the reigns and the other resting on his leg. Your eyes flickered up to his face, his eyes kept on the trail in front of the horse.

“I have not.”

“I will make you dinner when we arrive. Won’t be long.”

You nodded to yourself, your own hands settling in your lap, squeezing tightly together. You gazed down at your hands, the blue of your dress meant to calm you. What you missed was a soft smile from your betrothed, his gaze memorizing your face for a few seconds before looking ahead.

This is a good choice. New scenery. New people. Far, far away from that damned pastor’s son and Mama’s snide remarks.

I have faith in John. But I hold no trust yet.

Use the gun if you’re ever scared.

Dinner was quiet. He was a good cook, much better than what you were used to and you were secretly delighted. Just a simple pork and potato dinner was better than the porridge your mother barely made edible. You stood like an awkward stranger in the small living room of the one bedroom home, unsure of what to do as John had not asked anything of you yet after dinner. In fact, he was silent the moment you stepped foot into his home.

Were you doing this wrong? What had you done to make him suddenly grow quiet?

There was a dusty couch, a dirt covered rug and a barely used fireplace in the room, your hands clasped together as a way to ease your nerves. He hasn’t opened the door to the bedroom yet, that was the most nerve wracking part. You haven’t shared a bed with a man, not since you were a toddler in your Mama’s bed. It was a terrifying prospect - especially to a quiet and reserved lady, having been chased by many men back home.

At least you won’t have to worry about those leeches anymore. You have a… husband now. You will be a wife. He can protect you. Right?

“I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You jumped a little, turning to look at John as he stood a few feet away - hands settled in his pockets. The awkwardness clung to your clothes, worry brewing deep in your belly. Does he not like you now?

John settled back on his heels, to your eye he seemed calm - what you couldn’t see was the tensing of his muscles, trying to not be as nervous as you were. The way he forced his jaw open to speak wouldn’t be noticed by you either. “I wanted to uh… thank you. For agreeing.”

You curtly nodded, you fought the urge to pick at your nail beds - a nervous habit. Silence befell the room again, your gaze didn’t disconnect from John for more than a few moments, where he held his hand towards the closed door - what you assumed was the bedroom. Your stomach dropped unexpectedly, your blood grew cold and you could only watch him with a nervous glare. He gazed back at you for just a moment before he spoke to himself, seeming to chastise his previous gesture, before he opened the door. He nodded towards it again.

“I’ll bring your chest in if you want to have a look around.”

Your legs felt like they could give way at any moment, but you still walked silently towards the room - John moved out of your way, making sure there was no chance to accidentally touch you. Acting as if you were made of thin porcelain, one wrong move and you would shatter on the floor. He turned away as soon as you passed, you didn’t miss the near-silent wince he made as soon as he started walking. You looked to him, a fleeting moment, just to memorize his figure before ducking into the quaint bedroom.

A large bed was pushed into the corner, only able to crawl onto the bed on one side. A fireplace across from there, connected to the one in the living room. The floor was bare hardwood, your shoes most likely shielded you from miniature splinters. There was a mirror in the corner, reflecting the entire room from where you stood. Only a few pictures adorned cleaned spaces, photographs of places that you’ve never seen before. A bay, with ships sailing in and out. One with snow covered trees. Another with a decrepit looking house.

You were quick to change. Your eyes watched John through the mirror, his back completely to you. You threw off your nice dress as soon as you untied it - not without a little struggle - before you pulled on a long nightgown, sleeves down to your wrists and hem grazing the top of your feet. You pulled the pins from your hair,

You pulled your quilt from your trunk, your hands gripped it tightly as you turned to face your… fiancé. His back was to you, showing many light pink scars. Some were the size of your pinky, others the size of your palm. If you were brave, you would walk up to him and trace the edges of them - but you weren’t. You waited for John to finish the bed, nerves swirled in your belly. You hadn’t shared a bed with someone since your Mama stopped letting you in hers when you were six. You’re a lady, she said, ladies don’t sleep in beds with men if they’re not wed.

“We’re not married yet.” Your voice was soft, John’s hands halted as they set a pillow on the far side of the bed.

“We are not.”

“We can’t sleep in the same bed.”

The man chuckled a little before he took the pillow closest to him, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. “I forgot you wrote about that.”

Your grip tightened on the quilt. “About what?”

He yanked off the blanket from the bed, leaving the brown sheets before he dropped the blanket onto the floor next to the pillow. He turned around, it was hard not to try and gaze at his bare chest but you still kept his gaze. “Not sleeping beside each other until we were married. I meant to make my sleeping arrangements earlier but a man’s work is never done.” He shrugged, his smile softened as he nodded towards the bed. “Go on.”

