#xf!reader
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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]
familiar! ghost × witch! reader
you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )
DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3
please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.
warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.
inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss
Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.
But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.
So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…
He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.
Disgust. Terror. Reverence.
Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.
The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–
Small.
Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.
But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.
But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.
(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)
And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.
Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.
For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.
Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.
The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.
Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.
Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.
You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.
You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.
You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.
“Under the couch.”
This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.
Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.
Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.
But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.
“Enough of tha’, now.”
Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–
Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.
But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.
Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.
“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”
“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.
“I don- I don’t–”
“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”
You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–
And then it comes flooding back to you.
(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)
“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.
(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)
“Or something.” It answers.
A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.
(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)
The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.
Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.
He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.
It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.
“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”
The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.
So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.
“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”
She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.
“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.
The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.
Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.
Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.
In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.
Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.
Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.
That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.
The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”
She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.
It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.
The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?
Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.
But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.
What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.
So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.
Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.
There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.
It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.
He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.
The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.
Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.
Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.
When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.
But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.
Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.
(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)
It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.
Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.
She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.
“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.
“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.
“I didn’t tell you to do this.”
The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”
“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”
“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.
“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”
He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.
“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.
“Shut up.”
“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.
It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.
“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”
When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.
“Hm?”
“N-No.”
“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”
He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.
When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.
What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.
“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.
He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–
“Ghost.”
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#simon ‘ghost’ riley#simon 'ghost' riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley#ghost#call of duty#fanfiction#fanfic#modern warfare#cod mw2#simon 'ghost' riley x you#ghost x you#simon riley x you#simon ‘ghost’ riley x female reader#x female reader#xf!reader#dead dove#dark fic#fic ༄ cabin fever
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Hazbin Hotel Zestial X Alastor's Ancestor Female Reader {Part One}
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{POV. 2 Person}
You were an ordinary twenty-year-old woman living in New Orleans, Louisiana. At least that's what the people of this town could call you. But if they knew the truth about you, they would definitely change their mind. You called (Y/N) Hartfelt and you were secretly a serial killer under the nickname "Bloody Rose".
You had your first homicide when you were fourteen. Your victim was one of the teachers who taught at your high school. One day he asked you to stay with him after school. Naively, you agreed, thinking he wanted to talk about your grades. Oh how wrong you were.
As soon as you entered the room, he immediately pinned you to the wall. You thrashed around, cried and screamed for help, but no one came. He was too strong and your weak body couldn't handle him. You were about to give up, but suddenly you remembered one thing. Namely, about the penknife that your uncle gave you for Christmas the year before. He gave it to you so that in case of any emergency you would have something to defend yourself. This was exactly the situation.
You somehow managed to wrench your hand from the teacher's grip, reaching into your skirt pocket and taking out your pocket knife. You took a deep swing and plunged the blade into the man's eye. He immediately let go of you and grabbed your bleeding eye. He was screaming and cursing at you, but you didn't care at all. You took one more swing and this time stabbed the pocketknife into his shoulder.
The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain, and then began to retreat, wanting to avoid your next attacks. But you persisted. You walked towards him as he walked backwards. Eventually he reached a dead end.
"P-Please! Stop! H-Have mercy!" - he begged the teacher, holding one hand over his eye and the other on his shoulder. You were slightly surprised that he hadn't fainted yet from blood loss.
"Mercy? Do you even know that word? I don't think so. If you did, you would have let go of me and let me go when I begged. Now I'm going to pay you back. See you on the other side, Mr. Smith." - you said with an evil smile on your face. You took one last swing that finally determined the man's fate. You stuck the blade into his heart, enjoying the sight of the life draining from his body and his skin losing color.
It was only after a few minutes that you realized what you had done. You killed him. You killed a man in cold blood. And you had no remorse. He deserved it. He wanted to take advantage of you and God only knows how many other children he hurt like that.
You looked out into the hall to see if anyone else was at school. Nobody was there. You left the room and went to the bathroom to clean yourself up a bit. You washed the blood from your hands and then changed your clothes. You burned the old one, which was already soaked with scarlet blood, in the smoking room so that no one would find it. Then you went to get cleaning equipment to wash the floors and walls in the room.
When everything was finished, you started hiding the body. Luckily for you, your school was close to the forest. Perfect place to bury a body. But before you hid Mr. Smith's body, you used a penknife to carve a beautiful rose into his skin. On that day, the famous serial killer, "Bloody Rose", was born.
Years passed and your popularity in the city grew with each passing day. By day you were (Y/N) Hartfelt, a famous radio presenter, but by night you were "Bloody Rose", a murderer of justice. This secondary title was given to you by the townspeople because you only killed those who deserved it.
One day, you became curious about your family's history, so you went to your grandmother's attic to look for some photo albums. You searched for a few minutes until you found something interesting. In a rather old black and white photo there was a man who looked very similar to you. You had the same skin color, hair color, eyes and similar facial features. You did some research on him and found out that the man's name was Alastor Hartfelt and he was your several-times-great-uncle. Like you, he had two identities. He was a popular radio host in Louisiana, but also a murderer. Surprisingly, he was not arrested by the police and sent to prison. He died from being shot in the head by a hunter, his dog mistook Alastor for a deer, so the hunter accidentally killed him.
"Hm?~ Apparently we have a lot in common, uncle. But unlike you, I kill those who deserve it. I wonder if we will ever meet." - you said and then closed the photo album.
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Gwyn x f!reader: devotion[*]
Summary: you and Gwyn have been emotionally involved with one another for a while, neither of you have yet taken that step to form a physical connection. Yet.
Warnings: smut, face sitting, pussy eating, 69-ing, mentions of squirting
It starts with the two of you planning to spend the night to review some scrolls, but as the night wares on your guards fall, beginning to relax into one another until you’re practically draped across her lap, lying on your stomach while she attempts to read through one of the sacred scripts.
You shift to get more comfortable, hips wiggling as the material of your robe raises to your upper thighs. Gwyn’s sure that if she were stood behind you she would be blessed with an unobscured view of your underwear.
