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ceilidho · 3 months

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 3) part 1, part 2

“Neglecting your husband already?” he asks when you pull away from the arm curling around your waist. It’d migrated there from your back during the walk away from the courthouse.

“You know I’m not—I’m not some horse that you can just…break in,” you seethe, glaring up at Price. Your arms are crossed tight over your chest, putting the slightest boundary between you and him. It’s more of a mental boundary than anything, a self-soothing gesture; you know it hardly even registers to him because the man still looks down at you with that unimpressed expression, like dealing with a particularly vexing child.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly, looking you up and down. It’s a scorching, hungry look and it makes you shift from foot to foot.

The two of you stand outside the front door of his house, the front door still shut tight. You put up a fuss on the walk from town as the reality of your situation finally sunk in, squirming in his hold until he threatened to just load you over his shoulder and carry you off. His tone leaves little for you to doubt. Nothing about him brooks skepticism; until the end of time, you’ll look at John Price and think, this is a man of action. This is a man that will move heaven and earth.

You clam up after that, lips pursed shut though turned down at the corners.

It’s a bigger house than you might’ve expected for a single man, but perhaps it was built with a wife and children in mind. The thought makes you swallow. A wooden two-story thing with a porch out front and an adjacent stable for his two horses with a pen around back. Speckled Appaloosas that look up at the sound of his boots and keys, attentive for all of a few seconds before losing interest.

You know without asking that Price must have built this house with his own two hands. It’s not shoddy by any means, but his house has that indefinable quality that some places have. Organic. Homegrown, almost. It’s hard to put up against the houses of your youth, but then again, you grew up in the cramped quarters of the city, apartments thick with the scent of sewage on bad days and dust on the good. The two are hardly comparable. It’s even harder to put up against the estates that you’ve spent the better part of the last few years cleaning and learning inside out, but at least his house doesn’t make your stomach turn at the sight.

There’s a moment when you first turn to him where you wonder if he’ll look for approval in your face, some sign to set him at ease, but when you meet his gaze, it’s steady and impenetrable. Quietly self-assured. It’s incongruent with the machismo you were raised around, the constant need to impress or transcend. It puts you on edge. It makes you almost feel like baring your teeth.

Your comment had come from seeing the horses and the house and the porch with the two rocking chairs, your hackles raising every step closer. Price built his house big enough for children because he anticipated a baby in his future. Children he’d have with his wife, which, though a fuzzy memory as far as memories go, you quietly stepped into the role of not half an hour ago.

You’ve thought about it before. Motherhood; marriage, domestic living, settling down with a man to start a family. The reality of your life has always made it seem like a problem for the future. Years chipping away like flakes of faded paint off the walls of your bedroom, still living with your aunt and uncle well into adulthood, trying desperately to scrimp and save and stay afloat. Disappointing but not surprising that you’d never been considered the marriable sort, not with scrubbing other people's toilets for a living.

And now look at you, ring on your finger and whisked home to be bedded. A shiver roles down your spine at the thought and you scowl at Price instead of sinking into the strange thrill.

When he wraps a hand around your wrist to pull you towards him (his fingers easily overlapping; another thrill), you snap.

“That is quite enough with all the touching!”

His eyes narrow. “I’ll have more than my hands on you by the end of the night.”

A more proper woman would gasp. You barely hold yours back.

You know in the back of your mind that you’ve already lost any semblance of an upper hand in this situation. It has long spiraled out of your control. His ring sits on your finger all nice and pretty, and though you signed your marriage license under a different name—your own rather than the name of his actual intended—that Price hadn’t even bothered confirming, you are, for all intents and purposes, his to touch as he pleases.

“I’m—” your eyes dart around, the urge to bolt a sharp and sudden compulsion lodged in your chest, “—I know I said yes, but I—there’s always the possibility of an a-annulment if we don’t…if…”

You flinch, startled, when he pulls you into his chest only to cup your face again. He has big hands with callused fingers, rough against your skin. Up close, you can see the way his beard is cropped closer than his mustache and mutton chops. It gives him a grim air, almost somber until you catch his eyes staring down at you with an affection that feels unearned, meant for someone else.

“Deep breaths, darling, there’s nothing to fret about just yet. You’ll work yourself into a state like this,” he murmurs, dropping his head to sip a kiss from your lips again.

You’ve been in a state since the moment you walked into the sheriff’s office and laid eyes on this man. Turned around and knocked sideways, like you’ve walked into a storybook without noticing. If only it hadn’t all been so sudden, you might’ve been able to approach the situation with a clearer head. You might’ve been able to think up some other way out of it beyond giving Price a fake name and waiting anxiously for your true identity to be painstakingly drawn out over the course of a week.

“Don’t know why you keep working yourself up,” Price says softly, then slots your lips together for another tender kiss. “Figured you might be a little skittish, but…’m gonna be such a good husband for you, honey. Not gonna want for nothing.”

His slow kisses drag out longer than back in the courthouse, languorous and decadent. As if he has all the time in the world now. In a way, he does, now that he’s helped collect your belongings from the inn and brought you home. When you think of pulling away, the hand wrapped around your wrist lets go and slides to your back, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breasts flatten against his chest, pulse skittering like mad when you feel the hardest of his chest against yours and the muscle holding you in place.

You can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips when the hand on your cheek slides to the nape of your neck and grips, holding you in place. The kiss deepens, the heat on your cheeks feeling palpably hot, vision swimming until your eyes have no choice but to flutter shut. Your suitcase sits forgotten somewhere in the dirt, toppled over onto its side. You pant low, hot breaths into his mouth when he breaks the kiss, letting his lips just hover over yours.

“There we go, darlin’,” Price mumbles against your mouth, sliding the hand on your low back down to grip the plump flesh of your ass through your dress, lips twitching when you make a broken, affronted sound. “Isn’ that better? Not thinkin’ so hard?”

You can’t think at all, in truth. When he kisses you again, your thoughts evaporate up into the clouds, the tongue licking into your mouth dispelling any ideas or notions you might’ve had. It disappears into the heat and lust and the fingers digging into your backside, groping at the flesh there without shame or compunction. You go with him when he clutches you closer, gasping again into his mouth when you feel something hard press against your low belly. He grunts when you twitch against it.

“John—John—” you gasp, pulling your mouth away and whimpering when he chases after you, letting him steal another wet, slick kiss before your trembling hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “Enough—it’s not—it’s not proper—”

“No prying eyes around here,” he grunts. “‘Sides, who’s going to tell a man he can’t kiss his own wife?”

Trembling all the harder at his words, you dig your nails into his shirt sleeves and hope you pinch the skin underneath. All twisted up inside. The ring on your finger glimmers when it catches the light, brighter even than the sun this close to your face. When Price feels your nails dig into his arms, he groans, fingers pressing harder into your bottom and making you squeak. All the pent up lust finally trickling out of him and into you.

“C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside.” He finally lets you go after giving your bottom lip one last wet suck, pulling it into his mouth while his half-lidded eyes stare into yours. It’s somehow more intimate than kissing.

You’re still reeling when he turns around to pick your suitcase off the ground, certain that your knees will give way and send you tumbling as well. Every point of contact on your body sizzles, aches. You watch from outside of yourself as he turns back to you, suitcase in his hand now, eyes still dark and fixed on you. Hungry. Your eyes widen when they flit down to find a thick bulge at the crotch of his pants.

Like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over your head, you hiss and back up three steps when he takes a step towards you. “Oh no, you don’t take one step closer! I won’t have anything to do with—with that!”

