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ceilidho · 1 month

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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 6) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

And they say if it sways, you have to cut it off at the root.

You repeat that to yourself when you catch the way you glance out the kitchen window again, surreptitiously watching John. It’s hard to pull your eyes away. He walks over to the well to fetch water for you to do the dishes, the chore you’d elected to take when he offered you the choice between that and feeding the horses. It’s a fair compromise since you balk at the thought of getting anywhere near either of those beasts.

Watching him bend over the well to lower the bucket down, his muscled shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and suspenders drawing tight against his back, makes you bite your lip. Then scowl. Then pull the curtain shut to block out the view.

You have to cut any gentleness off at the root.

When he comes back, you step to the side without a word to let him pour the water into the wash basin, hot water from the teakettle and lye soap making the water already in the pan sudsy. In a sense, it’s not any different from anything you’ve done back home; the same two pans for washing and scalding, the same cake of soap, and the same dish towel to dry the dishes off at the end. The only difference is the man that pours the cool water into the basin to make it more comfortable for your hands.

“I’ll be out back,” he tells you, before grabbing you around the waist and pulling you in close to press a close-mouthed kiss to the side of your head. You only scrunch your nose a little. “When you’re done, come get me. Got business in town.”

“Why do you need me to come with you?” you ask, lips cresting into a pout without a thought. You’d never considered yourself a bellyacher, but it’s almost second nature around John. “I can…I can stay and clean the house.”

“You saying I keep a messy home?” John asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You look pointedly down at the dirt he tracked into the kitchen after fetching the bucket of water from the well. “It could do with a spit shine.”

That gets a laugh out of him, a bellow from deep in his belly. It shakes you to your bones.

“Darling, I’ll be honest with you,” he says, turning you to face him before folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t trust you not to bolt like a runaway horse, and you’ll only wind up putting yourself in danger if you try to make a run for it out here.”

That expression makes your stomach twist. “Good to know you think of your wife as some scared filly.”

“You talk a whole lot for a woman who’s been over my knee. Do we need to repeat that?”

When his tone goes stern, you lose the wedging piece of candor keeping you upright. Eyes widen and then narrow. He’s been patient despite your loose tongue, but when that patience slips, you can see the steel underneath his gentle exterior. It’s the true root of him.

You clam up under his stare, sullen and begrudging. Smooth your dress down to have something to do with your hands. You’ve forgotten your place again. Side-stepped it out of intimacy or misplaced trust or naivety or forgetting, again, for the umpteenth time, that the world is not a place for women that open their mouths. So you keep it shut, trap every festering word behind your teeth.

He must not like something he sees painted on your face because his brows draw closer together, frustration brewing anew in his eyes. The longer you stay quiet, the more irritated he grows, his nostrils flaring wide.

“See that you come get me as soon as everything’s squared away in here,” John bites out, pointing a single, blunt finger at you. “Else I’ll come get you myself.”

And we wouldn’t want that, you think, surly. You hope it swims across your eyes. Blooms on your face. Perhaps it does.

The lines around his mouth and eyes grow more defined when he smiles. His whole mustache moves with his smile, every part of his face expressing his satisfaction. It’s beyond infuriating. He taps you on the nose with his knuckle before leaving out the backdoor, not sparing you a backward glance. You nearly shake with indignation.

It’s hard not to watch him out in the paddock while drying the dishes though, not with him set against the gilded sun. You inch the curtain slightly open, just enough of a gap to peer through. The Stetson shadows his face when he tilts his head up towards the sky, the hard edge of his jaw the only thing that meets your gaze. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a man out in the fields or pastures, but most of those have been at a distance, removed. Glimpsed briefly through the window while your train barreled on past acres of farmland.

John cycles through the morning tasks of guiding the horses into the paddock by a lead fixed to their halter, replenishing the food trough, and fetching more water from the well to fill the water trough. His horses are striking in the sheer size of them; muscled shoulders and legs, and well-padded flanks. Most of the horses you’ve seen out west haven’t seemed nearly as well-fed, many whittled down to rib and hip bone.

It says something about him, but you’re not ready to confront exactly what. You turn your attention back to the dishes, scrubbing the last of the dried butter and eggs at the bottom of the pan. It takes a little extra grit, but cleaning is a familiar chore—it’s one you’ve done all your life, what got you into this mess in the first place.

You don’t like what you find when you finally venture out of the house to track him down.

“I’m not getting on that thing.”

You put your veritable foot down with that, arms straight and stiff by your sides, more out of worry than annoyance. You do also give a little stomp for good measure, but you’ll chalk that up to reflexes should John inquire.

He doesn’t. Just stares down at you with unimpressed green eyes that haunt your days and nights now. Tells you without telling you that you’ll get on that horse, willing or not.

It’s not for a lack of beauty that you can’t quite shake the nervousness they elicit in you. Buttercup, the one that John saddled up and now waits patiently to be mounted, keeps her head low as if sensing your disquiet, curiosity glimmering in her coal black eyes. Not even the animal curiosity of is this a friend or foe, but the curiosity that comes with pure trust, almost intelligible that way.

John runs his hand down her smooth, buttery flank. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s walk?”

“I didn’t hate it.” Truth be told, you’d hardly been of a mind to notice it at all. Though your legs still ache from the walk back to John’s house, the walk itself had not seemed especially grueling in the moment. The mind can put aside quite a bit when it has something else to focus on.

“Well, I’m not too keen to repeat it.” He leaves it at that, tightening a strap on Buttercup’s saddle in such a purposeful way that your shoulders tense.

“I could meet you there,” you say, a touch desperately. Your stomach turns when you think about hoisting yourself up onto Buttercup’s saddle. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s not something you’ve ever done or ever considered doing. You remember horror stories of stableboys back home trampled under their hooves and stomped to death, kicks so powerful that they could break a fully grown man’s ribs or cave in his face.

“My wife isn’t gonna wander into town by her lonesome like some vagrant,” John says disdainfully, almost scoffing. Insulted by the whole idea. “And you’re sure as hell not staying here alone, darlin’.”

“Well, figure something else out because I am not getting up on that thin—” You cut off on a yelp when he circles around you and abruptly lifts you up. Your head rushes at the sudden motion, legs flailing beneath you.

“Quit squirmin’ like a damn barn cat. Little hellion,” John grits out, guiding your heel into the stirrup. “C’mon, you’re just side saddling, so you only need your butt on the saddle.” When he sets you down lightly onto the saddle, you stop wiggling around, acutely aware of the thousand pound horse beneath you. “There we go—that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“I hate this,” you hiss, fingers clamped tight over the pommel.

“Aw, darlin’, don’t go insulting Buttercup like that,” John chuckles, replacing your foot in the stirrup with his own.