The last straw is when you yawn, stretching your arms before you shift to your hands and knees, showing off the muscle in the backs of your thighs. You yawn again, arms stretching to the air as her eyes lap up your form: the swell of your breasts beneath the robes, the plump roundness of your ass, the plush skin of your thighs. She swallows.
“I think you should go to bed, now,” she manages, the scroll discarded thoughtlessly. Her breath catches as you swing a leg over her lap, settling down comfortably as you lazily drape yourself over her body, pushing against her until she loses balance, toppling back onto the floor of her bedroom. Heat flushes her cheeks as she feels your soft form pressing against her own, fire warming in her lower belly.
Hesitantly, her hands positions themselves on your waist. She doesn’t really know what to do. She doesn’t want to push you off for fear of hurting you - the floor is wooden - but she knows her scent will betray her if you’re allowed to stay settled. Gwyn’s body tenses as you nose her collar bone, heart pounding in her chest.
She inhales heavily, attempting to calm herself but instead your scent is like a kick to the stomach. Her breath catches at the distinct flavour of arousal permeating the air. “Gwyn,” you sing song sleepily, pushing up until you’re seated over her hips. She notes your eyes are clear of fatigue, wide open and sparking with mischief. She swallows as she realises what you’ve been doing.
You peer down at her, cheeks heated while her hair is splayed across the floor, “you okay with this?” You murmur softly, hands set on either side of her pretty face. Her eyes trace your features, desire twining with heat as they drop to your mouth, her hands still perched on your hips. She nods, fingers pressing a little harder through your robes, “yeah,” she breathes, “just…” she looks away and you wait patiently, “can I…” You tilt your head, curious.
She sets her gaze on yours firmly, a flush coating her cheeks as she opens her mouth, “I, uh, I want to be on top.” She swallows as she gets the admission out in the open, waiting for your reaction.
You grin, excitement sparking and you shuffle off her lap, kneeling by her side as she sits up, “and we can stop at any time,” you add softly as her hands cup your jaw. You make sure she’s looking into your eyes, “any time, Gwyn. Just say the word and we’ll stop, okay?” She smiles, “right back at you.” Then she’s kissing you softly, lips moving over one another seamlessly, pressing here and there as her hands land on your shoulders.
“Bed,” you mumble through the feverish kisses, “it’ll be nicer on the—” Her tongue shoves into your mouth, her hands sliding down to your waist as she pulls you upright. The two of you stumble, too preoccupied with one another to pay attention to your surroundings as you scramble onto her bed.
“Gwyn,” you pant as she pushes you down gently, “I want you, too.” Your arms are slung over her shoulders, pulling desperately, “fuck, I want to taste you so bad,” you plead against her lips, your eyes squeezing shut at the thought of having her seated atop your mouth.
Her breathing becomes heavier at the confession, her hand cupping your jaw, “you want me on your mouth, honey? Want to take me while I take you?” You nod frantically, panting as your back arches, pressing your breasts to hers. There would be time for teasing on a separate occasion. Right now you need one another, need to feel the hot brush of skin against skin. It’s been so long since either of you had been afforded that comfort.
She kisses you once more before she pulls away, shifting as she throws a leg over you and already you’re gripping her hips, needfully tugging her toward your face. She chuckles, “slow down, my robes are in the way.”
“Damn the robes,” you pant, hands shoving the offending material up over her thighs. You moan as you set your eyes on her, perfect and wet.
Gwyn laughs at your frenetic movements, “I don’t think you’re supposed to utilise curse words as a priestess.” Your hands roam over the plumpness over her ass, spreading her as you lift your head, pressing into her heat as she moans at the abrupt pleasure. “As a priestess, I know the Mother willed you to be here.” You deliver an open mouthed kiss to her clothed cunt, “and I’m certain with the amount of worship I’m about to give you, she won’t mind one bit.” You thumb away the damp slip of fabric, immediately latching your mouth onto her, tongue lapping greedily at her as she pushes back against you.
Her hands scramble through the layers of your own robes, pushing and shoving at them until they’re spooled around your belly. “Goodness,” she breathes reverently, cupping you as your hips buck. “How can you be so pretty?” She pants, thumbing at your clit, making you whine. She leans back onto your face, pressing you into the mattress as she sits, her middle and forefinger running up and down over your pussy.
With trembling hands, she pushes the fabric aside, moaning as her eyes attach to your sex. The scent is overpowering, arousal roiling throughout her bedroom as she drops her mouth to you, tongue licking over your clit then moving down to your entrance, both of you locked into a hazy madness, intent on taking everything until there’s no difference between you, until you blend to one.
Your mouth moves to her clit, suckling eagerly as one of her hands wraps around your thigh, spreading you wider for her. She needs to have all of you, right now. Neither of you can stand the thought of stopping your frenzied coupling.
Your beloved female pulls away to coat her fingers, circling your entrance before gently pushing in, pulling out, pressing further and she’s rewarded with a loud moan, your mouth working harder to please her. “Gwyn,” you pant, heat coiling in the pit of your belly as her nimble fingers fill you up, her lips suckling your clit. “Gwyn please.”
She moans onto you, your desperate pleas bringing her close to her peak. Flame ignites her body as she winds her hips over you, grinding against your tongue as it presses inside her, the sensation mouth-watering in its eroticism. “Go on,” she laughs, pressing her fingers deep into you, the heel of her palm rubbing over your clit, “I want to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers.” She smiles in delight as your hips buck greedily. “You’re going to taste so good,” she moans, reattaching her mouth to your clit as she feels you fluttering around her, hips undulating.
The sensations send her spiralling, unravelling on your mouth as she gushes. Moans fill the room as you drink her in, tongue soothing over her clit in time with the now gentle pumps of her fingers, guiding one another down from your highs.
You lap over her entrance, pressing your face into her slick heat as she rides out her orgasm. You never want to leave her. Even as your highs fade into calming thrums of euphoria, you keep her seated on your mouth, licking and kissing all of her, devout in your ministrations.
She shifts, attempting to pull away from you but you whine, hands latching over her hips to keep her mounted atop your lips. She releases an adoring laugh, “you need to breathe at some point.” She laughs harder when you shake your head beneath her, tongue swirling over her clit, making her bite her lip.