You must look like some feral barn cat, back all puffed up, teeth bared to the man trying to coax you towards him. Price must see it too because he grins, amused. “Still spittin’ mad, huh? Felt those claws in me before, darlin’…gonna love feeling them with nothing between us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Price doesn’t bother clearing anything up, but you intuit it the second he takes another step in your direction, whirling around and sprinting towards the house. It feels counterproductive to seek shelter in the man’s house, but dusty plains stretch out in every direction apart from back into town, where you know not a soul will lift a finger to help you. His house is the only shelter you’re going to get.

You hurry up the porch stairs, tearing open the door before glancing over your shoulder to find Price not far behind. He advances on you at a walking pace, but each stride of his long legs matches two of yours, making you shriek and scurry up the staircase. You dart for the first open door you see, slamming it shut behind you and leaning your whole weight against it. Glancing down, you perk up at the sight of a lock on the door before flipping it.

It’s not long before the sound of boots clomping up the staircase meets your ears, headed straight in your direction. You shake when you hear him pause right outside the door, then startle when he tries the knob.

“You gonna let me in, darling?” Price asks, grin in his voice. Even raps his knuckle against the door for good measure.

“No,” you snap.

“Not even for your things? Got your suitcase right here.” You hear him set it down, a little clunk against the wood floor.

“I can manage like this. I’ve slept in my dress before.”

He pauses. “Have you?”

You tilt your chin up proudly despite the door blocking his view. “Yes, and I don’t mind doing it again. You can just stay on the other side of that door until you…until you put that thing away.”

“Can’t do much about that thing, darling; it’s sort of grown on me over the years anyway,” Price chuckles. “Well, not much I can do with it behind this door. I’ll go tend the horses ‘till suppertime comes ‘round and then come back to tend to you.”

“Licentious…reprobate,” you hiss through the door.

He laughs, the sound deep in his throat. Your stomach flips.

The stairs creak under the weight of his boots as he descends back downstairs. You wait until you hear the front door open and shut behind him, until the house is completely quiet save for the blood pumping in your ears before you hastily unlock the door and dart a hand out just to pull your suitcase in. You shut and lock the door as soon as it passes the threshold.

It takes a while to settle your nerves and for the trembling to subside. In the meantime, you sit on your bottom at the foot of the door, with your back still pressed firmly to the wood, and take stock. There’s a bed in the room, one you hadn’t noticed in your mad scramble to lock yourself in. A bigger bed than the one you’d slept on back at the inn, but just as sparse, with gray flannel sheets and a blue quilt folded and draped over the end of the bed.

The rest of the furniture in the room—two end tables, a chest of drawers, a desk, and two chairs situated in the corner of the room—appears so consistent in its design that you have to wonder if Price made them by hand as well. Hardly a reason to question it. You think to yourself that you’ll have to ask him how he finds the time only to quickly shake that thought away. Can’t be getting too chummy, certainly not if you don’t expect to be around in a month’s time. Hopefully less than that.

You chew on your lip at the thought of fleeing in the night.

It trickles into your thoughts while you open your suitcase on the bed and riffle around for your nightwear. Price will likely keep you under lock and key for at least the first week of your marriage, giving you little opportunity to take off any time soon. If only you’d held your tongue and played the demure bride, he might’ve had some cause to trust you. Certainly not now, after your most recent display.

Your own stupid fault, as usual. It’s not the first time your temper has gotten the better of you. You’ve faced worse consequences for it.

Outside the window on the far end of the room, a horse whinnies. You pause, remembering that Price hadn’t gone very far. When you glance out curiously, you see him letting the horses into the pen, giving one a good rub down the bridge of its nose. The horses seem to melt under his touch.

It’s strange watching him from far away. From a distance, it’s hard to reconcile him with the man that bent you over his desk not an hour ago and tanned your bottom. You cringe at the memory. It’s not that Price doesn’t seem like a man that would take his wife over his knee if he saw fit to do so, but you still can’t imagine yourself as that woman. When you think about it, it feels like a play, something you saw happen to someone else. Not you wailing and squirming like a cat in heat.

As if feeling your stare, he glances up at the window and winks when he catches your eye. With a squeak, you leap away from the window, scurrying back over to the bed.

A couple hours pass in restless contemplation, practically biting your nails to the quick. Eyeing the windowsill like you still might go over there just to check on what Price is up to outside. You hear him come back into the house once or twice, tensing up at the sound of his boots, only to be left vaguely disappointed when you hear him leave and the screen door slam shut behind him.

You spend so long holed up in the bedroom that you miss lunch entirely. Below you, you hear Price puttering around downstairs in the kitchen—the sound of a knife chopping vegetables and then the sizzle of meat on a pan. The hunger pangs nearly make you break, but you’ve gone without food before.

Your heart skips a beat when you hear him ascend the staircase again and place something just outside of your door. He doesn’t try coaxing you out this time, just heads back down the stairs and out the front door. Again, you ignore the pang of disappointment; ignore the urge to open the door and holler down the stairs for him to stay gone.

He leaves anyway.

Curiosity needles at you though, so you open the door up a crack when you’re sure you’re alone. There’s a plate at the foot of the door with vegetables and meat, slightly cooled but still fresh, the plate still warm. He must’ve known you wouldn’t try coming downstairs and fixed you up a plate.

You eat in silence at the desk, bad mood ripening. Angry at yourself and everyone else. Even John. Especially John. The audacity of fixing you up a plate, of thinking of you in the first place. Irritated enough to stand boldly by the window this time, hand clutched in the curtain, tracking the movement of his shoulders and hips when he moves with the horses and fetches water from the well. You lose sight of him a couple times as he finishes up the day’s chores around the house, but the flutter in your belly always settles when he comes back into view.

It’s easy to let yourself admire him from afar, somehow less humiliating without his eyes on you. He’s a solid man, body carved into its shape from the rough labor that’s part and parcel of living out on the frontier. A wide back tapering down to lean, narrow hips and thick, muscled thighs hewn from lifting and pulling and all manner of physical work. You bite your lip when you remember what it felt like to cling to that back and dig your nails into his arms.

You give your head a shake. It’s dangerous to let a thought like that latch on.

In the few hours between lunch and sunset, you occupy yourself by reading one of the books stowed away in your suitcase. Then get bored and refold your clothes. The horses bray when they’re taken into the stables for the evening. The crickets out in the bushes in the yard chirp as the sun sets pink in the far distance. It’s quieter out here in the plains than back in the city, you think, something you haven’t yet had the time to appreciate.

When Price comes in for the night, you’re firm in your resolve to keep the door shut. If lunch at the door was just an attempt to butter you up, he has another thing coming. In a house this big, there’s likely a guest room or somewhere else to sleep—a sofa or a sleeping bag tucked away under the stairs. He’ll just have to make do while you take the bedroom. There’ll be no sharing a bed with the man that grabbed your backside like a piece of meat.

He doesn’t come up the stairs right away. Like before, you hear him rustle up supper, spatula scraping against a pan and knife coming down on a chopping block again and again. Not enough time has passed since lunch for you to feel more than peckish. You’re thankful for that when you hear him sit down to eat.

The knock at the door startles you. You hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. “Ready to talk now?”

You stare balefully at the door. “No.”

“We have to figure this out sometime, darling.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I’m sorry if I gave you a fright earlier, but, honey, that’s how husbands kiss their wives. Nothing improper about it.”

“I’m not frightened, I’m just not—we don’t need to do any of that,” you huff, embarrassed all over again. “You’ve hardly given me any time to even think. I didn’t know you from Adam this morning and now we’re married.”