You sit there stiff as a board, perched precariously on the saddle as he hoists himself up behind you. His sheer proximity doesn’t register right away. You’re too concerned with the moving beast under you, its ribs expanding and contracting with each breath. Unlike you, John is more than comfortable sitting astride the horse, not a smidgeon of tension in his body. You suck in a horrified breath when you feel him readjust himself before settling down more comfortably.

He reaches around you to grab the reins, a sharp whistle signaling the horse to take her first stride forward, looping around the side of the house. Even the slow trot threatens to buck you off at first. You lurch forward with each step, certain that you’ll slip right off the saddle and onto the dusty ground below until John loops an arm around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

You grow stiffer in his arms somehow. Despite sleeping in the same bed the night before and sharing far too many kisses for your comfort or virtue, being pressed up tight against a man never gets easier. Perhaps if you’d been married for longer than a single day you’d be more at ease with the notion, but as of yet, it comes as a shock to the senses every time.

You carefully avoid the thought that other married women wouldn’t be still in possession of their maidenhead so many hours after their wedding night. That’s none of your business.

The two of you navigate into town at a slow canter, allowing you to gradually acclimatize to the gait of a horse. Part of you remembers riding horses when you were younger, but that was a lifetime ago, long enough to shake the memory from your muscles. These days, you can barely remember the hands holding you steady, the ones that would’ve lifted you up onto the horse and helped you back down. Those people are faceless in your memories.

John stays silent at your back, only tightening his hand around your hip when you slip the slightest bit when Buttercup picks up the pace, heading towards the familiar sight of the sheriff’s office. It draws a quick squawk out of you, neatly masked by a fake cough. His chuckle at that rumbles through you, clearly not buying it. Another lesson in humiliation.

You manage not to flail as much when he gets off the horse and helps you down, even though you’re still not used to being manhandled so, particularly not in front of the townsfolk milling about and glancing over with undisguised interest.

“Are you working today?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you while John ties Buttercup’s lead to the post outside the sheriff’s office.

“Don’t exactly get many days off when you’re the only sheriff in the county,” John replies. “We’ve got a few deputies in every town, and a couple here, but it ain’t an easy gig.”

“How many deputies have you got here?”

“Just the three. Simon, John, and Kyle. You met Simon the other day.”

His name draws up the faint memory of the masked deputy from your wedding ceremony. “I remember,” you say flatly. There’s no lost love between you and anyone involved with that sham of a wedding.

“Don’t hold that against him,” John smiles. “He’s a good ole boy. Can’t fault a man for following the boss’ orders.”

Watch me. You glance away lest he see that thought etched across your face.

The town is bustling with activity this late in the morning. Steps and floorboards creak under the weight of boots coming and going. A man going by in a horse-and-buggy whistles sharply when he cracks the reins, his horse puffing out a low, frustrated grunt.

Men hustle past you decked out in leather chaps and waistcoats, spats covering the half-boots of those not decked out in tall, spurred cowboy boots. There are far less women scampering about town than men, particularly not so close to the sheriff’s office, but you keep finding your eyes drawn to them.

John grips you under the arm and swiftly pulls you back when you narrowly sidestep a mound of horse droppings left uncovered in the middle of the road. The smell only hits you a second later.

“Well, that’s lovely,” you remark, deadpanned, putting your foot down deliberately a good distance away.

“Wouldn’t need to complain about it if you just watched your step.”

“You know, this really would’ve been a nice day to just stay home,” you mutter, chastised enough not to say something sharp in return.

While the smell makes your nose wrinkle, you have to admit that the air here is far less pungent than back home. In general, this bucolic town is far more pleasant in certain respects than the city you’d left behind in a haste.

“Where do you want me to wait for you?” you ask, turning to face him now at the front steps of the sheriff’s office.

He frowns. “Wait for me?”

“While you work, I mean. Surely you don’t mean for me to sit inside all day twiddling my thumbs while you work.”

His mustache twitches with a smile. “Thought I’d show you around first—get you acquainted with the locals.”

The idea of mingling with the townsfolk doesn’t appeal to you, but you also can’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. Especially with the curious glances already being sent your way. You duck your head to stare down at your boots when you spot a group of other women clustered together and whispering to each other, their eyes trained on you. Somehow you’ve gone from being furniture in a room to being a source of local gossip, and it’s almost hard to believe that you miss being ignored.

When you look back up at John, you find him still staring down at you, waiting patiently. Up close, the sunlight almost turns patches of his beard gold; he has a smattering of moles across his face, not the blush of freckles but rather a few dark spots by his nose. Aside from the tuft of hair under his bottom lip, his chin is mostly bare, and when he smiles, his whole face moves with it. You have to blink to snap yourself out of it.

Your upper lip curls involuntarily when you say, “So you want to help me make friends?”

“Well, seeing as I know most of ‘em, figured I’d be a help.”

“The job’s really not all that busy then, huh?” You really wish you could learn to shut your mouth, since it keeps getting you in trouble, but the barbs roll off your tongue so naturally. Luckily, it seems to amuse him now more than it did early this morning.

“Guess life isn’t as exciting ‘round here as it is back in the city, but it has its days,” John chuckles. “Now come on; I’ll give you the tour.”

For some reason, you hadn’t pictured the town being quite so big, but during your walk, you realize you’ve vastly underestimated the true size of it. Though not anywhere near as ostentatious as the cities back east, the sheer breadth of it eclipses anything from back home. It’s spread out on an incomparable scale, the mountains in the background stretching out along the horizon like the skeletal remains of a giant long since dead and decayed.

It’s not the ramshackle town you envisioned when you stepped off the train the other day, despite the wooden facades and their brightly painted signs. You almost wish you had more time just to admire the craftsmanship, but John leads you from store to store like he’s on a mission.

He seems most interested in towing you around like some prized mare, all trussed up and clean from your bath the night before. You meet so many people that their names and faces all begin to blur together. The worst offense of all is that it makes you lean on John for support, looking up at him again and again for reassurance whenever you can’t answer a question or your answer triggers a moment of awkward silence.

Those moments come aplenty too. The few people nosey enough to ask you about your life back in the city find themselves on the butt end of a cheerfully delivered lie from John. It unnerves you at first, seeing how comfortable he is with lying. He doesn’t even hesitate for a second when recounting your previous life as a schoolteacher in Connecticut prior to your engagement.

Perhaps it’s not a lie though. You don’t know the extent to which he and his original betrothed corresponded. Certainly not enough for him to suspect you of not being her, but maybe she’d spun him that story. Or maybe it had been the truth. All this time you’d thought that John had been swindled by some con artist using desperate men to fund her lifestyle, but maybe somewhere between here and Connecticut, there’s an unmarked grave with the corpse of the woman that John had intended to marry.