Steadying herself, she pushes upward, her hands braced softly on your rib cage, fingers playing with your nipples absently. She takes the time to catch her breath, gazing down at your body: how saliva is glossing your pretty thighs, the handprints over your hips, the slick that’s been transferred to your perky nipples as she pinches them softly; teasing.
You nip at her clit in return, making her whimper and Mother above if it isn’t a sound that could bring you to your knees in an instant. She’s perfect and divine in every sense, from the taste of her orgasm, to the ring of her laugh, to the set of her mouth when she’s concentrating on deciphering a scroll or searching for a manuscript.
If you ever lose her you’ll never forgive yourself.
And if you spend the rest of your life with her, enriching every moment with soft puffs of breath and warm touches, you’ll go to the Mother happy.
Taglist: @myheartfollower
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Come Away With Me | Joel & Tommy Miller (The Epilogue)
Summary | A final visit to our favourite family.
Word Count | 1.6K
Chapter Warnings | Consumption of food, allusions to smut, brief talk of difficult pregnancy, family dynamics, lots of fluff & a little surprise for you in this.
Authors Note | Well, I can't believe I'm about to say this, but we made it! Trial & Error Season 2 is complete, which marks the end of the line for my favourite threesome and their family. I firstly wanted to say thank you to each & every one of you for continuing to support this story and me. I never dreamt that you would love these three as much as I love them, and I will always be eternally grateful to this story for helping me through some tough times this year. I hope you love this ending as much as I do, and if you, I'd love to hear from you. Please always feel like you can scream at me in my inbox, and reblogs & comments also really help. This isn't it from our fabulous threesome, I have one-shots and ideas to bring to life in the future, but for now, it's adios to Joel, Pretty Girl & Tommy. And, as always, If you want to support me, you can donate to my Ko-Fi.
A reminder that I no longer use taglists - to keep up with my writing, please follow@thetriumphantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to keep up to date.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi
The sun is warm but there is a slight breeze that crosses your skin, moves the long grass on the ground and rustles the trees. The summer has been hot, but it’s moving into time of year where it cools a little, isn’t so stifling that it makes you want to tear your skin off or spend all your time in an ice bath.
You smile, watching not one, but two young children, just after their second birthday’s, sit in the grass and play together. Twins. Two baby girls. Your heart is full. Your soul is full. Your family is complete in a way you never thought it would be. Sitting on the porch, mug of coffee in hand, you can see the broad expanse of a man walking towards you. The sun is blocking his features from view, framing him perfectly in light. You’d know that outline anywhere. Joel.
“How are my girls?” He smiles, bending down and placing one of his palms on the back of Ava’s head, the other hand holding one of the toys up for Addie to take hold of in her little hand.
He stands again, walking up onto the porch to where you’re sat. He dips to kiss your forehead, then, when you tilt your head to him, he presses a kiss to your lips too, “And how is my pretty girl?”
“I’m good,” You smile, snaking your hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss, “Worked hard?” You ask once you’ve pulled away, letting him sit next to you on the porch bench.
“Can you not tell?” He chuckles, pulling the rag from his pocket to wipe his brow of sweat.
You put a palm on his thigh, looking back out onto the land you now call home. It’s vast, fields upon fields of open land. You can see the other house in the distance, the one Tommy and Joshua call home, the one that you spend half of your time in. It’s a pleasant walk between them, one you’ll take tomorrow morning, twins in arm. A ranch. Land bought when you’d found out you were pregnant again, this time with two babies, not one. It's further outside of the city, which you love. Peace and quiet and a wonderful place to raise your children. Joel and Tommy had worked hard throughout the nine months you’d carried Ava and Addie, taking contracting jobs wherever they could find them, squirrelling away enough money to build the life you have now. You’d offered the inheritance money from your parents who had passed away just before you’d met Tommy, which had built the two houses you all called home. Joel has insisted on sheep for the ranch, whilst Tommy had wanted cattle, so they’d compromised and gone with both.
You hadn’t thought that being the wife of two ranchers would have been something you’d enjoy, but you’d proved yourself wrong. You could take Joshua to school each morning and pick him up each afternoon, you could spend as much time as you wanted with your baby girls, you’d learnt to bake properly, and cook meals for everyone each evening. You would all sit together, eating and drinking into the evening, until you fell into one bed or the other, curled up next to Tommy or Joel, and sometimes even both of them, until you fell asleep and started all over again the next morning. It was the life you loved, and you wouldn’t change it for the world.
You can see Tommy walking from the other house, Joshua’s hand clutched in his own. He’d taken him out today, let him ride with him on his horse, mostly in an effort to tire him out because at six years old, he was starting to run rings around everyone with his energy.
You watch as they come into view, Joshua dropping Tommy’s hand when he recognises his baby sisters. He’s always been so gentle with them. He kneels down on the blanket with them, picking up some of the toys in his hands to start playing with them. He hands Ava a small wooden car, and Addie gets one that is slightly bigger that she can’t quite hold properly. He tries to get them to engage in a race but it’s relatively futile, they just giggle at him and wave their arms around.
You chuckle to yourself as Tommy heads up onto the porch too, he bends to give you a kiss similar to the way Joel had, but leans against the post that connects the porch to the roof that covers it, taking out his own rag to wipe his hands with. You’re about to open your mouth to ask if anyone is hungry, when the front door is ripped open and the newest addition to your family comes bounding out.
“Didn’t keel over and die today then, old man.”
You bite back a chuckle, as does Tommy, but Joel doesn’t seem to find it so funny.
“What have I told you about bein’ rude, Ellie?”
“I wasn’t being rude,” She shrugs, “I was just being observant.”
You think you hear him mutter something about her being a little shit under his breath, which of course is no better than her previous comment, but you let it lie, “Anyone hungry?” You ask.
Everyone agrees, so you push yourself up and head down the steps to pick up Addie. Joel follows behind, taking Ava in his arms, whilst holding his hand out for Joshua to take, walking everyone into Joel’s home, where the pot roast has been cooking for most of the day.