Price sighs, the sound muffled through the door. “What am I going to do with you, honey?” It’s said to himself, a fond exasperation that puts you on edge all over again. He has no right to be amused with you, no right to be delighted and charmed by your ire.

“Well, you can sleep somewhere else for the time being. I’d prefer the bed to myself.”

He lets out a low, dark laugh. “There’s not a chance in hell that I’m sleeping anywhere but with my wife from this point on. You oughta come to terms with that quick.”

“Well then, you can sleep out there because I’m not unlocking the door!”

He lets out a mean sound, almost mocking. “Yeah, ‘bout time I addressed that, huh?”

His words make you frown until you hear a floorboard creak as Price does something on the other side of the door. Then the doorknob jiggles. Horrified, you watch as the door unlocks and the knob turns, your husband’s body filling out the door frame. You’d forgotten how well he could fill one out. He almost has to duck to come inside, mused hair from working outside all day brushing against the top of the frame.

“Always put a key on the top of the door, just in case,” he explains, pinching the little silver key between his thumb and forefinger before shutting the door. Your heart jumps when he locks it behind him. “Ready to talk now, honey?”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #captain price #captain john price #john price #cod price #price x you #price x reader #price/reader #john price x reader #mail order bride au

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starshideurfics · 7 days

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It’s April 20, so it is the perfect day to read or reread my omegaverse mail order bride AU, because it is Steve and Eddie’s anniversary in the fic!

If you do give it a little read today, please drop me a little comment 🥰 I’d love to hear about favorite moments, or just see that you’re celebrating their love 💖

#steddie #omegaverse #fanfiction #alpha eddie munson #omega steve harrington #mpreg #mail order bride au #stranger things fic

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fizzigigsimmer · 3 months

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To B, With Love

Moodboard by @prettyboylikeyousteve

Genre: A/B/O Mail Order Bride Au!

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Harringrove

Summary: Steve, a society omega, puts out an add in the paper looking for an alpha among the lonely hearts expanding the west. He’s answered by Billy, a lonely cowboy living in a growing settlement in California rich in just about everything but available omegas. Even though it is clear that Billy hasn’t had the schooling that Steve has, Steve finds himself charmed and intrigued by the intelligent and silly alpha who hangs on his every word, who actually seems to want to listen to him. He seems like the perfect choice, but there’s one problem. It’s not Billy who has been writing Steve but his little sister Max.

Preview: In the aftermath of Max's near abduction Steve finds himself in an unexpected circumstance. Meanwhile Billy tries to keep himself and his companions alive in their hunt for Vecna's missing cattle. A dance of wills between him and Mac Owens leads him to an impossible choice.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #harringrove fic #bodice ripper #mail order bride au #historical romance #alpha beta omega #alpha billy hargrove #omega steve harrington #Squint or you'll miss him Eddie Munson in this chapter #babysitter steve #being just as bad at it as he is in canon #but somehow it's good

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drgrlfriend · 10 months

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Okay, how did I just now realize that I never posted this amazing commission from @quicksillver? I asked for a scene from Freedom's Reach, not realizing in my non-artist head that the scene I chose would be a technical *nightmare* what with mirrors being little bastards and all, but Misha came through like an absolute CHAMP. Definitely stop by their blog and give them all the love!

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky says. Clint looks up, startled, to find Bucky standing in front of him, collar up and a tie looped around his neck.

Clint clears his throat a little, sure that he must be blushing. There’s a standing mirror in the corner and Clint guides Bucky over to it, crowding in behind him to knot the tie. “I’ll tell you about them later,” he growls, deep and low into Bucky’s ear, just to make him shiver. “Or else we’ll never get there in time.”

Clint takes note of how Bucky’s eyes in the mirror go dark and hot, and he presses a little closer than necessary, letting Bucky feel every inch of him along his back. He reaches out a hand and snags Bucky’s jacket where it’s waiting on the back of a chair, watching in the mirror as he helps Bucky into it and smooths his palms down the front, the gold ring on his left hand gleaming in the lamplight. The left arm of Bucky’s jacket is pinned up neatly, the dark blue wool skimming Bucky’s lean frame and making his eyes glow an icy blue.

“You look beautiful,” Clint can’t help but murmur.

Bucky turns, hand sliding inside Clint’s jacket to cradle his ribs through the thin linen of his shirt, his own ring cool and hard in contrast to the warm press of his fingers. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he says, cutting off Clint’s retort with a hungry kiss.

By the time they tear themselves apart they are running a bit late, and have to take a few more moments to straighten up their clothes anew. Clint’s skin is still buzzing as he and Bucky descend the grand staircase to the main lobby, hand-in-hand. Bucky gives Clint’s fingers a squeeze and Clint squeezes back, their rings clinking together as they head toward the dining room.

#the winter soldier #bucky barnes #clint barton #hawkeye #marvel #mcu #winterhawk #my fic #freedom's reach #historical au #mail order bride au #arranged marriage au #comic!clint barton #fraction/aja comic!clint barton #deaf!clint barton #whob2021 #winterhawk olympic bang

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starshideyourfics · 6 months

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Chapter three of Build a Life with You, the omegaverse mail order bride au, is up now!

Enjoy a quick preview here, then enjoy the rest on ao3!

Angel of the Home

Steve’s nausea settles, but Eddie encourages him to take things easy and rest when he comes out to join them. Not that any of the Munsons are doing anything particularly taxing when he does; they’re spending the late afternoon talking in the front room, and Eddie keeps Steve pressed against his side once he joins them. Dustin bounces around until the sun begins to set, yawning and stretching as he visibly sags. Wayne’s just said his goodbyes, needing enough light to get home, and Eddie tells Dustin, “I think you had so much fun this week that your body needs a break. Go on and get ready for bed.”

Dustin sulks, fighting his clear exhaustion, and sits next to Steve, arms thrown around his neck. “Do I have to?” he asks, only a little whiney as he snuggles into Steve’s shoulder, his breathing already getting deep and even.

Steve looks to his husband, not wanting to overstep his bounds, but also desperate to comfort Dustin. Eddie sucks his teeth, but refrains from saying anything, simply nodding to Steve so they can present a united front without turning this into an argument. Stroking down Dustin’s back, Steve says, “I think you’re already halfway asleep, Dustin. You need to rest, and so do I. I promise you won’t miss anything exciting.”

“Pinky promise?” Dustin murmurs, looking up at Steve and holding out his little finger.

Linking his own pinky around it, Steve whispers, “Pinky promise,” against his fist the way he would with Tommy when they were still young enough and close enough for such things. Dustin grins, fighting to keep his eyes open, and Steve adds, no longer whispering, “But you can’t just come to me if Eddie tells you to do something you don’t like, all right? We’re pack and we work together.”

“All right,” he agrees, yawning again and hiding his face against Steve’s shoulder.

Eddie smiles indulgently at them both, Steve smiling back as he rubs little circles between Dustin’s shoulders. “I’ll go get the animals bedded down for the night and when I get back I can carry him up to bed,” Eddie whispers before dropping a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Scent sharing like this should be good for you both,” he adds as he ruffles Dustin’s hair before turning to leave.

Steve hums his assent, happy to continue cuddling the pup, feeling warmth spread through his body as Dustin’s powdery sweet scent fills his nose. Dustin mumbles something incoherent, fingers gripping harder at Steve’s shirt. “Shh,”Steve soothes, “Rest now. Just relax here with me.”

Pretty soon, Steve has his eyes closed too, letting himself drift…

A gentle, “Nooo, don’ wan’ go,” mumbled near Steve’s ear wakes him. Dustin clings to him, and Steve holds him tight and buries his nose in the boy’s curls.