That makes you feel guilty somehow, like you’ve taken something not meant for you. Even if you hadn’t wanted it—in fact, been forced into taking it.

You swallow that thought when John leads you into the general store. Your eyes bug at the sight of a blonde haired woman in khaki cloth knickerbockers stocking the shelves, who turns at the sound of the door creaking open, the sharp look on her face melting away at the sight of John.

The warmth in her face infuriates you more than it should. You have no right to feel this way—or, some right, but you resent the fact that you do as well.

“Hi John,” she greets. Her voice is deeper than you anticipated, springtime crisp like a babbling brook.

“Laswell,” John greets, scooping his arm around your side until he can palm the side of your hip, dragging you in close. You stumble into him, catching yourself with a hand on his chest. Your neck and face go hot when Laswell’s eyes turn on you, curiosity glinting in them.

“Your lady finally showed up then,” she surmises. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to think you made her up. Told the boys to think about forcing you into an early retirement.”

John huffs at that. His fingers tighten at your waist when Laswell says your lady, as if the words alone make it fact. Speak it into being. The metal burns against your ring finger. In a sense, it is fact, despite the subterfuge. You wonder if it would hold up in court, but out here, it’s real enough.

“Well, she’s very real, as you can tell.” He gives you a little shake with the hand on your waist. “Say hi, darlin’.”

If looks could kill, yours would be pit-viper venom. You’d leave behind a festering puncture mark and a body in the throes of envenomation. “Excuse me?”

Your attitude might come at a cost this time because he looks unamused at your back talk in front of an audience. “Darlin’.” It’s said like a warning.

You bite your tongue instead of lashing out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Kate Laswell; I own this little shop,” she says, introducing herself and stepping forward to hold out her hand. You have to step forward to take it, pulling you out of John’s arms. It feels familiar being on your own, certainly more natural than being constantly at John’s side the way you have for almost two days now. It’s also a bit cold after having John’s warmth at your back or side at all times.

There’s a moment when you realize that Kate is the first person you’ve had to introduce yourself to, John having introduced you to everyone else you’d come across. It hovers on the tip of your tongue when you realize that you could just say your real name, and you find yourself torn between setting it free and the odd fear of John’s reaction.

You chicken out at the last second, giving Kate the same name as the one John introduced you by to everyone else in town.

“He might growl like a bear, but you’ll get used to that,” she says, winking.

You frown. Awfully familiar talk for someone who isn’t his wife. Why should she know that?

You make yourself push that thought away, reminding yourself again that it doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern.

“He’s been a gentleman,” you croak instead, smile so thin that it might as well be a grimace.

A shout from the bar across the street startles you, drawing your attention away from the conversation. John stills too. A series of raised voices puts him on alert, and then someone inside the bar must fire a gun because the violent crack of one makes you scream, the noise pulled involuntarily from your chest.

“Stay here,” John growls, his pistol already drawn. He’s out the door before you can respond, darting across the street towards the bar and shouldering the door open so hard that it rattles in its frame. You watch everything happen through the window of the general store with your heart in your throat.

“Good Lord,” you whisper, hand over your mouth. Kate stands beside you in a similar manner, her eyebrows pinched in concern.

The thought doesn’t even occur to you that now would be the perfect time to make a break for it, with John busy across the street. Your feet are rooted in place; you doubt you’d be able to take so much as a single step towards the door.

There’s precious little that you can see through the grit-lined bar windows, not as dusty and dirty as they are, but you can hear the commotion from inside. Raised voices and the sound of breaking glass. It makes you flinch, heart galloping at an even faster pace. Like harness horses on the Freehold Raceway. It’s not long before you see a large, masked man hightailing it down the road towards the bar, dust clouding around his boots with each heavy step.

You recognize him almost instantly as the man from your wedding, the one that signed your marriage license. John’s man—Simon. He nearly takes the bar door off its hinges when he throws it open, barely in there a second before he and John come out each with a man in hand, both already handcuffed and looking roughed up They drag them stumbling down the dirt road towards the sheriff’s office, Simon half-dragging another man whose white button-down is slowly saturating with red blood oozing out of a gunshot wound in his belly.

“Shouldn’t they call a doctor for that man?” you ask Kate in a frantic voice, whipping around to face her.

She nods. “They probably will once they’ve got the four of them locked up. Doctor probably heard that anyway—he’ll be on his way, I bet.”

“On his way already?”

“There’s only one doctor around here. And not much else sounds like a gunshot.”

“Does that happen a lot around here?” You don’t know why the thought makes you nervous, but there’s a cramp in your belly and a sweat building up on the back of your neck and your hands itch to grab something. When you swallow, it almost doesn’t go down.

“It’s not uncommon. I reckon it’s not something you’re used to?”

You purse your lips. “I’ve seen a dead body before.” You don’t know why that comes out so defensively, like a slight that’s been levied against you. There’s no easy way to dispel the myth in everyone’s mind that you come from a life of comfort and ease, with delicate hands fit for delicate work. You curl your hands into fists at the thought, conscious of the old scars and calluses built up over years of scrubbing and cleaning. If she were to look down, she wouldn’t see the well-kept hands of a lady.

When Kate quirks an eyebrow, you realize that your response had nothing to do with her question. “Well, look at you.”

When John and Simon disappear into the jailhouse, the door swinging shut behind them, you sway on your feet for a second, feeling oddly unbalanced. Something about the sight of the man’s blood leaves you feeling woozy, taking the chair that Kate offers you when she sees the way you rock back on your heels.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Kate offers, brows now furrowed sympathetically at the pathetic sight you must be. “I’m sure you got a little fright thinking of your husband facing down a man with a gun, but I’m afraid that comes with marrying a sheriff. There’s danger everywhere, you know.”

What you don’t say is that your lightheadedness came not just from the sight of the man with the blood leaking from a wound in his stomach, but the grim look on your husband’s face as he carted away the man responsible, eyes hard as steel. No sympathy for the man in his hands. Only another criminal to be tossed away in a jail cell. The punishment for making another man bleed.

Your hands shake in your lap, but you don’t say that. Instead, you smile weakly and take the glass of water from her hands when she comes back from filling it at the sink. “You’re right. Just a little fright.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #captain john price #price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader

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msgexymunson · 9 months

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Forbidden Fruit Part 2

Description: Saying it's been awkward after your experience with Eddie Munson is an understatement. How will you survive a trip together?