You stood there for a moment, contemplating if you should sleep in his bed when he was to work the farm in the morning, but he held out his hand, the smile never fading.

“You’ll sleep alone just for the week, love.” He nodded again towards the bed. “I promise I’ll be fine on the floor.”

You silently made your way to the bed, hoisting yourself onto it before you spread your quilt over your body and the bed. It was cold, comfortable but not inviting. You supposed it wouldn’t be - you had been in this house for less than a day and the only thing comforting you was your belongings from home.

Home, you chuckled in your head. I suppose home is here now.

John fluffed his pillow on the floor, you didn’t hear an ounce of complaint as he pulled the worn blanket over himself. Your fingers traced the stitching of Mama’s sewing machine, your quilt sheltered you from the scratchy sheets on John’s bed. You could hear your mother droning on about marrying a farmhand, that you needed to go for someone with more money like a politician or a Christian - you didn’t like any man she chose, you shook your thoughts of that away. The first man you had chosen for yourself was far better than any lowlife scoundrel your Mama could find, and she would find ones that couldn’t have kindness anywhere near their greedy hides.

You slightly jumped when John spoke your name.

“Yes, John?”

He cleared his throat. “We’ll marry by the end of the week. I’ll sleep on the floor ‘til you decide you want me up there.”

“Okay.”

The stitching reminded you of home, of your cozy room with as many blankets as your Mama could make. It reminded you of quiet nights sitting with Pa on the porch, letting your mother stew inside after she made a comment that made Pa defend you. It reminded you of being little and standing outside Mama’s sewing room, hands holding your stuffed toy while you watched her sew by hand - one footstep into her room was ten minutes worth of scolding.

As you closed your eyes, you pressed your hands into your sternum. John was to be your husband, which meant children sooner or later. You promised yourself you would never scold your children for wanting to love you.

You hoped John would hold the same value.

#seasons change series #captain john price #lethalchiralium #john price #captain john price x reader #captain John price x f!reader #john price x reader #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x f!reader #lethal chiralium #john price x f!reader #john price x female reader #captain John price x female reader

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devosin · 14 days ago

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PERSONALIZED ADVENT CALENDER

Get a 12 day advent calendar, filled with multiple different kinds of fanfic's, personalized to your taste, with differing tropes and scenarios, to make your holiday, paradise at home, LIMITED SLOTS APPLY.

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All Calendars will be delivered on December 15-18th, before Christmas begins.

Buy now here (10/12 slots) | Genshin Version . . .

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fluentmoviequoter · 3 months ago

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Good Luck Charm

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: At a Dodgers game, you meet Tim Bradford, who thinks you're a good luck charm for the Dodgers.

Warnings: pure fluff!

Word Count: 1.4k+ words

A/N: @bradleybeachbabe inspired me to write this (as well as Eric Winter posting about the Dodgers)! I hope you enjoy the game you're going to soon, Rachel!!!💙

Today’s date has been circled on your calendar for months. The Dodgers are playing at home in LA, and you got tickets behind home base. Since scoring the tickets, you’ve been counting down the moments, using this game to get you through tough days and long nights. Now that it’s finally here, you can forget about everything else for the evening and enjoy the game, hoping for another exciting evening like the tiebreaking two-run homer you watched on TV last week. Dressed in your favorite Dodgers shirt, you leave for Dodgers Stadium happier than you’ve been in weeks. Something in the Los Angeles air makes you think it will be a great night.

“Lucy, if I had an extra ticket, I’d sell it,” Tim sighs as he parks at Dodgers Stadium. “If you want to be at this game so badly, ask Thorsen. If anyone can get you a last-minute ticket, it’s him.”

“But he’s already at the game,” Lucy laments over the phone.

“So am I!”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“How is that-“ Tim stops and shakes his head. “Lucy, I hope you can figure something out. If not, I’ll tell you all about the game at work.”

“Ugh, you’re such a man.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Tim ends the call before Lucy can explain that she did not mean that as a compliment. It’s been a tough week at the Mid-Wilshire station, and Tim wants to watch a good game, cheer for his team, and unwind.

Tim smiles as he makes his way to his seat: an unexpected but highly appreciated upgrade to home base. Coming into Dodgers Stadium feels like coming home, and Tim thinks tonight will be a good game. At least until he sees that the seat beside him, which he expected to be empty, is occupied by a woman scrolling on her phone rather than enjoying the pre-game activities. He ignores his disappointment at being in the section with a disinterested neighbor as he watches warmups.