“I’m just taking you up to bed, Dusty,” Eddie says, gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I can take him,” Steve announces sleepily, blinking to try and focus on his husband’s face. He shifts his arms, doing his best to cradle Dustin close and get an arm under his legs.

He tries to stand, but Eddie’s hand on his shoulder keeps him down as he leans to whisper in Steve’s ear, “Don’t think that’s a great idea, sweetheart. I don’t want you to strain anything, and you’re clearly too tired as it is.” He carefully peels away Steve’s arms, omega and pup both huffing small whines at the loss of contact, and picks Dustin up, tucking him to his neck to calm him.

Steve stands, getting a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and trailing behind him up the stairs. Walking gets his blood moving, wakes him up enough that he can dig through Dustin’s small chest of drawers and retrieve a nightshirt for the pup while Eddie gets him out of his clothes. Together, they have Dustin ready for bed in about a minute, Eddie tucking him in and Steve brushing a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back from his face. “Night,” the pup mumbles as he turns on his side and presses his face into his pillow.

“Good night, Dusty,” Eddie says from the doorway, already leading Steve slowly from the room and back downstairs.

Once in their own bedroom, Steve rests his head against his husband’s shoulder and hums. Eddie easily wraps him in his arms, a purr rumbling through his chest. “Sweetheart, you need rest. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

“You too?” Steve asks sleepily, nuzzling forward to press his nose to Eddie’s neck and drawing in his scent. No matter how tired he is, Steve dislikes the very idea of sleeping without Eddie touching him. Two nights and he already can’t imagine going to bed alone.

“Me too, Stevie.” He drops a kiss to Steve’s temple and tugs him closer.

Steve rewards him with a smile as he lifts his head and leans in for a proper kiss. “Can you help me? Too tired for buttons.”

Eddie chuckles, cupping Steve’s cheek and kissing him again. “I can handle buttons,” he says, gently flicking open the placket of Steve’s shirtwaist, revealing his lace-trimmed chemise. His fingers trace over the lace, then move up to stroke over Steve’s collarbones. “Such a pretty package for my pretty wife,” Eddie murmurs, leaning in for another kiss.

Glowing at the compliment, Steve wants to keep kissing his husband forever. He’s too tired to do so, and certainly too tired to even consider attempting more, but it doesn’t stop the wanting. “Eddie…”

“I know, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed.” Eddie pets his hair and strokes down his back. Focus shifted, he helps Steve change into his nightgown, then strips down to his underwear to join Steve in their bed. “Wanna touch you,” he whispers by way of explanation, “Feel your skin against mine.”

Steve has the same desire, perfectly happy to snuggle against Eddie’s chest, falling asleep in the span of a few deep breaths.

#steddie #fanfic #omegaverse #alpha eddie munson #omega steve harrington #historical au #mail order bride au

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year

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#5 with cowboy Curtis please?

There was a rule Curtis instated for himself and the general ranch hands that worked for him. It was a rule that had suited him well he found, and his hands had extended their own connection after seeing the difference in Curtis first hand.

His rule was simple: if the Mrs. wants to buy new animals, don’t ask questions

The rule was simple, and it had expanded Curtis’ ranch to include a small herd of mini-cows, goats that you’d taken care of and milked to make soaps, a whole new flock of chickens and hens.

He had come to expect no less from you, since you’d had such a desire to care and have animals. He had been pleased that you were making this place your own, turning it from something that was his life and his career to your shared passion.

Even if you managed to catch him off guard.

“Mrs. Everett-” Curtis had gotten out of the truck, back from a trip that lasted a few days, come to be greeted by one of his hands carrying a bag of duck feed and some fresh hay to stash in an enclosed pen.

“Ducks,” Curtis laughed under his breath and shook his head, carting himself up the front steps while his hand was walking down, “she bought ducks?”

“You’re starting a zoo, boss.” He cracked a grin, no less bothered by you than Curtis was, and after passing Curtis had walkd toward the enclosed pen for your birds.

They all loved you, cared about you. Seeing how happy you had made Curtis, how much you loved him after his ex-wife had left and chose someone who was as financially stable but hadn’t lived rurally, had impressed his hands. They were like your brothers, an adopted family by marriage, and it all stemmed from your appreciation of Curtis.

“Mrs. Everett,” Curtis called when he entered the house, stopping to hang his hat and kick off his boots, stacking them to the side, “are you here, sweetheart?”

“Upstairs!” Your voice was quiet and muffled by the floors between you and Curtis, yet he was still able to detect the dulcet trill of your voice. He had walked toward the staircase and hesitated at the bottom step, his hands resting against the rails before he took that first step.

“I hope you don’t mind…” there was an edge of anxiousness, as if you were worried that this would be the last action that would test his patience.

“Sweetheart,” Curtis followed the familiar path to your bedroom, stopping on the threshold and tilting his head when he saw what was laying in the middle surrounded by a nest made of delicate baby blankets, “what have you got there?”

“The vet seen the ducks, they said that this little bean…” you raised your head and took a pause from talking, biting down on your bottom lip.

“Needs some extra care?” Curtis straightened his posture and entered the room, taking slow and calculated steps as to not scare the duckling, and as he approached the bed he had slowly sank t the mattress. “Did you think I’d be pissed?”

“If it’s too much-“ Curtis reached his hand toward you, resting his upon your own and then he squeezed gently.

“Let me put some things away, and then you can teach me how to take care of our little duck.” Curtis watched your eyes light up, and the anxiety that had afflicted them fading.

“Curtis, I should tell you…” His eyes slowly raked down your body, taking great care to detect the little details about yourself that had changed.

There was a little more fullness to your cheeks and there was a softness to your stomach that he had recognized from pregnancies his hands’ wives had gone through.

“I can’t wait, little snowbird.” Curtis had confirmed what you were trying to say, his throat tightening and his heart beating with overwhelming pride.

#silverfox!cowboy!Curtis x reader #cowboy!Curtis x reader #mail order bride #mail order bride au #silverfox!Curtis Everett #silverfox!cowboy!Curtis Everett x mail order bride!Reader

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lunarianlibrarian · 2 months

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You know what trope is underrated??? Mail order brides au! I’m such a sucker for them! I mean at its core, it’s two lonely people who just wanna make a connection and willing to go all in for it. Like the angst it can produce! Plus the majority are set as westerns! Who doesn’t like a little romantic western now and then!

#mail order bride au

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donteattheappleshook · 1 year

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His - A Captain Swan AU Chapter 4/10

Summary

Mature widower with good home wishes to make acquaintance of a hardworking girl or widow. No children. Object matrimony.

When Emma Swan flees scandal in New York to marry a man she’s never met in Storybrooke, Montana, she doesn’t have any illusions of finding love. But when she’s picked up at the station by Killian Jones, it finds her regardless. Despite sharing his home, his bed, and his heart, she can never truly be his.

Read it on Ao3 (where my italics work...)

Catch up on Tumblr 1 2 3

Thank you thank you thank you @elizabeethan and @the-darkdragonfly for all your help with this fic! the best pocket friends and besties an girl could ask for!

******

Part 4

“There you are,” Killian smiles when she finally comes outside to meet him.

She’d stood in the kitchen for a long time, turning the comb over between her hands as she considered it, tracing her fingers over the flowers. She wanted to wear it. Of course she did, it was beautiful, a gift from someone who had cared enough to notice that she’d coveted it. But she didn’t know what it would mean to wear it. Was it just a simple gift from one friend to another, from a son to his father’s wife? Or was it something more, something inappropriate that she couldn’t even let herself consider.