A/N: WELL, you liked the first part so much I had to write part 2! Potential for a part 3 and 4 if you guys want it. If you do y'all better reblog ;)

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI or I'll tell a teacher on you, a LOT of angst, hella smut, fluff if you squint, voyeurism, spit play, hair pulling, fem oral receiving, p in v unprotected sex (don't be a dumb dumb) rough sex

4k words

Masterlist Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

It has been two weeks. Two weeks since your sordid encounter with your Dad's best friend. You thought about it every day, every hour. It has embedded itself into your mind like steel wool, an unscratchable itch that you're almost certain will never go away.

You'd only seen Eddie twice in that whole time. That was odd in itself, he only lived across the road. He was usually around every couple of days, even if it was to just have a coffee and a chat with your father. It felt very much like he was trying to make himself scarce.

The first time was barely even a glimpse; he'd been leaving his house as you'd been heading to college, driving there since it was close enough for you to still stay at home. You'd sent him a shy wave which was not returned. He just got in his car and reversed like a demon, tires screeching as he drove down the road.

The second time you were in the kitchen on your tippy toes, trying to reach the cereal that someone had placed on the top shelf as if to spite you. Feeling eyes on you, you looked around and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Eddie."

He ignored it, strode in and grabbed the cereal box with ease, slamming it on the counter in front of you with too much force making you flinch.

You tried again, fingers lightly resting on his arm.

"Eddie, I-"

"Don't." Was all he said, pulling his arm away as if you'd burned him. Tears had stung the corners of your eyes as he left without a look back. You'd abandoned your snack and ran upstairs to your room, to cry in peace.

So it was no surprise at all when you overheard your Dad saying Eddie was coming over to watch the game and it felt like your stomach dropped out from under you. You hid in your room, not wanting to face another gruff encounter whilst your stomach rumbled its dissent.

This is fucking stupid. He'd said that was it, you need to get over it. You shouldn't be scared to go into your own damn kitchen.

Steeling your nerves you go downstairs and start to make yourself a sandwich. You could hear Eddie's laugh echo from the TV room and it twisted a knife in your gut.

Your dad's voice rang out over the noise of the TV.

"You free next weekend Eddie?"

Oh fucking shit. You knew what he was talking about. You pray that Eddie says he's busy.

"Free as a bird, why what's happening?"

"Mandy's invited us to her lake house for the long weekend. You fancy a trip?"

Even from here you can sense Eddie's hesitation.

"Oh, I'm not sure that's a good idea?"

"Why? It'll be fun! I'm sure Mandy's got a thing for you, you know."

"Yeah, sure, I suppose I could come."

Fuck.

********************

Cue the most uncomfortable car ride in your life, squashed in the back seat with Eddie and thankfully a duffel bag in between providing a slight buffer. He was hunched in his seat, barely making eye contact with you.

Your mom turned in the passenger seat to face you.

"You alright Hon? You've hardly said a word."

"I'm fine, mom."

"You know, Jake will probably be there, Mandy's boy?" She waggled her eyebrows at you.

Rolling your eyes, you reply, "he's a little, young for me."

"He's a year older than you! I thought you liked him?"

"He's fine, it's just… he's a boy." And I need a man. One particular man.

You couldn't fail to hear Eddie's snorting laugh that he tried to disguise as a cough.

As you arrive at the lake house, you rush out of the car to breathe air that wasn't laced with the scent of Eddie. Your thighs hurt from squeezing them together for the past two hours.

"Hey! Welcome!" Mandy's waving at you all as you get your bag from the car.

Your mom runs over and gives her a hug.

"Hey! So good to see you! Where's Jake?"

"Oh, he's come down with something, poor boy, he couldn't make it."

Well, there goes the plan you had wistfully thought of to make Eddie jealous.

Mandy shows everyone to their rooms. The lake house is gorgeous. Mandy must have gotten some huge settlement from her divorce. Your room is small but comfortable, a double bed, wardrobe and side tables all in a deep wood. The walls are wood panelled too, carvings of little animals and leaves all over. It puts you in mind of being in an enormous cuckoo clock.

Changing into your swimsuit, you grab a towel and head towards the lake for a swim.

This felt better. At least you could cool off, trying to escape the heat from the sun as well as the heat between your legs. The water is crisp and cold as you swim until you're shivering.

As you exit the water, arms tired, you look up to see Eddie on the deck, watching you.

You need to speak with him, try and clear the air. Moving towards him he stubs the cigarette he'd been smoking out and turns on his heel back to the house.

Anger started to bubble up, acidic in your throat. How dare he give you the most amazing sex of your life and just throw you away like some slut. You'd eaten in your room that night, feigning exhaustion.

Tip toeing out to grab a drink from downstairs thinking everyone had gone to bed, you hear the tinkle of laughter.

There he was, sitting on the couch with Mandy. She was fawning over him pathetically, her hand stroking his arm that rested on the back of the seat.

Great. Just great. Now he'll fuck Mandy and get married and live right opposite you with her. Fantastic.

Grabbing a water you flounced off to bed in a huff.

********************

Sitting up at the breakfast bar, you'd plastered your bravest face on and ate some pancakes, cutting them into little pieces and nibbling like a rabbit.

Eddie sauntered in, saying good morning to everyone, then he was taking a seat on the bar stool opposite you.

"Morning sweetheart."

You flashed angry eyes at him, and looked away, delivering a clipped "morning."

It was enough to shut him up. He filled a plate with pancakes and bacon, picking up a rasher and tearing into it with his teeth. Then he did the same with a pancake, ripping it into four and shoving a piece in his mouth.

He looked like a caveman. It was half amusing, and half a turn on. Watching him eat like an animal was doing something for you.

Mandy looked less amused.

"Um, there is cutlery, right there." She snipped.

"I know." He ignored the knives and forks, picking up the next piece of bacon and plunging it into his mouth. Your mom and dad shared an amused look.

He licked bacon grease off his fingers while looking straight at you, making your cheeks rapidly grow in heat. All you could think was that you wanted to wrestle that piece of bacon out of his mouth with your tongue, to smear your greasy lips together and have him throw you down on the counter top and fuck you until you see stars.

"Just going to get ready." You mumble, excusing yourself.

God damn why am I so wet? A shower, that'll help.

You stand under the stream of slightly too cold water and try to wrench the images away, but they are coming thick and fast.

Greasy fingers running over your skin. That tongue turning you into a whimpering mess. Plates smashing on the floor, food flying everywhere as he lifts you on the counter top and fucks you like an animal. The shower head was looking extremely tempting right now.

Right, get it out of your system, then face the day.

You unclip the shower head and turn the heat up slightly, moving the warm stream of water to your expectant lips. The water makes you gasp as you move the shower head around, finding your clit with a whimper.

And then the door flies open. Eddie stands there, frozen, face blushed the deepest pink.

You shout, "don't you know how to knock??" At the same time Eddie's rather hoarse voice yells "are you trying to kill me??"