You look up from the detailed roster file you keep on your phone. Gavin Lux, an infielder who is a left-hand batter and right-hand thrower, is wearing his glove on his right hand for warmups. As you scroll through your newest notes, glancing up at the team every few swipes, someone sits beside you.

“Left, right,” you murmur to yourself.

“Excuse me?” the man asks.

You lift your gaze from your phone, then freeze when you see the attractive man occupying the seat to your right.

“Sorry, I’m talking to myself. Lux is just… never mind, sorry.”

As you turn back toward the field, he asks, “Lux is?”

“He’s warming up with his glove on his throwing hand.”

The man looks out into the field, locates Lux, and nods. “He is. Any idea why?”

You shake your head. “I thought maybe I was remembering his stats wrong, but I double-checked and he’s warming up opposite.”

“Interesting. Think we can win with him off his game?”

Pursing your lips, you shrug. “I don’t think he’s the player that makes or breaks a game. Unless he tries to bat right-handed, we should be okay.”

“I’m Tim,” he introduces, offering his hand.

You shake his hand as you tell him your name, surprised by how he holds your hand in his just a moment longer than is usually acceptable. You don’t mind, especially when he smiles and asks if you’ve noticed anything else.

“Is this your usual seat?” you inquire after a few minutes of discussing the players and their techniques.

“No, my season pass gets me over first base,” Tim answers. “You?”

“One-night only. I’d love to get a season pass someday.”

“If we win tonight, they should give you one on principle.”

You laugh as you ask, “Why?”

“If we win tonight after that tenth inning save last week, with our infielders off their game, and you just happen to be in the crowd? You’d have to be good luck.”

“Maybe it’s just a good day,” you counter softly.

Tim smiles as he agrees, “Maybe.”

“Stop letting the ball play you!” someone behind you yells. “This is why they should have left you in the minors!”

You stifle a laugh at their enthusiasm but agree with them. Tim sighs beside you and checks the score.

“Just one can of corn, is that too much to ask?” Tim grumbles.

“Wow,” you exclaim. “You really just used that term.”

“You disagree?”

“Not at all, just haven’t heard someone younger than Babe Ruth call it that.”

“Then, what do we do? We’re going to lose at this rate.”

You shrug and offer, “Guess I’m not very good luck, after all.”

Tim wants to disagree but decides that it’s not his place. If the Dodgers win, then he’ll tell you that he’s impressed by you, drawn to you, but otherwise, you’ll go your separate ways, never to see one another again.

“I don’t want to watch this, Tim,” you say with a pout.

The Dodgers are tied in the bottom of the ninth in a concerning parallel to their previous game. You don’t trust them to get the ball where it needs to be to win, not after their lackluster performance in the first few innings.

“Wish them luck,” Tim encourages, standing beside you as the crowd roars. “C’mon, give into the superstition once. What’s the worst that happens?”

“We lose, and my night of relaxation becomes me wondering if you put a curse of the team by saying good luck in these sacred walls.”

“I never thought I’d be the one to say this, but it’s a baseball game. It’s not that serious.”

You try to ignore Tim, but the smile on his face is too hard to look away from. To appease him and partially because you love hearing him say you are good luck, you whisper a wish of good luck, boys through the net separating you from foul balls.

And, somehow, between when you speak and when the stadium silences, Mookie Betts hits a homerun that echoes throughout Los Angeles, and the Dodgers perform another walk-off.

“You did it!” Tim yells as the crowd erupts into cheers.

He pulls you into his arms, completely forgetting his prior hesitance to tell you how much you affected him, and you throw your arms over his shoulders as he spins you. When your feet are on the ground again, you cup Tim’s jaw and smile.

“We won!” you cheer as fireworks boom overhead.

“You really are good luck,” Tim replies.

“Maybe you’re the good luck."

Tim shakes his head and leans closer to you. The stadium around you is completely forgotten, entirely focused on the man before you. His hands are on your waist, yours are framing his face, and you can’t wait to hear what he says next.

“Will you go out with me? I think we could both use some more good luck,” he proposes.

Your smile widens as you nod. “I’d love to.”

Tim pulls you against his side, his arm warm and steady over your shoulders as you cheer for your home team and yourself.

Bonus:

“So, how was the game, Tim?” Lucy asks before roll call.

“It was great, after we caught up, at least,” Tim answers. “Did you watch it?”

“Yeah, Aaron pulled through and got me a ticket. Over the outfield but still better than anything I could’ve gotten on my own.”