“Oh, you found it,” he says, then frowns as she continues to turn it over in her hands. “Is something wrong?”

She shakes her head no even though there is - or at least, there could be. “It’s lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should. I haven’t given you a wedding present. I know there wasn’t time for a celebration or gifts so I thought you should have at least one.” Emma lets out a sigh of relief. A wedding present. A gift to celebrate her marriage to Brennan. Something perfectly sweet and acceptable. She feels silly, idiotic even to have read more into such a kind gesture.

“I hope it’s alright,” he adds when she doesn’t answer. “It’s only that I noticed you admiring it in the shop…”

“It’s perfect,” she promises and his anxiety begins to fade.

“I just thought you might like something nice. I know that you must have left behind a far more glamorous life for rude cows and nothing but fields and mountains. A bit of a step down, I’d assume.”

“I like the fields and mountains.” She gives him a small, hesitant smile. “Your family and your home aren’t a step down. My life in New York wasn’t nearly as glamorous as everyone seems to think it was.”

He considers her for a moment. “I suppose I don’t know much of your life before you came here. You just showed up one day in your pretty dress from the big city and sent the whole town aflutter,” he smiles.

She returns it as best she can, wondering how much of that life she’ll be able to keep secret, if the scandal will follow her all the way out here. “Thank you for the gift, Killian.”

Killian nods, hesitating as though he can tell she’s keeping something from him, but he only smiles again. “Would you still like to see some more fields and mountains?”

He takes her along the property line, walking the length of the fence, the other side of which, he explains, belongs to the Mills family. “She gets very austere about borders. She’s tried to report us to the sheriff a few times for encroaching on her land,” he rolls his eyes. “Best to avoid her if you can,” he cautions.

He walks her along a creek that he explains is also a property line - that he and his brother used to play here when they were children and hiding from chores. They’d make ships from paper or sticks and race them down the stream until one of their parents found them. “It’s still a good spot to swim on a hot day.”

They come across a herd of cattle, Robin and David waving to them from astride their horses. “What are they doing?”

“Making sure nobody steals them.” Her eyes widen. “And catching any that run off.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

He shrugs. “From time to time.”

“Where’s your father?” Were these not the fields he was speaking of?

“Plowing around the back pasture. He prefers to work alone most days. Happy to complain about the lack of help though,” he rolls his eyes. “At harvest we take on a few temporary workers.” A somewhat awkward silence settles between them as she wonders how often Brennan complains about Killian not being able to help with farm work. “Come on, I think you’ll like this place,” he promises, gesturing further out across the field.

He takes her to an orchard, rows and rows of trees in full bloom offering a little shade from the day’s heat. It’s beautiful, brilliant green everywhere, deeper than the fields and the hills, spotted with pink and yellow. “This was mine and Liam’s favorite place when we were boys. We used to see who could climb the highest. The sweetest fruit grows at the top.”

Emma smiles. “Who won?”

“Me, of course.”

She laughs. She should have expected that. “My friend Lily and I used to climb the apple trees that grew behind the orphanage and sneak some back to our room. We always got in trouble for it though.” Her smile doesn’t fade at the memory. It was always worth it.

It’s a moment before she realizes she’s mentioned the orphanage, something she usually doesn’t tell people about, and he’s watching her carefully as they walk between the branches.

“Well, there’s nobody to get you in trouble for it here,” he says. And maybe she imagines the challenge in his words, in his raised brow, but regardless, she decides to rise to it. “What are you doing?” he asks, smile amused as she kicks off her boots.

“What does it look like?” She takes hold of a low branch. The trees aren’t very tall, nothing like the ancient pines that she can see growing in the mountains, but she’s out of practice, heaving herself up clumsily. The last time she did this she didn’t have a corset.

“Emma…” Killian laughs as she continues to climb. “Be careful.”

She scoffs. “Afraid I’ll beat your record? Or was your bragging about your climbing skills just talk?”

“I’ve got one hand!” he laughs and she rolls her eyes. Alright, it’s a decent excuse. She continues, making her way up to the higher branches, until any higher would be too thin to support her weight, and shimmies out onto one of the sturdier ones, reaching for the ripe peaches that grow above her head.

“Catch,” she calls, picking one and tossing it down to him. When he catches it with ease she throws down a few more and beams at him. Emma takes a moment to enjoy the world from up here, the sun brushing her skin in patches between the leaves, the breeze warm and the air sweet. It’s the freest she’s felt in a long time. For a few minutes, she feels like herself again.

“Are you stuck?” Killian teases from below.

“No,” she answers immediately, almost offended, before realizing… she might be.

He chuckles. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” No.

He huffs another small laugh, rubbing one of the peaches on his shirt and taking a bite, waiting. “You know,” he says after a few moments. “I’d hate to leave you out here but someone has to make dinner if you’re going to spend the night in a tree.”

“I’m fine,” she says, snippy against his teasing. She just needs to figure out how to get down from a tree without breaking her neck or hiking her dress up in front of a strange man. She probably shouldn’t have climbed the damn tree in front of a strange man in the first place. “Just… turn around,” she orders and he smirks but does as she asks.

Right. Well, the tree isn’t that tall anyway, she reminds herself, throwing a leg over from where she’d been straddling the branch and sitting, looking down warily. It’s not that high.

Killian whirls back around at the sound of her small shout, reaching her just in time to see her land on her ass on the soft grass.

“Are you alright?” he demands, kneeling next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder, then her cheek to make her look at him. He looks a little frantic and she almost laughs.

“It was nothing.” She notices his empty arms then. “Did you drop the peaches?”

He looks back at the small pile behind him. “I thought you were hurt.”

“I risked my life to get those!”.

“I thought you said it was nothing,” he smirks.

“That was before you threw them away.”

Killian laughs, shakes his head and stands, retrieving the fruit and handing one to her as she makes her way back to her feet. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Emma says, dusting her hands off on her dress before taking the peach from him.

“What are you going to do with all of these?” he asks, arms full of the fruit she tossed.

She picks another few from the lower branches, makes a basket from the top layer of her dress and tucks them in it. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll make a pie.”

“You know how to make pie?”

Oh, right. “No. But there’s a recipe in Granny’s book and I think I could figure it out.”

“One afternoon with the woman and you’re ready to take over her business.”

“I’m not afraid of a challenge,” she shrugs.

“Oh, I know,” he teases, stepping closer and her breath catches at his nearness. His hand lifts to her hair and the corner of his mouth pulls up as her heart races traitorously. Then he plucks a leaf from her braid, holding it out in front of her with an amused smirk and her face flushes in embarrassment.

It’s all in your head, she reminds herself. Stop imagining things as more than what they are - things that aren’t even there.

“Should we head back?” he suggests, flicking the leaf away. Then his expression grows more hesitant. “We can circle around to the eastern field if you’d like to see my father before he comes in.”

Emma thinks of the way Brennan had dismissed her offer to visit him this morning and his unpleasant mood before he headed out. “Let’s not bother him. I should get started on dinner anyway.” A better meal than yesterday’s is her best shot at improving the impression she’s made so far on her husband. By Killian’s silence as he agrees and leads them back in the direction of the house, he’s likely also remembering his father’s harsh rejection.

“What do you grow out there?” she asks to break the awkward quiet that’s grown between them.

“Wheat mostly. There’s corn as well but it’s for the livestock and doesn’t take much tending.”