Quickly exiting, he slams the door shut.

You hear your father call up to ask what's wrong. Eddie's muffled voice responds.

"Nothing, I just made your daughter jump."

The clipped emphasis on the word daughter rings in your head. You're unsure for whose benefit that was.

Am I trying to kill him? He's the one that barged in on me!! Why the fuck is he upset?

For the rest of the day you ignore him, opting to spend some quality time with your mom, attempting to push the weird encounter out of your head.

In the evening your parents announce they are going into town to a bar with Mandy.

"Eddie, you coming?" Your dad asks.

"No, I'm good, got a headache. Think I'll have an early night."

When everyone leaves you retire to your room, putting on some music and reading a book. You start to drift away, losing yourself in the words, feeling comfortable and less on edge.

There's a soft knock at the door. Ignoring it, you flick to the next page. Another, more insistent knock. Huffing and pulling your silk dressing gown around you, making sure everything important is covered, you shout out.

"Yeah?"

The door opens, and Eddie's standing there, looking very sorry for himself. He's only wearing a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, muscular frame and tattoos fully displayed.

"Can I come in?"

"So you can knock. What do you want?"

"Look, I want to apologise to you, I've been acting like an asshole."

You nod in agreement, eyes going back to your book, words a blur.

"You really have a headache?"

"No."

"Shame."

"Mandy kissed me last night, invited me back to her room."

Why the fuck is he telling you this?

"Oh yeah? how was she?" You spit back, venom lacing each word.

"I wouldn't know, I didn't go."

Speechless, you return his gaze. He comes into your room, shutting the door behind him, but doesn't move any further.

"Sweetheart, I can't stop thinking about you, about what we did. I've been fucking my fist like a teenager thinking about you. That's why I've been avoiding you. I smelled your perfume the other day and I got fuckin' hard. You weren't even there. It's pathetic."

A small smile creeps onto your face, smug to have had such an effect on him. You sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your hands as he explains further.

"I really want you, but we can't do this. It's so wrong. If your dad finds out I'm a dead man."

"Hey, he'll kill me too!" You respond.

"No sweetheart. He'd be disappointed in you. I'd be blamed for it. For- for defiling his daughter!"

You laugh out loud at that and his lips quirk into a nearly smile.

"You make it sound like you forced yourself on me. I kissed you first."

"True, but I asked. If I hadn't-"

"Eddie, trust me, sooner or later, I would have jumped your bones."

"Really?" He asks, surprised.

"Really. You're super hot." You admit.

His hand rubs the back of his neck compulsively. You see the nerves then, etched into his features, deepening the fine lines on his face.

Just his sheer presence is making your pussy pulse.

He walks over to you, standing over your form. Staring up at him, he looks like he wants to devour you whole.

"We can't do this, you know." He says again, but his hand is reaching to the tie of your dressing gown, pulling it undone. The flimsy fabric parts down your middle, showing a sliver of skin from your chest to your navel.

You nod back, breath hitching in your throat. "Yeah, we really shouldn't."

You let the dressing gown slip over your shoulder, exposing your left side, pert breast on display. Eddie groans.

"This is wrong." But his hand has other plans, sliding the other side off of your shoulder, so you're sitting there completely naked for him, gown pooling around your back.

"Yep. Super wrong. Naughty." You say, legs parting slightly. Eddie's smirk is debaucherous as he sinks to his knees in front of you, pulling your legs even wider.

Preamble forgotten, he forces his head between your legs and licks a fat stripe up your cunt. Throwing your head back at the onslaught of his tongue, you dig your heels into his back, forcing him closer if it were even possible.

"How the fuck," he says between dirty kisses to your clit, "do you taste so fucking good?"

He doesn't seem to want an answer, and you're entirely not in the position to provide one. You just mewl and buck into his face pathetically, lacing your fingers into his hair and gripping on.

His tongue is everywhere, devouring you. It's messy, messier than you ever thought getting head could be. You could feel his spit and your own juices dripping down the crevice of your ass.

Legs quivering, you moan wantonly, gripping onto him with everything you have. He's moaning into you, almost as loud as you were.

Then he's pressing the flat of his tongue against your clit, his firm hands gripping your ass, grinding your body against his face. The pure, unbridled need pouring from him had you toppling over that edge.

"Holy fucking shit, Eddie!"

The intensity and power of your orgasm shocks you to your core, spilling out in a slew of profanities, limbs twitching uncontrollably.

Eddie doesn't stop licking into you until you drag him away by his hair.

Eddie's face is a picture, dripping with slick; his smile is broad, lighting up his face as if he'd just been to heaven and tasted the finest ambrosia.

He leans over you, hooking one finger into your mouth, pulling at your jaw.

"Open."

Your jaw flops open at his command. He spits then, directly into your mouth. Eyes widening in surprise, you taste the savoury edge of his spit intermingled with the sweet tang of your cunt as it slides down your tongue.

"Swallow." He orders, eyes dark.

You close your lips around his finger, swallowing hard and sucking the tip of his finger.

"Fuck you are perfect, my dirty fucking girl." He says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You moan at his words, breath speeding up, feeling dizzy and hot all over.

"You like that don't you? Being a dirty girl?" He smirks.

"I like being yours." You admit, feeling slightly bashful.

He cups your face gently with his hand, a queer look in his eye, before leaning towards your ear and whispering, "mine."

Writhing under him, pinned by his body, you can only whimper as he sinks teeth into your neck.

Pushing a needy tongue in your mouth, he gives you an earth shattering kiss, of salt and cigarettes and sweetness. You reciprocate, hands running over naked flesh as you push your chest against him.

"I need you. Now." He says as he climbs off, frantically pulling his sweatpants off and flinging them to the side, his impressive member standing almost painfully to attention.

You give a startled yelp as he grabs you by the ankles and flips you over.

"Hands and knees for me, my good girl."

You scramble on all fours, waiting for the breach of his tip, when you feel his thumb press on your asshole.

"Fuck, Eddie!" You shout. It had made you jump, but you couldn't deny that you liked it.

"Bet you'd let me fuck you in the ass if I asked sweetheart." Entirely unprepared for that, you whip your head around. He just laughs.

"Don't worry, not tonight baby." He says as he rubs his tip over your folds, spreading your wetness even further.

Then he's pushing and pushing into you, balls deep. You both let out a groan of satisfaction as he starts ploughing into you hard and rough.

"This pussy is fuckin unreal," you hear him mutter behind you, gripping on your hips so tight its bordering on painful. You allow yourself to be used, pushing back into him as much as you can, but it's impossible keeping up with his brutal pace.