Tim nods, but she doesn’t move out of the doorway so he can walk inside.

“What?” he asks.

“I saw something else at the game. Someone made it onto the jumbotron,” Lucy sing-songs. “You’re trending on ClipTok. Everyone’s talking about the mystery couple who celebrated the win.”

Tim narrows his gaze at Lucy, who shrugs and invites him to check for himself before she enters the roll call room. He pulls his phone from his pocket, surprised to see a text from you.

We’re trending. I don’t know if I should be more upset by all the people shamelessly looking for us or that they’re calling you ‘gorgeous’ and I’m ‘that girl hugging him.’

Tim rolls his eyes and answers:

Wait until they find out why we won.

You don’t acknowledge the implication that he’ll tell someone (Lucy, who will undoubtedly put it on ClipTok); instead, you tell him you’re looking forward to dinner tonight. What was supposed to be a relaxing evening at a baseball game for you and Tim turned into something so much more. If that’s not good luck, you don’t know what is.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x fem!reader #the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

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adragonprinceswhore · 2 months ago

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Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter VIII: Rumours 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Three months after your show in Oldtown, things seem different. How will you and Aemond navigate this new normality?

Warnings: 18+, self-destructive thoughts, mentions of rehab, therapy and anger management, allusions to smut

Word count: 4500

A/N: What a journey! Thank you so much to everyone that has followed this story, both for the first and second time.

Three months later.

The tour went on for over two months, finishing with a sold-out show back home in King’s Landing. Thanks to management bringing in some highly skilled people to work on finalising the songs on Rumours, the event doubled as the release day of your second album.

You sold twice as many records in the first three days as your first album did since its release last year.

Though you’re certain that some of the attention your album’s received is due to the dramatic end of your marriage to Aemond, you’re convinced that fans wouldn’t be buying it if they didn’t enjoy the music. The reviews from major music outlets were raving about the emotional depth throughout the album, another indicator that gossip wasn’t the only selling point of your heartbreaking labour.

Now, with the holidays closing in, your label has asked you to create some type of extra material to put on a limited edition version of Rumours.

The members of Dragon Dreamers agreed that adding a bonus track would be the best feature, and decided to meet in the studio to record it in one go; a straight-forward and quick procedure fitting your time restraint.

You’ve been playing around with a few ideas for new songs, but nothing substantial that feels ready just yet. Lucky for you, Helaena posted in your group chat that she’s been working on a song you could use.

You’d listened to the demo she shared and the song truly has great potential, being somewhat fast-paced with Helaenas dreamy vocals adding that mellow feel to it only she seems capable of.

Reaching the studio, you step out of the taxi and thank the driver over your shoulder, pulling the thick, wool fabric of your coat tighter around your trembling body.

It’s only the last week of November, but winter seems to have come early this year. You hurry to get into the building where the studio is, shaking fingers fidgeting with the key in your cold, inflexible hand, too stiff to obey you and get the thin piece of brass into the keyhole.

“Allow me”, echoes a voice behind you, and the corners of your lips pull up at the familiar, gentle tone.

“It’s fucking freezing”, you say light-heartedly and move away from the lock to make space for Aemond, who steps forward, key already in hand.

He unlocks the door swiftly, giving you a pointed look while pushing the heavy door open with one hand. It’s his idea of banter; meeting your eyes with that cheeky glint dancing in his eyes, amusement hiding in his lips where the faintest promise of a smile forms.

“Thank you”

You walk past him into the hallway leading to the studio and he follows behind you, mumbling a quiet,

“Anytime”

After the show in Oldtown, your and Aemond’s relationship has improved immensely. Agreeing that whatever happens, the band comes first, proves to be a good way for the both of you to stay on track.

Being on the road and performing several times a week is draining, stressful, and overall rough. But in the strain, it’s provided you with some peace of mind, forced to put all your focus on work instead of dwelling on the past.

On everything that’s happened between the two of you.

Besides, Aemond’s put in effort to be civil as well, even bordering on being friendly at times, asking you if you’d like anything from the coffee shop before he went to grab an espresso. A clear sign of trying that you appreciate, no matter how small.

Besides, it’s not like he even needs to ask. He knows perfectly well what you like.

But this feels better; feigning ignorance.

Not still acting like a married couple.

Perhaps his change was not entirely due to what occurred in Oldtown. Helaena had let it slip one day over lunch that he’d started seeing a therapist, while also attending an anger management program online.

You’re happy for him, truly.