Ellie hadn’t really been planned. Once the twins had been born, you’d thought that was it. It had been a hard pregnancy, you’d struggled with sickness at first, and then at the sheer amount of extra weight you’d been carrying around. You’d swollen in places you didn’t even know you had, and spent that last month being as still as possible. With the way your relationship had changed, you’d agreed early on that the twins would be as much Joel’s children as they were Tommy’s, but whenever Joel watched you walk away to spend time with his brother, which he didn’t resent in any way, and you took the twins with you, that big ranch house felt awful lonely to him, with Sarah still being away at college.
He’d shocked you and Tommy when he’d sat you both down and mentioned adoption. Giving a home to someone who needed it. It had more rooms than he knew what to do with, space enough for another child. You don’t think you could have picked someone more perfect for him than Ellie. In some ways, she was the complete opposite of Sarah, but in others, they were very similar. She wasn’t ever going to be a replacement, Sarah still visited often, was still a huge part of everyone’s lives, but she kept him company in those lonely nights, made him laugh, kept him on his toes, and you loved her just as much as if she were your own. She was a love all of Joel's own.
Everyone takes their seat at the table, helps themselves to as much food as they want. Between mouthfuls of your own food, you help Addie eat, with Joel doing the same with Ava. Tommy is helping Joshua, who still doesn’t quite have the hang of how to properly cut things with his knife and fork, and Ellie is talking, mainly at Joel, about what she’d been doing that day. Its domesticity at its best. You and the two men you love with every fibre of your being, your children who you would lay down your life for, including Ellie. Everything you always wanted, all at the same time, no compromises.
You sit around the table for most of the evening. Ellie helps you put the twins to sleep upstairs when they start dropping off. She knows the dynamic of the family, you’d sat her down one day when Joel and Tommy were out working, fumbling over the words of how to explain exactly how things worked.
“So, they both love you, and you both love them?” She’d asked, mixing the batter for the cake you were making together, “Sounds cool,” She’s shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, “Just so long as I don’t ever have to hear what you and my old man get up to.”
You’d smiled, given her a hug, and promised to keep it down with Joel whenever you were there. It proved to be difficult, that man knowing how to make you cry out and scream whenever he got his hands on you.
Once Joshua has settled himself on the couch, resting quietly with the TV on in the background, and Ellie has gone to her room to read or whatever else it is she does up there, you reach next to you and take hold of Tommy’s hand. He clutches it right back, with Joel’s arm resting across your shoulders. You look up at Joel, who is smiling softly, with that glint in his eyes that tells you he’s dying to take you upstairs.
You look Tommy directly in the eye, “Together?” You ask, squeezing his hand.
“Together.”
And that’s how it is. That’s how it will always be. Some nights spent alone with your men, others spent sandwiched right between them as they take turns making you feel good, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you until you don’t know who you are or what day of the week it is. And then being able to snuggle into one of them, tonight you know it will be Joel, who will drape his arm over your waist and press his front as close to your back as is humanely possible, with Tommy clutching your hands from the front. Your two men, their girl, and the life you’d risked almost everything to have.
THE END.
#Joel Miller#Joel Miller fic#Joel Miller Fanfic#Joel Miller fanfiction#Joel Miller smut#Joel Miller angst#Joel Miller fluff#Joel Miller x you#Joel Miller x reader#Joel Miller x female reader#Joel Miller xF!Reader#Tommy Miller#Tommy Miller fic#Tommy Miller fanfic#Tommy Miller fanfiction#Tommy Miller smut#Tommy Miller fluff#Tommy Miller angst#Tommy Miller x you#Tommy Miller x reader#Tommy Miller x female reader#Tommy Miller x f!reader#The last of us#the last of us hbo#tlou#tlou hbo#the last of us fic#tlou fic#the last of us smut#tlou smut
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Deals with the Devil ain't so bad
Summary: Arthur Morgan became the devil's bounty hunter...but god does he miss you fiercly.
Ghost Rider!Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
CW: MDNI, 18+ Only, p in v, fingers, forest/public, nearly caught, fingers, flames used during. Is this technically monster?
Word count: 2.9K
He remembers signing that contract like it was yesterday. Remembers how the wind felt against his breath as he looked at the sun rising, how he struggled to breath, the sound of his own raspy voice shaking as he took what should have been his last breath. How his lungs hurt, and his eyes watered from the realisation that this was it.
Then suddenly there was the man. He stood watching Arthur dying on that mountain, his hands wrapped on his cain and the silver skull glinted in the morning rays. His eyes were cold and his voice worse as he spoke “I can help you” was all he said. The outlaws' eyes flickering to the strange man. The corner of his mouth turned up as he watched the dying man give a small nod, his breaths starting to wheeze.
Echoes of his steps fall around the mountain as he bends at the knee, resting right next to Arthur “I won’t ask you to get up”. He unrolls paper, and places it on the ground next to the outlaw. Arthur see’s something shining in that pale man’s eyes, there’s something wrong with him. But Arthur’s greedy.
He wants another chance at life, he wants to right his wrongs, he wants to see you again. He’s a selfish man, he thinks as his hands struggle to grasp the paper, and he doesn’t even read the contract before he tries to sign his name. The man laughs as Arthur coughs and his blood splatters the page “That’ll do just fine Mr Morgan” and he takes the contract away from him, rolling it back up and sheathing it in a metal cylinder. “When you open your eyes next, you’ll be healthy as a horse”. The man grins before he’s gone, and Arthur’s eyes slipped shut.
And now here he was a year down the line. The devil’s bounty hunter. He’d spent the past year collecting souls and returning them back to hell, never seeing you. He should never have taken that contract, he should have died that day on the mountain. You thought he had, Charles and John thought he had. Even set him up a nice little grave that he’d watched you visit time and time again over the year.
His heart yearned to be near you again, to feel your warmth and your softness beneath his fingers but he refused to let Mephisto know his weakness. So he spent his days wandering the west, the shire he’d gotten from Hosea had become his ride and he went everywhere with Arthur.
Even right now, here he was in the small town you’d settled in, watching as you brought in the washing. Your head turning up to look at the sky causing your shoulders to sag when you saw the grey clouds hanging overhead. Arthur kept his hat down low so if you happened to look, you wouldn’t see that rugged outlaw you’d lost a year ago.