Feeling your hands stiff against the bed, your elbows are shaking, on the edge of giving up. You feel Eddie's hand gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail and twist it in his hand, pulling you upright. A lightning bolt shoots down your spine at the animalistic gesture.

He's now hitting that sweet spot inside you on each thrust, the slapping of skin and slick echoing through the room with your pornographic moans.

"Oh God, Eddie, I'm gonna come-"

"No, no please," he slows, letting go of your hair, making you fall to the bed.

"I need to see it, I need to see you. Turn around."

You turn, feeling him slip out of you, and shove him to the side, hard. It takes him entirely by surprise and he falls onto his back, hands up as if he's afraid he did something wrong.

Taking his shock as an opportunity you clamber on his lap, gripping his swollen cock hard at the base, lining him up with your entrance. Eddie's look of surprise turns into a lecherous grin, hands resting on your waist.

Sitting on him, sheathing him once again within your silky walls, you look him in the eye.

"How dare you mess with my orgasm again." Your words are hard, but you're smiling.

He laughs, rubbing at your hips.

"Oh I'm sorry, my poor sweetheart," words positively dripping sarcasm, complete with pouting lower lip. Clenching around his cock, you struggle to even register that him mocking you is such a turn on.

You push at his chest with one hand, and start grinding into him, firm and slow. Eddie looks like he's about to bust already at your movements, eyes darting from your own, to your tits, to your cunt.

"What- what were you thinking of? In the shower?" His words have a quiver to them, a flash of pride bursts across your chest at the fact you're doing this to him, getting him in such a state.

"I was thinking," you say breathlessly, "about tongue wrestling that bit of bacon out of your mouth and you fucking me on the kitchen counter."

"Fuuuck" He replies, eyes rolling back, "you are something else."

All of a sudden it's hitting just right. You don't feel like you'd moved but it's definitely different. Your whole body is buzzing with sensation as you roll your hips against him. Needing to grip onto something, anything, you don't risk changing the angle and instead twine your fingers into your own hair.

"Oh my God, oh fuckfuckfuck!"

Eddie's mouth hangs open as he watches you unravel. You feel your entire body pulse out what may be the best orgasm of your life. It rolls in waves around you, over you, through you. Grinding down hard, you keep it going. And going. Until it stops, or nearly stops. It's as if you are looking down at that edge yet again, on the brink of falling off.

"Fuck Eddie don't you dare move," you struggle out, rubbing over him, juices squelching obscenely with each thrust of your hips. He's beyond words, just biting his lip and nodding.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna come again, oh!"

Screaming into the night, it forces out of you again, almost as powerful as the last one. Your whole body is shaking like a leaf, completely stunned. Realising you're still gripping into your hair, you let go, feeling a sting on your scalp.

"Holy shit." You laugh out, limbs convulsing of their own accord.

"That was, fuck sweetheart, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life."

You smile, fingers stroking up and down his chest.

"Think you can give me one more?" He asks, eyebrows raising.

"Eddie, I don't-"

"Shh, sweetheart, just one more, I'm gonna come, come with me."

You begin to grind, moving against his length once more, clit dragging across slickened hair making you whimper. Your legs are protesting but you want to give it to him.

He helps you, hands on your hips dragging you back and forth, praising every thrust.

"That's it baby."

"Just a little more."

"You can take it."

"My good sweet girl."

Until you release again, together, wetness squirting out of you, voice hoarse with a stuttered moan that seemed to bubble up from deep inside your chest cavity. Eddie groans out, hissing at the feeling as he releases his cum deep into your cunt.

Melting, a puddle of a woman, your body pours over his, bones a distant memory.

"I think my soul left my body for a minute there," you murmur into his sweaty neck. His laugh rumbles from his chest and vibrates into yours, hand resting sweetly on the back of your head.

Both laying there for a minute, you know what needs to happen, but you're loath to admit it. Reality is looming and neither of you want to look it in the eye.

Eddie breaks the spell.

"I need to go sweetheart," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I know." You whisper back. Neither of you move.

"Did you mean it?" You ask, voice as small as you can muster.

"What?"

"That I'm yours?"

You feel Eddie's breath, the silence stretching just a little too much. You stop breathing in anticipation. Finally, he responds.

"Yes. Yes I meant it."

Masterlist

Tag List (If you want to stay on the list, please reblog!)

@hereforshmut @g4ys0n @winchester-angel @eddiemunson95 @corrodedcoffincumslut @shazzie33 @severusswife @daluamaia1 @callsignraver @lightvixxen @newlips @eddiethefreakkmunson @hollster88 @ali-r3n @bebe07011 @roanniom @eddiesprincess86 @eddiemunsons-missingnipple

#ms gexy writes #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #older!eddie #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things fanfic

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willowbelle · 3 months

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You Know Me

Part Two

this is a part two to this fic: Stay Here, With Me

another poetic fic, enjoy!

i lowkey hate this ugh, writer’s block

❤︎ trafalgar law x reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: mentions of sex, mentions of both Law's and reader's trauma, lots of fluff and comfort ♡︎

word count: 1,000

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

You Know Me

Skin, limbs, sheets, sweat,

Tears.

You sat on pins and needles as he stroked your hair, slowly bringing you back down from that place in your mind you hadn’t ever ventured.

You sat curled up in Law’s lap, in all your nakedness, tears streaming down your face, your vulnerability on full display in more ways than one.

You felt weak and you showed it.

With each touch of his fingers in your strands, you felt yourself coming undone in his embrace, low sobs emitting from your throat and into the warmth of his tattooed chest.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he cooed, his typically low, monotone voice was now enveloped in a newfound sweetness; comfort.

Your sobs soon turned to wails, and he squeezed you tighter as he spoke, “Let it out, y/n, I’m here.”

Law took you down the roads in your mind that even you, the paver, had not yet traveled.

The dark allies where your trauma lingered,

The grooves of your brain that housed your darkest demons,

you went there hand-in-hand.

He places a comforting hand on your back, your weak form trembling beneath his tattooed fingers.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I'm all ears whenever you're ready, and if you’re not,” he smiles gently, “Then that’s okay, too.”

“L-Law,” you began slowly, tilting your head up to look into his eyes.

And finally,

You shed for him;

Shed your tears,

Shed your secrets,

Shed your skin.

You had harbored these words in your head for far too long, guarded with the shield of your own terror.

And so, with the gentle pull of his uncharcateristic kindness,

You let go.

You inhaled shakily before clearing your throat and gazing back up into his eyes,

For as long as you could remember, you’d always been scared; scared of sex, scared of silence, scared of men.

But with Law, maybe you were scared because, for the first time in a long time, at the root of it all;

tangled limbs, soft kisses, wet hair,

you weren’t scared.

You had always tried to slap the fright out of you, rip it from your bones without giving yourself time to recover. But Law did so differently; he did so gently.