It shows on his demeanour that he’s doing better; that he knows how to handle situations better. He seems more in tune with his inner self as well, more in control of it. You’re glad to see him improving, and yet there’s a small part of you that still mourns the broken bond between the two of you.

That part feels resentful, annoyed with the fact that he couldn’t have done this before your divorce.

Then you might still be together.

Helaena’s singing voice grows louder as you move closer to the door of the studio, pushing it open with your stiff, cold hands.

Jace and Erryk are already seated, listening intently to Helaena’s instructions as she explains how they’re going to record the song. You and Aemond slip in, eyes trained on her, and she offers you a nod in greeting, continuing to discuss her vision of the song,

“The build up has to be captivating! It speeds up towards the outro at the end, which is like the highlight of the song”, she says, hands coming up to put emphasis on her words,

“That’s what you’d envisioned, right Aemond?”

Her head turns to meet the gaze of her younger brother, waiting for a sign of agreement. He only hums in reply and nods at her, prompting her to continue.

Has Aemond written this song?

You think back to the demo Helaena sent of her singing and playing piano.

Isn’t this a love song?

“Finally wrote a song for your girlfriend then?”, Erryk teases as he lowers himself to take a seat behind the drum set.

A wave of nausea crashes over you without warning. You feel your heart race in your chest, like it’s fighting to get out, and a sickening panic spreads within you. Your hands, that’d just felt so cold and stiff, now feel clammy and tingling with unease.

You knew this day would come.

The day Aemond writes a song for Alys.

You’d mentally prepared for it; convinced yourself that whenever this day came, you’d be okay. It wouldn’t hurt that much, you already know that he’s moved on.

But Erryk’s question leaves you disoriented, almost dizzy, and you hear the furious beat of your heart in your ears.

Now you have to live with your decision to leave him all those months ago. Allow him to move on and watch him from the sidelines as his colleague.

Sing along to the declaration of love he’s written for his new lover?

“Hel and I have been working on this song since last spring”, he dismissively replies, throwing Erryk a look that feels cold, yet his tone stays neutral.

Since last spring?

You still feel the heavy weight of anxiety on your chest, but with a few deep breaths, you manage to pull yourself together.

Just get through this afternoon, then you can go home and dwell in self-pity without spectators.

The band starts to play, Helaena singing as her fingers dance over the keys of the piano,

‘Sweet, wonderful you’

‘You make me happy with the things you do’

‘Oh, can it be so?’

‘This feeling follows me wherever I go’

Aside from the demo Helaena sent you a few days ago, you’ve never heard this song before. If Aemond’s been working on it since last spring, does that mean he’s kept it a secret from you?

Maybe he played a rough edit to you before your separation?

Maybe he and Helaena had reworked it beyond recognition?

‘I never did believe in miracles’

‘But I’ve a feeling it’s time to try’

‘I never did believe in the ways of magic’

‘But I’m beginning to wonder why’

He’s not usually the type to write love songs. His solo song on your first album, titled ‘I’m so Afraid’, can be described as anything but romantic.

‘Don’t break the spell’

‘It would be different and you know it will’

But this? Is it the love he receives from Alys that has prompted him to write such an exposing song; causing him to believe in miracles and magic?

Does she make him feel safe?

Safer than before?

‘You make loving fun’

‘And I don’t have to tell you but you’re the only one’

You try to keep your voice stable as you sing along, backing up Helaena’s delicate tone.

It hurts, hearing how much he doesn’t miss you; how happy he is with her.

The one that makes loving fun.

When you were married, all you seemed capable of was making him miserable.

Loving you wasn’t fun.

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

Some hours go by.

You record a few different versions of the song; playing around with various sounds.

Every time you sing the words, they stab your heart like a knife,

‘You make loving fun’

You try to act normal. You try so hard that you can taste copper on your tongue. Thankfully, no one seems to see through your facade.

Just breathe.

In. Hold three seconds. Out. Hold three seconds.

You know that it won’t hurt this much forever.

One day, you’ll wake up and your lungs won’t ache when you inhale deeply. Your eyes won’t burn from the force in which you're trying to prevent tears from falling.

Time heals all wounds.

But yours are still fresh. Leaking and aching.

All you want to do is go home, throw yourself in bed and cry.

You crave release, whether it comes from sorrow-induced dehydration, calling Alysanne just to yell out your frustrations, or screaming into a pillow.

When Helaena finally wraps up the recording session, asking you to come back tomorrow after she’s listened through a few of the takes, you hastily grab your bag and move towards the door.

Just need to get out.

Away.