“I thought it might be nice to start a garden,” she suggests hesitantly. “Grow some vegetables in the patch out front. It would make it easy to tend while I’m working inside.” Emma looks at him out of the corner of her eye to try and gauge his reaction. If he thinks it’s a silly idea then there’s no chance Brennan would support it. But his son might be able to convince him to agree.

“I think that’s a brilliant idea,” he smiles. “I could help you dig it up - if you need help.”

“Help would be great, thank you.” She’d already planned ahead, ordering vegetables that grow easily from the store today that she could use for meals and then keep the scraps for replanting. “You’re sure you don’t mind? That Brennan won’t?”

There’s concern in the way he looks at her. “You don’t have to ask permission to build a garden on your own land, Swan. It’s your home too now.”

“Right,” she answers, knowing he means it but not so sure she believes it yet. She thinks that if it were only him, then she would already be beginning to feel she belongs. But it isn’t, and she doesn’t, as badly as she may want to. Wanting for something to do, she takes one of the peaches from her skirt and takes a bite, surprising herself and Killian when she lets out a stunned, “holy shit.”

Killian’s brows raise in surprise before he bursts out laughing as she flushes deep red at her language. Mouth still full, she forces herself to finish chewing and swallow before she explains. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you weren’t kidding. These are amazing.”

“Aye, well don’t eat all of them,” he warns. “I was promised pie.”

“Yeah, well, you might have to go climb some trees if you want it that badly.” She slips one into her pocket.

“Are you stealing peaches?”

“It’s for Jewel.”

“Swan, that animal is big and lazy enough. She doesn’t need your help growing so large she can’t fit through her stable door.” He shakes his head. “Wasting perfectly good fruit on a horse, really.”

“I thought this was my home now,” she argues, catching her smirk between her teeth as she uses his words against him. “Doesn’t that mean these are my peaches and I can do what I want with them?”

He laughs, something in his smile softening the teasing humour they’d fallen into. “Aye. It does.”

***

She makes one of Granny’s recipes for dinner, roasting meat, potatoes and vegetables the way the old woman had shown her that morning, adding herbs in generous quantities that she’d given Emma from her own stock. Herbs, she thinks, she’ll have to keep some to plant in her garden as well. She smiles a little as she cooks, thinking of the little patch she’ll dig up, the friends she made today, her stomach churning with anticipation tonight rather than nerves as she waits for the men to come in to eat.

While her husband offers no compliments for the meal she serves, he doesn’t complain. Eating without comment, he mutters about the lack of help he was given today in the field - most of it directed at his son who, along with the farmhands, have been nothing but flattering in their opinions about their dinner.

“You could hire another farmhand,” Killian tells him, another old argument from the sigh with which he suggests it.

“With what money?” Brennan snaps.

“The money you bring with you to the tavern every night.”

“I know some lads in town looking for work,” Robin suggests.

“I’m not paying for more help. I pay you two enough that I shouldn’t have to!”

“It takes two of them to mind the cattle,” Killian reminds him. “We can’t risk losing any more like we did last year.”

“So I should just do all the work myself?” he argues. “What use are two farmhands who spend all day standing in a field and a cripple son who sits around reading books and calls it work?”

“I could help,” Emma offers quietly, hoping to diffuse some of the tension, hoping to find another way to be useful.

“With the field?” Killian asks, but Brennan scoffs.

“Look at her. She can barely lift a bag of flour let alone handle a plow.”

“You said you wanted help,” his son reminds him.

“Aye, help, not a woman who I’ll have to bring back when she faints from exhaustion.”

“Father.”

“What? It’s not women’s work.”

“I’m not sure what other option there is if you don’t wish to hire someone or let Mrs. Jones help,” Robin points out as politely as possible.

“I’m not sure I asked for your opinion, Locksley.”

“No you just want to complain about not having the help you refuse,” Killian mutters and Brennan’s fist comes down hard on the table, jarring her. David sets a gentle hand on her arm, comforting, but she can also feel the suggestion in its weight: don’t get involved.

“I won’t abide being talked down to in my own house by my son and the help,” he spits, standing brusquely, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be at the tavern. Spending my coin however I damn well please. You best not be here when I get back,'' he warns them, slamming the door behind him and leaving the room in silence.

“I didn’t mean to -”

“You didn’t do anything,” Killian says before she can finish apologizing. “It’s his own pigheadedness that-” He stops, takes a deep breath, calms himself.

“Sorry, Mrs. Jones,” Robin sighs. “We’ve ruined your perfectly wonderful dinner.”

“No, I’ll just…” She moves to gather their plates, flustered and needing something to do. “Does… does anyone want dessert?”

The resounding yes makes her smile despite the tension, turning away to hide her flush, busying herself with serving plates of peach cobbler - pie had turned out to be beyond her skillset after all - bringing them to the table. The discomfort that had built over the course of dinner slowly dissipates as they eat, Brennan seeming to have taken the anger out the door with him.

When Locksley and Nolan have retired for the night, she broaches the earlier subject carefully with Killian. “Do we really need another farmhand?”

“Aye, probably,” he admits, setting dishes down in the washbasin despite her protests that he doesn’t need to help her clear the table. “But the work gets done without one. I don’t know how much longer he can keep it up though with the state he’s in - it used to take three of us.”

“What state?” she asks and he presses his lips together like he’s said too much. “Is he ill?” she asks, remembering his coughing fit from this morning.

“The doctor hasn't found anything wrong with him. He just says that he needs to cut back and give his body a chance to recover or he’ll run himself into an early grave. ”

“The work?”

“Aye… and the rum.

“Oh,” she says, looking towards the door where her husband just left for the tavern.

“I’m sorry,” Killian frowns, pinching his brow. “I keep speaking without thinking tonight.”

“I… is it serious?” she presses, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into her palms as she considers the possibility that her husband - who’s already not a young man and was supposed to provide her with a home and security - may be drinking himself to death. “Should I be worried?” A terrible fear of finding herself a widow so soon after marrying creeps through her, of being left again with nowhere to go like so many times before.

“Hey,” Killian says, reaching for her hand, opening it and keeping it in his. His thumb runs over her knuckles soothingly. “You don’t need to worry. He’s too stubborn to let death get the better of him. And should anything happen…” His finger brushes against her palm as if unwittingly. “You won’t be left alone,” he promises. “I’ll take care of you.” Her heart catches in her throat at his words, racing at the declaration before he quickly corrects himself, dropping her hand. “I mean, we will. Liam and I. We won’t leave you to fend for yourself.”

Emma’s smile is awkward as he reaches to rub at the back of his neck, clearing his throat before announcing that he should probably get the animals settled for the night. She watches him leave, the feel of his calloused fingers against her own still lingering like a reminder.

Stop imagining things that aren’t there.

‘I’ll take care of you.’

***

As she lays in bed later, staring at the ceiling, her husband’s side empty for the second night in a row, she reflects on how drastically her life continues to change in such a short period of time. A week ago she was Emma Swan, governess to a wealthy family in New York. Yesterday she was Emma Jones, wife of a farmer twice her age. And today, she’s married to a farmer twice her age who’s ill from a vice he won’t give up that may leave her as just Emma again, widowed and alone. Only she won’t be alone - Killian had promised. But the thought of losing her husband whom she’s only just met, whom she’s so determined to win the respect and appreciation of, is troubling to say the least.

There’s so much she wishes she had known before she made those vows to a stranger she still doesn’t know. So many things she wishes she’d thought to ask, too focused on fleeing her own heartbreak to consider that the life that awaited her may hold even greater challenges. Maybe she should have stayed in New York. Scandal would have walked in her shadow, and she’d probably never have been able to find another employer, but she’d have had her freedom, the option to walk away. Instead she’d chosen to run.