The rider stood there for a little longer watching you but his sadness quickly turned to jealousy, his gaze dropping from that aching to venom as he watched some man he’d never seen before riding up to your house. The stranger dismounting as he pressed flowers into your hand which you seemed to accept willingly. That smile you reserved only for him was present and all Arthur wanted in that moment was to drag that man down to hell.
It was a few days later when he returned to you, and you were out tending to the small garden you’d managed to maintain. The sky had been clear for some time and he watched you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. You disappeared inside the door for a few seconds before coming back out with a basket, leaving the garden and turning down to walk through the trees that your property backed onto.
Arthur stood up straight, his hand shaking the cigarette and throwing it onto the ground once it was out. He pushed his hat slightly down as he began to walk after you. The outlaw watched you carefully, not showing himself just yet, and fooling himself that he was following you because the forest wasn’t safe. Who knows what was here, you needed that protection.
While he had taught you to use a gun some years ago, that didn’t mean you were any good at it. Least not better than him.
He followed you for a while, you hadn’t even noticed. More reason for him to be accurately worried. And he watched as you bent to pick more flowers, adding them to the already full basket. His brow furrowed as he finally took note of them, originally he thought the book you held was full of the information and pictures of them but now, as he looked closer, he noticed the familiar worn leather. His own journal.
You’d kept it. You’d kept it.
And that seemed to be what made him snap. Your head turning fast at the sound of someone stomping towards you. Hands forcing you to stand up, an arm wrapping around your waist and someone's mouth crashing to yours.. Teeth clashing against your own as your eyes widened and you tried to push this sudden figure off you. Anger filled your mind, until he pulled slightly away from you.
Your eyes still wide as you dropped the basket, shaky hands holding his face gently. One of your fingers gently tracing his face, mouth opening and shutting as you tried to speak.
It was Arthur who spoke first “I missed you darlin’” came that rough timber that you’d spent nights trying to replay in your mind “Missed ya somethin’ fierce”.
You were the one to kiss him this time, pulling him forward so quickly it knocked his hat back but he didn’t care as he kissed you back. Tongue pushing your lips apart so he could explore every inch of your mouth, you didn’t fight it like you normally would. His brow furrowed as he tasted something salty and opened his eyes to see you crying.
He pulled away again, shushing you gently as his thumbs brushed away the tears “I’m sorry, I know baby girl but I’m here now” you buried your face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. Leather, gunpowder and sandalwood flooded your nose and it felt like you could breathe for the first time in a year. Your hands took the hat from his head completely so you could run your hands through his soft strands, looking up at him in wonder.
“You were gone” Arthur swore he could have fell to his knees right there with the way your voice cracked, he had never meant to cause such pain. Maybe taking that deal wasn’t such a bad thing, if it meant he could hold you like this, if he could hear that sweet melody of your voice.
“Let me make it up to ya” one of his hands slowly moved down from your waist to grab your ass, squeezing it tightly as his mouth crooks up into a grin and your cheeks go red at his insinuation. You try to stammer a reply but he just shushes you again “Come on girl, just lay here and look pretty, alrigh’?”
Those words are all it takes for him to quickly have you on the floor, hiking your skirts up over your waist and Arthur’s quickly pushing his trousers down. The gun belt is somewhere near his hat. His hands are as rough as you remember as he pushes your thighs open, his eyes dark at the sight between them “Hold” comes his gruff voice, and your hands immediately go under your knees to keep yourself held open for him.
The way his eyes watch you sends arousal thrumming through your body and your hole clenches around nothing causing the man above you to roll his neck and breath through his nose. His hands trace down the fat of your thighs before his thumb pushes against your clit and he slowly circles it “Missed me that much, sugar?”
You can only nod and grip your legs as he applies more pressure “I missed you so much Arthur” he leans down to kiss at your neck, your eyes fluttering and mouth dropping open as his teeth scrape against the skin. His fingers slide down your wet lips, gathering some of it before he gently pushes against your hole. Your body doesn’t deny the man entrance, he meets almost no resistance as he begins to move his fingers in and out, his thumb still rubbing at the sensitive nub.
“Then I won’t tease ya” he mumbles against the pulse in your throat, and you mewl in agreement. He stretches you gently, adding another finger and this causes you to gasp “S’okay darlin’ just been a while, gotta get you ready” your hand moves to the base of his hair, tanging in the strands and tugging to get his face to move up, pressing your lips to his again.
Your legs tremble in your own hold as his fingers press up against the soft spot inside you, the pressure on your clit and the way he kisses you until your breathless has your back arching. His mouth swallows all the sweet noises you give him.
It doesn’t take long for the man to expertly bring you to that edge, it’s been so long since you felt like this. You’d tried to do it yourself once you’d thought you were done grieving but your own hand just hadn’t been enough. Oh but Arthur’s hand? It knew exactly where to stroke, how fast to go, the right amount of pressure to apply. “That’s it sweetheart, just like that. Such a good girl f’me”
And his words had you going over that edge, your fingers leaving marks on your own skin, your legs trying to close even as you held them open. Arthur’s eyes watching the way your hole tightened around his fingers, slick drooling down to the forest floor as your eyes fluttered shut and you could only whimper and whine at the feeling.
Arthur’s fingers left your cunt leaving you to whine as he shushes you, his hands making quick work to pull his trousers half way down his thighs, enough to bring his cock out of his underwear. The fabric pressed just under his balls. Your eyes gravitated there, tracing the hard dick he sported.
You couldn’t tear your gaze away, his own hand barely able to wrap around it as he pumped a few times, his head tipping back with a groan and his cock jumped at the action. Arthur stroked the head against your folds, the precum oozing from the slit and coating your pussy as he gathered the wetness. You pouted up at him, trying to roll your hips up against him and Arthur raised an eyebrow.
His free hand moving to pin your body down as he threatened “Have I gotta crush you to floor, girl?” his tone let you know not to do that again, and your entire body relaxed against the leaves and sticks as he finally pushed into your hole. A gasp leaving you, and he stilled with just the tip inside as he let you get used to the feeling again.