You call out a rushed farewell over your shoulder as you make your way down the corridor of the building, hand coming up to the door handle to step out into the cold November night.

You brace yourself, ready for the chill air to hit your cheeks as you pull the door open. But before you’re able to leave, a large hand gently grabs your shoulder, keeping you in place,

“Wait”

Aemond’s voice is low behind you.

You inhale a deep, shaky breath before you turn around to face him.

“Yes, Aemond?”

Your voice is purposefully flat, and you’re doing your absolute best to not let the hurt you feel reflect on your tone.

“I wanted to talk to you”, he begins, tongue coming out to lick his lips. He’s apprehensive in a way that makes his voice sound foreign, like he’s not himself.

“Did you like it? The song?”

Your gaze flickers down at his question, a reflex-like response so you don’t roll your eyes at him. He sure makes it difficult to be the bigger person.

Set on tormenting you.

“Yes”

You bite out the reply, laced with innate irritation you can’t conceal.

Yes, it’s a good song, you can’t deny that. But seeking you out to have you admit that the song he wrote for his new partner is good Is a new low.

And to think you thought he’d finally changed for the better.

Aemond’s good eye roams your face, seemingly searching for something. An answer hidden in your features.

He licks his lips again, as if he’s looking for what to say,

“You do, you know”

His eye still flickering around without meeting yours, and his restless demeanour makes you nervous too.

“I do what?”, you ask, irritation now clear in your curt tone.

“Make loving fun”, he answers.

The shock of his sudden confession renders you speechless, and Aemond takes the opportunity to pull you out of the building and into the dark night.

The heavy door to the studio closes with a loud thud, and left are you and Aemond, alone in the freezing, dark November night.

“I wanted to surprise you with the song on our wedding anniversary in June, but obviously..”, his voice dies out.

Still lost for words, you’re sure you look ridiculous, mouth agape and eyes wide.

Aemond carefully takes in your reaction and takes a deep breath himself,

“I’ve thought about our relationship recently. A lot”, he says, eyes flickering down to your trembling hands.

Are they shaking from the cold?

He takes your hands in his warm grip, encapsulating their entirety,

“I didn’t treat you right-”

“I, I just-, I loved you so fucking much, I-, I didn’t know how to handle loving you so fiercely. I still do”

He has that sad look in his eye that you’ve grown familiar with; the sorrow that he’s made a habit of keeping from you.

Now, it’s on full display as he offers you himself again,

“Please take me back”, he quietly begs, body moving forward, face coming down so he can rest his cheek on your head, hands still holding yours tightly.

You feel lost for words, stiffly staying in place as you hear Aemond inhale deeply through his nose buried in your hair.

“Aemond”, you sigh, tone thick and unsteady,

“I thought we’d agreed to move forward as bandmates”

“I’ve missed you so much”, he mumbles in reply, unmoving as he rests his head on yours.

“You’re with Alys now”, you breathe out, disbelief making it hard for you to sort out your thoughts.

“I haven’t seen her since Winterfell”, he replies.

“Aem-”, you try to oppose but he cuts you off,

“I’m sorry for ruining everything. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you. I’m sorry for being selfish”, he confesses quietly, whispering his sins into your hair.

Aemond moves to let go of your hands, and instead brings his arms around your shoulders to hug you.

His voice is still low, mouth right next to your ear,

“I took your love for granted. I couldn’t imagine a world where we weren’t together”, he admits and presses your body against his,

“And now I regret how I treated you every day. I know my actions are inexcusable, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I need-”, his voice breaks,

“I need you”

Being in his embrace, so full of the love you’ve been missing for months, causes your lids to feel heavy, and you close your eyes and rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

He still smells the same.

The most comforting, warming scent in the world.

It would be so easy to take him back.

It is so tempting.

You gently pull away to look up at him, eyes locking with his,

“Aemond, you know you weren’t happy being with me”

“I’m going to therapy, I’m trying to be better”, he says quietly. His eyes are glassy when he adds,

“For you”

You swallow the lump lodged in your throat.

“That’s great, Aemond, and I’m so proud of you”,

“But I don’t think getting back together would be good for either of us”, you conclude, gaze carefully gauging his expression, anxiously awaiting his reaction.

The inevitable fire.

His eyes narrow, face setting in harsh displeasure.

You notice the corners of his mouth twitch downwards as he stares at you in silence, nostrils flaring with each breath.

His warmth disappears as he steps away from you.

He quickly shifts to the side to avoid your eyes, and leaves without another word.

You do all three things when you get home.