So when her husband stumbles into their room hours later, reeking of drink and slurring before collapsing, unconscious on the bed for the second night in a row, Emma wars with the mixed feelings of relief and despair that toil within her. This is not the life she’d have chosen for herself, but she did choose it, and now alongside her regret is a desperation to hang onto it less it be ripped from her hands too soon. It’s not the sort of fantasies she’d let herself dream up when she was young, and even for a little while when she thought Neal loved her. But for all the turmoil and uncertainty, there’s goodness - things and places she’s becoming accustomed to, a routine she’s learning to settle into, people she’s growing fond of - and she’s not ready to lose it just yet.

***

When she makes her way downstairs the next morning, she’s not surprised to find Killian already in the kitchen, the smell of coffee wrapping itself around her and warming the room. In fact, as she’d tiptoed quietly across the hall so as not to wake her husband, she couldn’t fight the anticipation of another morning of quiet conversation, of lighthearted teasing and banter before the sun could shine through the windows and bathe them in reality.

The few solitary moments alone she’s had with Killian have been a godsend in these overwhelming first days in Storybrooke. And while she promises herself it’s just relief at having a friend, someone she can talk to - confide in even - the way her heart runs rampant in her chest when he looks up and smiles at her like he’d been anticipating her arrival too, leaves her a little less certain.

When she notices the cup left out on the counter for her next to the kettle, she tries not to read into the considerate gesture. He was late picking you up because he stopped to help Granny, she reminds herself. He’s considerate of everyone. That’s just the kind of man he is.

“Good morning,” he greets, moving from the counter to the table, setting down a fresh loaf of bread and butter and taking a seat. The kitchen still smells like baking and she knows he made it himself. “Breakfast?” he offers. “There’s eggs on the stove as well though you might have to heat them.”

Emma gives him a mirthful smirk. “Have you left me any of my duties?”

“I thought I would give you a hand - so to speak,” he grins, waving his prosthetic. “That way your morning is clear.”

“Clear for what?” she asks, taking a seat and helping herself to bread. His is better than hers and she’ll have to ask him for some advice on that. Though, from the way she can see the muscles of his forearms shifting under his rolled up sleeves as he moves, his hand nearly twice the size of her own, she thinks it might have more to do with kneading and brute strength. She busies herself with picking apart her breakfast, forcing her attention away from him.

Killian leans in conspiratorially. “I wondered if you’d like to come with me to the bookshop today.”

“Yes!” she says too quickly, giddy like a child at the thought of joining him in town again, of not being stuck in the house alone doing chores all day. “Do you think Brennan will mind?”

“Mind what?” her husband demands gruffly, joining them earlier than she’d expected given his condition last night. He’s slightly more alert than he was yesterday and she thinks perhaps he may still be drunk. Brennan takes a seat at the table, waiting expectantly before demanding, “Am I supposed to serve my own damn breakfast?” with an annoyed frown at her.

Emma hurries to the stove, warming the pan and getting a plate ready. She can see Killian about to say something but she shakes her head. She doesn’t want them fighting again, not this morning when she so desperately wants him to agree to let her go.

“Mind what?” he repeats, eyeing his son suspiciously now.

“I was offering to show Emma the shop today. It might be worth it for her to learn how to run the place and handle the books should we ever need the extra help.”

“What, you planning on going somewhere?” he demands.

“No. But if you need an extra hand in the field at harvest I can free up Locksley or Noland and watch the cattle.” Emma can predict his comment and clearly Killian can too, adding, “I can sit on a horse one handed.”

Brennan grunts as she sets his breakfast down in front of him. “Like I said, so long as the cooking gets done and the house is kept I don’t care what you do.” Despite the sting of his indifference, she beams at Killian over her husband’s shoulder. “Don’t know how you’ve got the time though. If you’re short of work there are cows that need milking and eggs that need collecting and those bloody chickens don’t catch themselves. I suppose you spent your days whiling away where you came from but there’s no room for laziness on a farm.”

She gives Killian another pleading look to stay silent when she sees his temper flaring and to her relief he doesn’t speak, only clenches his jaw and fist, glaring at the table. “Of course not,” she tells Brennan, placatingly. “I won’t go if it gets in the way of my chores.”

They sit and eat breakfast quietly, the lack of conversation loaded and awkward, until her husband stands, finished with his meal. He walks out without a word as he had the day before, no goodbye or see you later or kind word for his new wife. Emma sets to cleaning up, bringing the dishes to the sink. Killian helps her without comment and she doesn’t argue with him this time, too disappointed to care. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up.

When they’ve finished, Killian holds out a towel, hanging from the tip of his hook with an exaggerated bow and it makes her smile as she takes it. “Come on,” he tells her. “We don’t have much time to waste.”

“What?” she frowns.

“We’ve got cows to milk and eggs to fetch, and honestly I’d be fascinated to see if you could catch a chicken - or at least I’d very much like to watch you try. We’re short on entertainment around here,” he smirks and she flicks the towel at him, making him laugh as he twists out of the way. He pulls out his pocket watch. “We still have about an hour until we need to leave to open the shop.”

Emma can’t fight the way her grin splits her face. She could hug him. She nearly does, but instead catches her lip between her teeth, nodding excitedly and letting him lead the way outside. For all the uncertainty this new life has brought her, all the anxiety, it’s nice to know she’s got one thing she can count on. Her fingers fiddle with the comb in her pocket, tracing the flowers carefully. He pretends not to notice when she slips it into her hair.

******

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#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #cs smut #eventually #cs angst #always #pining idiots #cs au #western au #mail order bride au #sort of #with a twist #a chapter where nothing really happens....

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saengak · 6 months

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Last Line Challenge

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).

Tagged by @valkeakuulas thank you friend <3 I waited until I had a nice last line (ahem, paragraphs) to answer LOL

"And the hotel?" Koji turns to glance at it. "The Osaka Continental." John waits for more of an explanation but that seems like all Koji has to say on it. Maybe to civilians, it isn't very interesting. "I think it won an architectural award some years prior," Koji finally supplies after a long contemplation.

Tagging: @ibahibut @r1-sw-lover @dukeoftheblackstar @ithonestlycouldhavebeen @calkale @seascribbling

#ask games #kojijohn #yeah I started ANOTHER wip #*screaming*#mail order bride au #guess who gets mailed #being incredibly self indulgent again

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kneelingshadowsalome · 3 months

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The other day I was reading about the “mail-order brides” during the Gold Fever/Gold Rush in USA. Men ordered/purchased a wife via mail, and one of the many reasons some of them did that was because of loneliness, and I couldn’t help but think “yep, that would be König”. Just imagine him living alone in his farm or ranch, he only goes to town once a month to buy essential supplies, hides his face, and barely socializes with folks. But deep inside he is just a lonely man who desires a family, and a woman to call his (and one who can help him with his… needs) But he is socially inept, so he takes the easy route and orders himself a wife, that way he doesn’t have to bother with interacting with other people and gets himself a pretty wife

Oh my god 💞

König wanting to wed and bed her the minute she arrives by train... She thought he would court her for a while before they marry, she thought they would do this decently, that they would get to know each other first, she’d rent an apartment from the small town and then decide if she wanted to live with him…

But he says everything’s settled, he already took care of everything, they’re getting married today and spend their wedding night in the saloon before leaving for his settlement tomorrow.