Law pried the fright from your body in his own way, his own tender way.

And he noticed your wounds, your baggage,

but he wasn’t frightened by them,

he covered them in bandages and removed the aching from your shoulders, the loads that you’d carried for years and years.

And perhaps, for the first time, you could learn to be gentle with yourself, with his hand in yours,

maybe you’re not afraid anymore.

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

Law’s works quickly, quietly, just how he was taught.

From the moment you began your relationship, Law studied you, just like he did all things in life; methodically, passionately.

That’s how he knew just how to prepare your morning coffee; a little cream, a touch of sugar, exactly how you like it.

He takes subtle glances towards your shared bed to ensure he hadn’t woken you, humming to himself in contentment as he sees you still sleeping soundly.

Law takes a quick sip from his own mug before taking a seat at his desk, still watching you intensively, steel irises scanning up and down your naked, sleeping form.

His heart swells in his chest as he watches you, and he sits silently, picking his brain to find the moment where his life took such a drastic turn.

Law had always been a troubled, cynical man; a tired soul who bore the heavy weight of his own tragic past.

He was a pesimist in the truest form; a sculptor of despair, carving his worldview from nothing but the rough stones of skepticism and pain. For as long as he could remember, heartbreak always seemed to follow him.

But with you, things were different.

The moment he laid his eyes on you, something new, foreign, and beautiful began to bloom in the dark, unforgiving terrain of Law’s seemingly uninhabitable mind.

His barriers crumbled for you, just as yours did for him, and although it frightened him, downright horrified him, he simply watched on as his walls came tumbling down. He didn’t scramble to stop it, or run to catch the stones, he just let it happen.

For once in his life, this guarded, control-freak of a man finally let go.

He allowed you to take his heart,

and all that came with it,

All the baggage,

All the scars.

and love him unconditionally.

Soon enough, the gentle hum of the coffee maker and the sweet smell of espresso beconned you from your slumber.

Law smiles softly as he sees you begin to stir, your beautiful eyes fluttering open and immediately scanning the room, searching for him.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hands,

“Law…?” you croak out sleepily.

His voice is low and sweet as he speaks,

“Right here, sweetheart,”

He stands, slowly making his way towards you, gently placing a mug of hot coffee in your hands, earning a sleepy, but happy hum from you.

“Mmm, thank you, you always make it perfectly,” you smile gently at him, scooting over in bed to make room for him to sit.

He complies happily, wrapping an arm around you.

“I know you, dear,” he chuckles, “like the back of my hand.”

You giggle softly, resting your head on his strong shoulder,

“You sure do, Law.”

“And y/n,” Law begins again, voice quieter, now,

“I like that you know me, too.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

do not repost, modify, plagiarize, translate, or share on other platforms.

comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated!

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425599167 · 4 months

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Fallout: New Vegas is all about rebuilding society in the Mojave, and the three given factions all attempt to do so by recreating the past. The NCR models itself on the now-destroyed United States, with all the problems involved. Caesar created the Legion in the image of Rome because he believed it could best thrive in the wasteland. Mr. House is arguably the most forward-thinking with his focus on technology and eventual interplanetary travel, but he still rebuilt New Vegas from his nostalgic recollections of the city. Building on the past isn't wrong, the problem is these three factions don't appear to be learning from anything that happened.

NCR characters never directly acknowledge that they're following the example of a society that destroyed itself. Caesar criticizes them for this, believing the republic functioned best while under the quasi-monarchy of Aradesh and Tandi. But Caesar ignores how 1) Rome also fell and 2) he's confronting the same problem as a brain tumor is on the verge of killing him. Even if you treat his tumor, he's still mortal. Caesar was given an education, and his knowledge of strategy and history let him build the Legion, which he then made anti-intellectual and revisionist. The society he created cannot replace him, and will fragment when he dies. House is more contemptuous of the pre-war world, but he still brought it back, and specifically assigned the Omertas with the role of ruthless mobsters who will kill anyone in their way. Apparently he thought that was a good idea.

This extends into the DLCs, too. Elijah plans to use the Sierra Madre to wipe the slate clean and restore the Brotherhood of Steel to their position of unrivaled power, with himself back as Elder. Every day, Joshua Graham feels the pain of being burned. The Think Tank scientists are all stuck in loops, stuck in the past, stuck with their flaws centuries after believing they overcame their humanity. For all my grievances with Lonesome Road, it fits the pattern, as Ulysses saw a new society forming, saw it burn, and couldn't move on. If you let Ulysses live, he has similar criticisms of the NCR, Legion, and House. They're all idealized recreations, like the Vera Keyes hologram. Let go, begin again.

Benny may be a weird mix of dangerous and absurd, but he contrasts the other factions well. He jumped at the chance to join House, fought his tribe's previous leader to make it happen, then planned to take down House, too. House dismisses Benny as not understanding complex technologies due to his tribal upbringing, but he built a computer lab attached to his suite and studies technology as best he can. Benny doesn't want to relive the past, he wants to move forward, he wants something better. You can kill him and take his role, or, when facing certain death at Caesar's hands, he'll explain his vision and ask you to see it through.

After replaying everything, though the other endings have understandable support, I think the Independent route fits the story's themes best, the only one where something definitively new is being built. The Courier isn't remaking anything. Part of this is simply open-ended roleplaying, allowing the player to imagine the character's completed goal. If you choose one of the other three, the Courier can work to correct their faction's flaws and counter the destructive nostalgia affecting them. The Independent ending isn't necessarily the "best" for the Mojave, the Courier's morality and a hundred other decisions determine that, but it is the most compelling conclusion to the story.

#fallout new vegas #fallout #courier six

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vodkaandsnakes · 14 days

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On this day, April 18, in Type O Negative history:

Type O Negative play the CSU Convocation Center with Queensryche in Cleveland, OH (1995)

Type O Negative play the House of Blues with Coal Chamber, Full Devil Jacket, and The Deadlights in Las Vegas, NV (2000)

Type O Negative play Slim's with Brand New Sin and Celtic Frost in San Francisco, CA (2007)

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achaoticeternal · 5 months

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caught at a crossroads

prince regent!aemond targaryen x stark!reader

summary: while seeking safe passage down the Kingsroad to Dragonstone, you travels come to a halt. word count: 1.5k a/n: i would consider a part 2 if people are interested warnings: AFAB reader, mentions of violence and death

The journey thus far had been so silent with hardly any issues arising. Twelve men at your aid - six Stark men and six Queen's Guard - were ready to lay down their lives to safely deliver you to Dragonstone. After the eldest of Rhaenyra's sons came to call upon your brother in haste, an alliance was formed through the most sworn occasion. A marriage between the Queen's firstborn and Cregan Stark's only sister would tie your houses together.