You cry, you scream into a pillow, and you call Alysanne to yell out your frustrations.

Nothing helps.

Why did he have to do this now?

Why couldn’t he have done this when you were still together?

The wound of your marriage opens up again, sending icy waves of pain through your body.

This was supposed to be the part when things got better; when time had healed the wounds.

And yet, you’re still hurting just as much.

A gash that refuses to stop bleeding.

In the depths of your despair, you see your phone light up with a notification through the veil of tears obstructing your vision.

You bring one of your hands up to half-heartedly wipe away the tears that spill out as the other grabs the phone to see who’s texted.

Aemond: “I’m sorry for earlier tonight. If you want to remain friends, I would appreciate that”

For the second time tonight, his unpredictability astonishes you.

Where’s the anger?

You’re unmoving, hand holding your phone in a cramp-like grip as it lights up again.

Aemond: “It’ll be entirely on your conditions”

You inhale, closing your eyes as you ponder your reply.

Exhaling slowly, you open your eyes again to type out your answer.

You: “Okay”

Like most things, though it seemed absurd in the beginning, being friends with Aemond has become a normality.

It started slowly, not going further than the two of you chatting during band practice.

Then, you started going out to grab coffee together, airly discussing the band, upcoming shows, and what music you’d been listening to recently.

As weeks pass by, your newfound familiarity blooms into a friendship.

You start taking more liberties around each other, without constantly being on edge.

Things like Aemond asks you if you’d like to go see a film by an up-and-coming director, you asking him if he’d like to grab food on the way home from the studio together.

Your marriage, as tumultuous and heartbreaking as it had been, seems a distant memory now. The ashes from what once was have provided soil for the two of you to build a new, healthy friendship on. You feel thankful for that.

Thankful to still have Aemond in your life.

Being friends suits him.

He’s opened up far more in these past few weeks to you than he had during the entirety of your futile relationship.

He acredits it to the therapy and anger management he’d done, but you sense a real shift within him.

He tells you about Alys; how he met her and how they developed a kind of friends with benefits dynamic as he longed for intimacy and she became his manager.

Though you can vividly remember him calling her his ‘girlfriend’, he apparently hadn’t made that clear with her, and when he asked her to come on tour with him, a childish attempt at making you jealous, you presume, she’d patted him on the cheek and explained that though he’d been a fun fuck, she didn’t have time for a partner.

He says that in retrospect, her not having any romantic feelings for him must’ve been a blessing, since he was only using her for selfish fulfilment himself.

He tells you about Aegon; how they hadn’t spoken all summer, until Aemond reached out to properly apologise, a crucial part of the anger management program.

Aegon, inspired by Aemond’s dedication to sort out his inner demons, had decided on a fourth trip to rehab. By now, he’s stayed sober for longer than ever before.

Aemond says that he’s made a habit of bringing his brother out hiking, trekking the vast landscape of the Reach.

Sometimes during those long walks, they’d talk over each other, engaging in passionate discussion about everything and anything. Other times, they walk in comfortable silence, simply existing together.

It’s nice seeing your ex husband so content.

The bitterness you first felt at his dilatory introspection has been replaced by admiration; impressed by his dedication to be better.

Somewhere inside, the wound of the past bleeds less and less.

Perhaps this is how you were always meant to be?

Friends.

The realisation is bitter, but you’ve grown used to the taste on your tongue.

You made the right decision.

It’s almost midwinter when Aemond asks you to come over to your old flat one Sunday morning.

Apparently he’s in the process of subletting the place, and needs help removing any personal belongings.

It’s strange being back, already foreign and distant, yet still so familiar.

“I’ve put some of your stuff in the guest bedroom”

Aemond gestures for you to follow him as you step inside.

Like you don’t know where it is.

You follow him, watching as he opens the wardrobe, stepping to the side to invite you in.

True to his perfectionist nature, your things are neatly organised, hanging in tidy rows.

Some of your clothes, two coats, a vase you’d gotten from Alicent on your birthday, a jewellery box. Mostly gifts you received from Aemond, too painful for you to bring with you when you left all those months ago.

Maybe now you’re finally ready to look at the relics of your broken marriage with fondness, reminiscent of the love you once shared.

As you inspect the wardrobe, you notice an old box tucked in one corner, edges worn down and structure almost caving in.

You pick it up and open the lid, surprised to find the picture collage you’d made for him on your six month anniversary inside, along with a few other memorabilia from your relationship.

Two tickets to the cinema, a pub receipt, an ugly doodle of Aemond you drew as a joke.