Both of you tensed at the sound of your name being yelled through the forest, seeming to echo as someone called your name and suddenly Arthur’s loving exterior was gone. Your hands let go of your legs and you sat up to push him off you “Oh oh, we got to stop” but the outlaw only pushed you back to the floor, his body weight on you as he pushed the rest of his cock inside you.
“We ain’t gotta do nothing. You gotta lay here and take it” Your eyes widened, you’d never seen him like this before, but as Arthur started to buck his hips up against you, you could only do as he said. Your arms wrapping around his shoulders and clinging to the back of his jacket, his own hands gripping your thighs this time to keep them open. His fingers dimpling the fat as he almost seemed in a frenzy to fuck you.
You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the grunts and growls as his hips humped at you, his cock stretching you out over and over as he used your cunt. The yelling of your name got louder before fading away, the person walking in a different direction “He couldn’t do ya ike this, nah, he aint the type to give you what ya need darlin’”. You had no idea what he was talking about, brow furrowing but you couldn’t focus on one single thought. Not with the way his fingers bruising your thighs as the head bruised your cervix.
And then, all of a sudden, you felt very hot. Your eyes shot open as you watched flames engulf Arthur. His hands burning at your skin and as you looked down all you saw were bones gripping at your thighs “W-what?” you whispered out, your body tensing and Arthur froze too.
His mind went blank as he realised what had happened, and he stammered and stuttered as he tried to think of something to say “Darlin’ I, well, er” Your hand moved to touch the skeleton fingers, and they seemed to change back into his own fingers. And then you realised the flames didn’t really hurt. They were just hot.
Arthur’s eyes widened as he felt your hole clench around him, and it caused him to groan as he thrust into you again. Calming enough that he could morph back into your loving cowboy, his hands gripping your thighs again as he set back into his brutal “Ya like that, dont ya, sugar?” his voice dripped in arousal as he continued the assault on your cunt. This time his touch was accompanied with the flames you seemed to find fascinating. He watched you nod up at him, that devious grin charming up his face.
He brought one of his hands up to your corset, setting it on fire and you gasped as it turned to ash, blowing away in the wind. Mouth going dry as he teased at your hardened nipple, the flame licking at the bud but never burning you. And your hips rolled up forcing more of his cock into you, and your back arched pressing his hand against your breast again. “yeah you like it” came his deep timbre again.
With the added touch of his flames against your skin now, it was easy to get you back into that syrupy head space allowing Arthur to fuck you against the forest floor as he humped into your cunt, his cock dragging along your g-spot in the most delicious way. His words slipping into your ears as he brought you closer and closer to that edge again, his hand making it’s way down your body, burning the pieces of clothing that stopped its path before it could press against your clit.
Your entire body thrummed as he applied some of that heat while he circled your clit, your cunt starting to ache from how he used you and a whimper leaving your mouth as you soaked the floor and Arthur’s pants. He pressed closer to you until you could feel his shirt against your face, his hips keeping your legs apart while his hands moved to grab at the floor. Trying to keep himself grounded as he slowed down his pace “Fuck darlin’!” his voice rang out as you came undone around him.
His eyes rolling as his cock twitched, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white and he stayed as close as possible as his hips rolled and pressed you into the floor. His hands grasped around dirt and leaves as he filled you. “Forgot how good that feels” the outlaws voice was a raspy pant as he breathed heavily above you.
And you both stayed there for a few minutes, until his cock had softened inside you and he pulled out slowly, his hands soothing at your thighs while he shushed you. Your body tensing at the ache between your thighs, and little whimpers left you as he pulled out “I know, I know, ‘m sorry” came the once again gentle Arthur. The one you knew.
As you slowly blinked, trying to gain control over your breathing again, you moved your hand to touch his face. Brow furrowing as you tried to make sense of what you had seen. Not only was the man you loved back from the dead…but he seemed to be some kind of fire skeleton. Confusion swarmed your mind.
The rough man pressed a kiss to your palm, his hand moving to take your own off his face as he gave you a shy smile, his gaze full of concern and something else. Something that seemed awfully similar to that look when he was self-conscious all those years ago “I can explain”
You nodded up at him, looking at him expectedly as he began to explain what had happened. And while it didn’t all make sense to you, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you had Arthut back. Whether he was tethered to this ‘Ghost Rider’ demon or not.
#arthur morgan x femalereader#arthur morgan x reader#arthurmorgan#Arthur morgan xF!reader#arthur morgan x fem reader#arthur morgan x female reader#arthur morgan smut#arthur morgan rdr2#arthur morgan x reader smut#ghost rider!arthur morgan#rdr2 x reader#rdr2 smut#rdr2 x f!reader
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Little first meet
Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Reader
Summary: How a mohawk Scottish man meet his bonnie bear
Warning : M rating. use of alcohol. flirting.
A/N: Three glasses of wine in, half asleep I just want to spew their awkward first meeting out.
Part 7 of Little Bear series
Masterlist
“Hello bonnie, are you new here?”
Glancing to the left, and to the right. There’s no one else sitting beside you. Is he talking to you?? There must be some mistake. Surely this handsome stranger with a very exaggerated mohawk hair right in front of you isn’t trying to start a conversation with you. Or God forbid, trying to flirt with you????
“... You talking to me?” you asked in a weak voice.
He chuckled as he flashes you a wide toothy smile, “Who else would it be? The most beautiful person in the whole pub.” gesturing to the stool beside you, “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Um, sure?” You can feel the tip of your ears starting to burn. Fidgeting with the pint of beer in your hand, your mind started racing. Maybe he is just bored, or maybe he had a bet with his friend on how many people they can chat up with tonight in this pub.
This is the first time you left your hometown. First time in a brand new environment and you are a nervous wreck.
You only moved to Credenhill a few weeks ago after getting a new job with a civilian company that has connections to the military that is stationed in the area.
You have thought deep and hard before deciding to make that huge leap in your life, after seeing all your friends moving on with their life, achieving so much. And there you are, still living in your comfort zone.