Cregan and Rhaenyra had reached such a favorable outcome for the people whom they cared about most. Still, Cregan understood the dangers that came with swearing an oath to the Black council. If the Green's went North, he did not want you to fall into their capture. As such, an agreement was made that the young Lady Stark was welcome to reside on Dragonstone, within the sacred walls of House Targaryen.

Passage of the Kingsroad was a risk for anyone who dared to use. Miles of the path lived anarchic tribes that cared little for the proper laws of the land. With this in mind, the band of men were forged together to keep you safe from those on the road, and from those who would come to hear of the betrothal.

Already, your group had been riding for eight days, traveling south. They decided to avoid traversing the Westerlands, things swaying off the main road would do little to help if word ever got to King's Landing. It was better to take the faster route so that they could escort you quickly to proper safety. Instead, your path would take a slight risk. You would cross over the trident and pass through the villages on the outskirts of Harrenhal.

Harrenhal and its neighboring lands had become greatly abused during the war. The entirety of the Riverlands had been battered and bruised with forests of ash becoming more regular by the day. It was rumored that Prince Aemond Targaryen had laid siege to the region in reaction to the loss of his nephew, Jaehaerys. If you could lay low and stay away from the rotation of troops that came through the area, the remainder of your journey would be guaranteed safety.

At first, the ambush seemed to be nothing. Just a few bandits who were looking to start trouble. Yet when they drew blades of Valyrian steel, your guards had alerted you to seek cover. Metal crashed against metal, the sound echoing through the forest. Luckily, being a northern girl, you had some natural knack for survival. Swiping a jagged rock off the ground, you first hid behind the cart your band had been traveling in.

From the position, you could see how furiously your enemies brandished their swords. The experienced men of the King's Guard had no issue holding their own against the fierce warriors. However, the youngest of the Stark men was the first to meet his fate as a guard slashed his throat open. A broken cry had escaped past your lips, watching the body fall to the earth below. You had recognized him as kin to your dressing maid, a good boy, now dead.

As another Stark man fell, you took this as a warning sign to advance further into the woods. Gripping the stone, you slunk away from the makeshift camp and towards a mixed assortment of oak and evergreen trees. The candle in your lantern would soon be snuffed out by its own wax, but it did aid to light your path. Behind you, more men continued to fight and fall. However, huffs of aggression and assertion echoed towards your ears. The enemies were advancing.

"The scouts said there were thirteen," A voice barked out, "Find the last man. We must know what the Black's are planning."

Quickly, you moved behind the trunk of a large oak tree and immediately blew out your candle. There was just enough bush to keep you covered unless someone was searching intently or you gave any sign. If you stayed silent, maybe they would brush over you.

However, you heard the grunts of one of your guards, his gravely voice panting as you heard him being drug down the road, "Who is your final man? Where were you going?"

A low chuckle resounded from his chest, "Queen Rhaenyra's army is growing, and soon she will march on King's Landing and the Usurper."

As you went to peak upon the seen, you heard the sound of a sword being drawn and plunged through the guard's neck. Now all your guards were dead. You were alone in the Riverlands. Alone in the Riverlands with a two-day journey to Dragonstone ahead of you. If you could make it through the night.

Footsteps filled the area surrounding where you kept hidden. The width of the tree and the bush serve you well to keep you hidden in the dark of the night. With baited breath, you remained on edge, hoping they would soon give up.

"Ser Cole," A guard called out to his superior, "We have reason to believe the thirteenth traveler is a woman. If the raven from this morning is true, then I believe it could be-"

"I'll alert the prince," The other man replied shortly.

Nearly an hour passed with little disruption. Only the chittering of the forest kept you company. That was until a sinister voice echoed through the trees.

"Little wolf... Where are you hiding?"

So they were fully aware of who you were, but they still didn't know where you were hidden.

"C'mon, little wolf, if we don't catch you here, we certainly will before you are ever able to reach Dragonstone."

The voice held some familiarly to you. Though deeper and more confident, the rhythm and tone reminded you of just a few years ago. Your first and only visit to the Capitol.

It had been the King's 65th name day had approached and your father had decided that the three of you would all take the journey to King's Landing. While visiting, you had the honor of meeting the King's children from his second wife. His eldest son, Aegon, and his sister-wife, Haelena, the youngest, Daeron, and lastly, the owner of the current voice...

Prince Aemond Targaryen

"The hunter has become the prey it seems..." He called out to you once more, "It's been quite a few years, little wolf, won't you do me the honor of reuniting?"

Your heartbeat began to increase, hammering against your chest. Part of you feared that he could hear it pumping in your chest, or even the panting of your uneven breaths.

Silence returned to the wood, and you knew it might be your only opportunity to move until morning. As you moved to stand, a twig crunched beneath your boot. A moment later footsteps could be heard running in your direction. It was time to act, time to find a nice place to hide. Your feet carried you quickly and lightly through the forest floor, the feeling similar to chasing your brother through the Godswood as children. A feeling of hope grew in your chest...

Only to be crushed when a sword glinted in the moonlight. You came to a scathing halt as Aemond stepped out from behind one of the trees. His platinum hair and sapphire eye reflected bits of pale light as he observed your movements, "Ah... Lady Stark..."

"Prince Aemond," The lady quickly straightened her posture.

The man sheathed his sword as he approached the lone Stark lady, "Seems you haven't heard the news, it's Prince Regent, now. Though you would know that if you were where you belonged in Winterfell."

"I-" You attempted to stutter out.

"Yes?" Aemond smirked, knowing that he had you practically cornered, "Well, my lady, it seems you should come with me. It is dangerous for a Lady like yourself to be unaccompanied on the King's Road."

Aemond stepped forward which in turn caused you to take a step back. His smirk only remained at this behavior from you, the excitement of it all getting to him. Another step forward and he snatched one of your wrists in his large, callused hand. He tugged you forward to keep you close and minimize your attempts to run.

"I have a promise of safe passage, it's... it's a royal decree," You stuttered out as his glare only continued to intensify, "I have the right to go to my intended destination."

In an instant, his smirk fell quickly, "Your intended destination or your intended betrothed?"

Everything began to piece together as he continued, "That's right, my lady. I received word this morning that a dozen Stark men and traitors were seen along the Kingsroad escorting a young woman. This news arrived shortly after news about my Strong nephew's marriage approached, I simply connected the dots. But it's alright, little wolf, you are now a welcome guest at Harrenhal."

Your head shook at his words, "No, no, I-"

"It wasn't an invitation," Aemond quickly interjected as he pulled you closer, "By royal decree of Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen, you are my guest until I see fit to dismiss you."

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