“What’s this?”, you ask as your hands rummage through the content of the box.

Aemond looks up from the moving box he’d been hunched in front of, eyes going wide when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You can just put that back”, he quickly replies, face growing a bit pink.

“I can just move this to the trash as well”, you say and shift towards the big, black bin bag in the corner.

“That’s alright. I-, I want to keep it”, he mumbles quietly and stands up, towering over you as he takes the box from your hands.

Your eyes dart from the frame with the pictures you’d made for him to his face, not quite sure why he wants to keep such trivial things.

“I want to keep the memories”

He puts the lid back on the box, bends down to place it on the floor, and pushes it towards the back of the closet using his foot.

There’s something in the air that causes the mood to shift. It’s like a thick fog has settled over the room, sticking in your lungs whenever you breathe.

“The good old days”, you joke stiffly, trying to chase the uncomfortable tension away.

Aemond’s standing with his back against you, facing the closet. He hums in reply at your attempted humour.

“Everything was so easy back then”, you sigh, moving to grab one of the coats hanging next to where he stands.

He’s stiff as he turns to you, watching as you carefully examine the coat, pondering whether you should keep it or not.

“I-”, Aemond starts before he stops himself, appearing to be lost in thought,

“I’d try every day to make it easy for you. To love me, I mean”

Your head snaps to the side. His confession hits you with such force, it’s almost physical, and now it’s your turn to be lost for words.

“Oh, Aemond”, you choke out as you take in the sad frown his face is set in,

“It was never hard loving you. It was hard being loved by you”

“I know”

One of his hands moves carefully towards you. When you don’t back away from him, he takes the opportunity to place it on your cheek.

You can feel the way his hand trembles against your skin despite how gentle his touch is.

“I can’t promise that it’ll always be easy. But I still love you as much as I did back then. I know I shouldn’t but I need to-” he licks his lips as he’s searching for the right words,

“I need to ask you again. Will you take me back?”

His stare is intense as he carefully evaluates your reaction. You still can’t find your voice, stuck in your throat in shock.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t want anyone-, anything else. I’ll do anything for you. Please take me back”, he begs, voice cracking at the end of his plea.

The hand he’s placed on your cheek feels like it’s burning an imprint onto your skin.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

So open; heart on display, laid out in the hand he’s now offering you.

It’s all yours.

He hurt you so much during your time together.

He made life so hard for you.

He made you feel alive.

Would it be worth it; possibly being hurt again?

Feeling alive again.

You bring your hand up to his cheek, mirroring how he’s cradling your face.

Alive.

Aemond’s POV

When she tilts her head up, leans forward and pulls his face closer to hers, he almost lets out a relieved cry.

Kissing her again feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.

It’s so relieving it hurts.

Even when he has to leave her lips to breathe, he presses his face against hers, desperate for the contact.

He can’t be apart from her warmth for even a second longer.

Her arms meet around his neck, keeping him close as her breath heats up the skin of his face.

He’s robbed himself of this for months. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for that. for allowing her to slip away.

He searches for her mouth again, kissing her as if she could breathe life into his lungs and revive his numb heart.

His hands can’t decide if they want to touch every part of her being, or hold her so close they melt into one.

She presses herself against him, kissing him back with just as much vigour.

The thought that she’s missed him makes him want to weep.

“I love you”, he says between pants as he moves his lips from hers, trailing down to kiss her neck.

Her hands grab the back of his shirt and she lets out a moan when his lips find the patch right beneath her ear she loves so much.

She pulls him downwards, onto the floor, and offers him a giggle as she straddles him.

Her fingers come down to help him unbutton his trousers, just as eager for him as he is for her.

He feels tears burn behind his eyelids again.

Finally.

He can hardly contain himself as his fingers clumsily search for the buttons of his jeans to aid her in getting them off. He is so impatient, so eager for her, that his hands shake from desire.

His soul is finally soothed when she sinks down on him.

He’s consumed by her.

When she begins to move, the grip of her cunt around him indicates that this won’t last long. But that’s alright. It won’t be the last time.

He surges forward to kiss her again, to let her know how grateful he is.

That she came back to him.

That she’s offered him her warmth once again.

Fin.

A/N: Thank you for reading! ❤️

A very special thank you(!) to Justine @theoneeyedprince who've helped me by beta-ing this fic. You are truly a gem, so wonderfully supportive of me and I appreciate you so, so very much. Besides being an absolute legend of a friend, Justine's also an immensely talented writer. If you're eager to read more modern heartbreak, check out her story Careless Whisper - it's so good! ❤️

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