Tonight, you decided to check out the local pub that your new workmate had suggested with a good atmosphere and food. You had nothing better to do anyway on a Friday night.
“Maybe you will get lucky and some soldiers will hit on you!” They joke. “I had quite a bit of luck meeting some quite sexy soldiers. And I can assure you they have pretty good … stamina.” Winking and giggling away as you lower your head in embarrassment.
Awkward silent bubble surrounded both of you as the bolstering noise of drunken pub goers around you continued. You never had anyone hitting you before (He is flirting with you, right?) What do you do in this situation? Who should start a conversation? Is it proper etiquette to look into their eyes or should you look away?
As your brain runs through all the possibilities and solutions, the mohawk man broke the silence and restart the conversation.
“So, I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you here for a visit or?? I don’t imagine anyone will be here for sightseeing purposes.” Taking a sip from his own beer, he asked. “And it doesn’t look like you are waiting for anyone to join you either.”
Good observant skill, you noted. “Um.I just moved here. Few weeks ago.” Shyly taking a peek at him as you bring your glass up for a sip for a drink, you realise you have a set of steel blue eyes. Beautiful steel blue eyes, drawing you deeper into his soul.
Great, now you are gawking on him.
His eyes brighten up as soon as you mention you are a new resident here.
“Well I hope you are settling in well. I must apologise that this little village has nothing to offer apart from basic amenities and boring soldiers.” he chuckles.
“ And you are one of them?” you blurted out as your eyes caught a glimpse of his dog chain in his half buttoned up shirt. You slapped your mouth as soon as the sentence left your mouth.
“Sorry. Not meaning to be so rude..” Embarrassment and anxiety starts bubbling up. That is one thing you are not good with. Socialisation. It’s either you don’t know how to carry on a conversation or letting your mouth run without thinking. Way to make a good impression with people. You thought.
Mohawk stranger laughed. “ I am indeed one of them. One of the best at boring your brains out. .” he smirked, “Although I am not as boring as my team mate Ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“Not his real name. That’s his call sign. He usually bored us to death with his dad jokes. Or our Captain. Nagging non-top most times like a mother hen. Don’t get me started on Gaz. He is too stiff for his own good sometimes.”
“They sound like very interesting people.” You let out a little laugh.
“Depending how you look at it.” He smiled. Pausing slightly as he thought for a second, “If you like, I can introduce them to you. Next time.” He looked at you in earnest.
“Next time?” Your eyebrows arched up. There’s next time?
“Only if you want, bonnie.” smiling softly, “You look like you need some friends.”
Noticing you stiffening, he winced as he straightened his back slightly. “Sorry. I meant no offence with that. I just thought you might want to make new friends in this new place.”
You fidget in your seat even more. Can you really trust this man that you only just met tonight?
And what is that good old warning people kept saying to you, never get involved with military personnel. They will surely break your heart.
Still noticing your hesitation and discomfort, he hastily added, “If it makes you feel more comfortable, my sister is visiting soon. I can bring her along too. She is the one who usually keeps us all in check. Also to keep my blabbering mouth shut as well.”
“But.......”
“But?”
“... I don’t even know your name.”
Mohawk man opened his mouth for a second and closed before he slapped himself in the forehead.
“Where are my manners? Let’s start again.” holding his hands out,
“John MacTavish. But people either call me Johnny or Soap.”
You later find out Johnny isn’t usually the type to introduce his close knit group right from get go.
“I fell hard for you that day, Bonnie bear. Something in my heart tells me I must approach that lonely bonnie that is sitting in the corner all by herself and woo her with all my might.”
“Well luckily you didn’t use any of your lame pick up lines..”
“Aww Bonnie bear. I am sure you will still fall for the charming me nevertheless.”
“Sure sure… “
Taglist:
@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world
@kaplerrr
@homicidal-slvt
@floral-force
@okayyadriana
@deadbranch
@cumikering
@siilvan
@random-thot-generator
@random0lover
@devcica
@jynxmirage
@nrdmssgs
@glitterypirateduck
@roosterr
@brewed-pangolin
@groguspicklejar
#johnny soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#johnny soap mactavish x fem reader#soap x reader#soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish imagine#johnny soap mactavish xf!reader#johnny soap mactavish x you#Little bear series#sofasoap writes#call of duty#johnny mactavish#john mactavish fluff#johnny soap mactavish x female!reader#johnny soap mactavish fluff#comfort fic
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Blue Moon
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies)
Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress)
Trope: Noble x Humble worker
Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are.
The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald.
Warnings: Horses?
Word count: 1 595
Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk
There was something hypnotising about his hands.
The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening.
Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.
It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning.
To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer.
You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.
Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.
From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand.
Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.
“What are you thinking about?”
Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.
A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.
“Nothing important, Sire.”
A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.
“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”
Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I…
— No. Stay.”
Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.
It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you.
First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be.
Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature.
Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.
“As you wish, Sire.”
The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you.
The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.
“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”
His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes.
At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.
In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough.
Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.
“Can I…?”
Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.
“I…”
You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.
“I… do not know what to say… I…
— Then you don’t need to say anything.”
His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?
“I will.
— What?”
He chuckled at your incredulous expression.
“I will say something.
— Oh.”
He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.
“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”
The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.
“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state.
— I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”
His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.
“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”
His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.
“You really mean that? I’m not just a…
— You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”
Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.
“I will. I absolutely will.”
A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.
“You were asking me to…
— … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”
Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.
#eomer xf!reader#eomer imagine#eomer x reader#lotr imagine#one-shot#lotr fic#it's sotwk's fault#fluff
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I ║ Palomino
Jack Daniels x f!reader
{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 2: Buckskin }
Rating: M (will be E in future chapters)
Summary: Unable to get a refund for a week-long horse-riding pack trip you'd booked with your ex, you decide to go solo. As it turns out, a rebound with a cowboy named Jack while traversing the wild landscapes of Wyoming might just be what you need.
Warnings: Extremely self-indulgent solo travel romance, flirting, yearning, language, matchmaking themes, lots of horsey details, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N
Word count: 6.5k
Notes: This story encompasses a lot of firsts for me - first new series since Consent, first time writing Jack, first time writing something so action-heavy and close to my heart. While I'm not 100% confident I got everything right, I am so excited about this fic. I hope you're ready for the ride (I apologise in advance for all the horsey puns incoming)!