She’s too bewildered to even speak, so it's no wonder she gets herded to the altar right away, a pretty, meek little bride is just what König ordered! Gets wed to this giant hulking gold digger while still wearing her traveling clothes, the priest only looks drunk and bored as she peeps her vows. The man she's now wed to looks down at her with unbridled affection and curiosity, but soon enough, she catches him eyeing her waistline, her bust, the corset she wears feeling tighter still by his indecent stare.

He's far from a gentleman, and dresses like a weather-worn cowboy, and she suspected as much from the way he wrote and how unpolished his handwriting was. But at least he seems kind. If anything, he's smitten that she’s not some old hag who deceived him by claiming to be an unmarried young lady, that she is everything and more he wished for based on the few letters they exchanged.

The wedding is over in a few minutes, and there’s no coffee and cake, no party under some big tree, no relatives or friends to congratulate her on her wedding day. There’s only this huge, intimidating man who looks at her like she just dropped down from heavens, his eyes slowly sparking aflame with both softness and lust.

He takes her to the saloon to eat, and then she finds herself in a greasy little room upstairs, changing into her white nightgown, getting ready to sleep and only sleep, but her nightmare of a day is not over yet. Her hand flies over her mouth, she nearly screams as she turns around and finds this horrible man of lowly European descent thoroughly naked behind her.

She’s in so much trouble, that much was certain from the minute he saw this man, but seeing his… equipment in the dim candle light of the old saloon is too much after everything she's gone through. She's verily about to faint.

It’s just her luck to dream of adventures and a happy, exciting new life and then find herself thrown into the arms of some barbaric, foreign giant... He said he’s looking for a companion in life and hinted at being a little lonely, but men who wish to court a lady don’t do it like this: by dragging them to the altar and then presenting their cocks to them before even two hours have passed!

The rowdy noise of cancan downstairs is a filthy backdrop to seeing a naked man for the first time in her life, and she never knew male parts could be so... big. Or jumpy. Or leaky... This man is clearly serious about this commitment, and thinks there’s no need to get to know each other, she’s his wife now and they need to consummate the marriage right away.

He’s breathing heavily while grabbing that weeping weapon in his fist, telling her she’s more beautiful than he ever even imagined. He pleasures himself slowly while watching her try to cover herself in her thin, faintly translucent gown, and she still can't find any words – the man is behaving like a scoundrel or a highwayman, not at all like the sharp dressed, eloquent gentlemen she's grown used to in the city. The slick sounds of lewd fapping are accompanied by moans of how she’s the answer to all his prayers, and her hair stands on end, she feels like she’s walking on tar here in the distant frontier with nothing but greedy men and drunken brothel keepers around her, now face to face with a giant, throbbing cock out of all things...

She coldly orders him to sleep on the floor while she takes the bed – she’s not letting this nasty, hairy beast near her anytime soon, not when she still has her wits about her. Defeated when she won’t let him “consummate their love” tonight, the man withdraws to sleep on the floor with a sullen groan and a long sigh.

She never sleeps a wink that night in fear of finding him by her side, groping his way through her dress, but to her surprise this man only snores on the floor as if he's used to sleeping there.

Civilization is far away when he leads her to his shack the next day and shows her the first small specks of gold he has found, apologizing for the state of his abode so unkempt and unclean. She has to give it to him that he's indeed kind and doesn’t want to make her suffer unduly, because the table and the bench are wiped in a hurry before she sits down, as if she’s a queen visiting a humble subject. He makes her a bath next to the fire and washes in the water after her, giving her flirty, promising smiles throughout the whole splashy ordeal.

Before long, the giant cock is presented to her again as the man excitedly waits for permission to take her, telling her he has never seen anything like her, that she makes his heart run wild.

The only thing running wild in her sour opinion is his cock, bouncing up and down from the need to be inside her, nearly leaking seed on the floor she suspects she has to wash and scrub tomorrow anyhow as his wife. Evening after evening, she rejects his advances, but after a week or two, her will breaks.

She tells herself it’s only out of pity that she lets him finally crawl over her and lift her gown, that it’s only to stop the man from spiraling into madness that she allows him to test how nicely that thick, leaky cock glides through her folds.

“You’re wet, Sonnenschein,” he pants with happy excitement when she notices her swollen, sloppy state, then plunges his cock deep into his wet little prize with a filthy moan. He tells her she’s tight and hot, and takes her like she’s some kind of an angelic whore, falls panting all over her breasts when he’s sated and done, says that she’s his salvation and that he’ll do anything to make her feel at home here.

She feels exactly like a desperate mail order bride, lured here with the promise of a good life and gold, but when she starts to wait for him to come home instead of dreading the end of the day, that's when her hell truly begins.

It just won't do to start wanting him, to trick her heart to be content with whatever this is. To enjoy his "love" would be even more shameful than anything else so far. The truth of the matter is that she's tormented by a lustful, wild man who takes her on her knees or on her stomach like an animal while moaning about how tight she is, how soft she is, how he can’t concentrate at work because of her.

But when he groans that he loves her just before he cums, she feels a distant sting near her heart, a burst of a small bonfire somewhere in her gut from his words. Far from romantic, but so authentic and pure they’re ripped out of him with a pathetic, cry-like moan.

And just when her heart is about to turn and grow full with softness, he barges in and takes her standing, needy after work, deciding that she looks far too alluring while stirring the stew over the fire. His sunshine of a wife waiting for him with warm food and a soft little cunt, it's exactly like it was always meant to be in his dreams... He’s kind and attentive, but doesn’t know a thing about ladies and that they’re not supposed to be taken by the fire like this, but the dramatic pout on her lips turns into a helpless grimace before this animal has given her three full thrusts.

And it’s only by accident, she tells herself, that it happens. It’s only a coincidence that she finds herself short of breath and shivering, then crying with pleasure from the way his cock sails inside her, hasty and needy as if she’s nothing but a momentary relief for this man.

But she knows she’s far from that. He always stays after the hurried lovemaking – if you could call it that – swallows and tells her things that are supposed to be sweet, perhaps. He whispers loving nonsense in her ear with a stupid, quivering voice, tells her that she’s so tight he’s about to lose his mind. That she brightens up his life and makes this shack a home, a palace, even. That he wants to give her children and grow old together.

She prays the heavens to save her from such a future, but when she accidentally comes with his cock inside her, the man breaks down entirely. Repeats the awful, pathetic “I love you” until he comes, too, and sounds like a man who's getting his sould ripped apart from his bones. It’s sinful lunacy what he’s doing to her in that shack, and dares to sprinkle it with love out of all things, and she doesn’t know if she hates him, or if she loves him too.

Annulling this marriage is nearly impossible, and the sooner he gets her pregnant, the sooner she’s even more trapped, just like the poor rabbits this man lures into the snares placed around the shack. He spends every little speck of gold to buy her silks, satins and gowns, proper woolen scarves and soft little leather shoes, gives her a gentle kiss every morning before he leaves to wash gold. Every evening after meal, he praises her cooking skills and then takes her on the creaking old bed like she's a common whore. The silly, girlish dreams of being whisked away by a mysterious, romantic gentleman are somewhere far away when this giant spills his seed inside her with a thick, arduous groan, then proceeds to cover her in kisses too sweaty and hot.

“I know you don’t love me,” he whispers between the one-sided sucking and nibbling that’s about to make her cry. “But I will make you happy... I swear it, on my life.”

She can only stare at the ceiling, filled with the dancing flames of the fire as he falls asleep with his cock still inside her, the soft snore on her breasts both happy and sad.

#könig x you #könig smut #könig x reader #mail order bride #gold rush au #könig angst

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