I want to call out (affectionate) LJ @prolix-yuy for lighting a fire under my ass for cowboy Jack with her incredible Westworld AU Cognitive Dissonance. I also need to thank Ani @deadhumourist for the idea of a company retreat that I used in this chapter, and for sharing with us her amazing Jack fic Under Marula Trees. And of course, Ash @mandoblowmybackout for enduring my almost non-stop screeching about Jack ❤️
More notes in the Series Masterlist on horses and travel, etc!
Palomino: a pale golden or tan-coloured horse or pony with a white mane and tail, originally bred in the south-western US.
The door creaks long and loud on its hinges as it opens, barely letting through a bustling figure before slamming shut so hard it rattles on its heavy oak frame.
At the long-suffering frown sent his way from across the reception desk, Champ holds his hands up in apology and tip-toes in exaggerated fashion to his desk. Ginger shakes her head fondly - being quiet is not one of her employer’s strong suits.
She presently returns to the phone call she’s in the middle of, using her most placating tone on this customer. ‘Look, we have regulars coming in the same week as you. They come every year for a company retreat, and they are just the loveliest people you can meet. I promise you’ll have a great time.’
The vintage Chesterfield groans under his weight as Champ settles down, and with a practised flick of his wrist, his cowboy hat lands on its designated hook on the wall. He turns to the ledgers Harry left on his desk two days ago - he can’t keep putting them off much longer…
His mind quickly wanders. He’s a people person, and he’s always been more interested in the dude ranch holiday part of the business. However, Ginger is so good at her job that she’s made him redundant, banishing him to the whiskey distillery side of things.
It doesn’t stop him from keeping half an ear on the ongoing phone conversation though.
‘I’m so sorry, ma’am, it’s not our policy to offer refunds. But I promise you’ll have the best birthday with us on the trip.’
Champ steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair. Ah, a customer wanting to cancel. Always tricky.
‘Tell you what - since you’ve already paid a 40% deposit for two guests, why don’t I waive the 20% balance for your holiday for one party?’
Champ arches a grey eyebrow in curiosity.
‘Alright, perfect,’ chirps Ginger brightly. ‘We look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. Bye now.’
‘What was that about?’ he asks as soon as she hangs up.
Bringing up the reservations system on her computer, she types busily as she replies, ‘A guest booked a holiday with her boyfriend, but they broke up, and she wanted a refund for both their places. I convinced her to come alone instead with the discount. She’s here the same week as the Kingsman so she definitely won’t be lonely.’
Champ gives her a double thumbs up. ‘Nicely done, Ginger. And did you say it’s her birthday while she’s here?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll give Poppy a heads up to bake a cake in advance.’
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
Ginger’s fingers pause and hover over the keyboard, a warning in her voice. ‘Champ.’
He blinks innocently. ‘What? I’m a nosy bastard.’
With a sigh, she pulls up a Whatsapp profile picture and holds up the phone to him.
He puts on his reading glasses to look at the screen, and proceeds to nod thoughtfully. Finally, they haven’t had any single guests at the ranch for months on end. Surely, she’s his type…
‘Champ?’ Ginger’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. ‘Stop meddling!’
He feigns ignorance. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am?’
She rolls her eyes affectionately. ‘He’s a big boy, he doesn’t need your help.’
Champ barks in laughter. ‘Like hell he doesn’t. Call the Kingsman and reschedule them, Ginger. I have a plan.’
You’ve never travelled on your own before.
Now that you’re speeding down the empty country roads towards the Bighorn Mountains - windows down, dust flying, radio blaring - you honestly don’t know why you waited so long.
You’re glad that the woman at the Statesman stood firm when you called a month and a half ago, asking for a refund. The discount sweetens the deal too.
To be honest, the week-long dude ranch trip you booked months ago had completely slipped your mind in the aftermath of the breakup. There were more pressing matters, like - what were you going to do with the house you bought and remodelled together?
You’d just finished tiling the backsplash with the vintage Italian mosaic you found at a flea market when you were informed that he didn’t feel the same way about you anymore. In fact, he hadn’t for some time.
You were only reminded of the trip when you started clearing your stuff out of the attic, finally having found an apartment you could afford on your own that is also not a shithole. You found the riding gear that you’d stashed away, gathering dust since you two started dating.
You should be thankful that at least there’s no costly wedding venue deposit to forgo or a pet custody battle to muddle through. He’s always hated animals - you really should’ve known.
But you can’t bring yourself to not be bitter about everything. Not yet.
Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re going on this trip. That lazy bastard can start pulling his weight and sort out the house viewings for potential buyers for this week. He’s been dragging his feet - just because he can afford to pay both the mortgage and rent at his new bachelor pad doesn’t mean you can too.
You shake yourself out of it and crank up the stereo. Fuck it. You’re not thinking about him or the house or anything this weekend. It’s your solo birthday getaway and you’re gonna enjoy the fuck out of it.
And who knows? If you’re lucky, you could be rebounding with a handsome cowboy, like one of those awful Unicorn Club novels you used to read over and over again when you were fifteen.
You laugh, the pull of the muscles in your cheeks unfamiliar after weeks of disuse. A girl can dream.
You switch off the ignition, hands gripping the driving wheel tightly, and you take a moment to compose yourself.
‘You can do this,’ you murmur, giving yourself a reaffirming nod in the rear view mirror.
Hopping off your rental truck, you shut the door behind you and start towards the only building you can see, a rustic lodge with a red roof. Statesman is blazened in iron letters, nailed proudly above a wraparound porch with welcoming rocking chairs and armchairs scattered about.
The gravel beneath your sneakers crunches loudly. You can hear in the distance sounds that you haven’t heard for a long time - clip clop of hooves, the drag of a barn door on rusty hinges, the low whinny of horses. You breathe in the mountain air scented with a whiff of sweet hay. Things that were familiar once upon a time. Your chest constricts at something blooming between your ribs, and a small smile lifts the corner of your lips.
There’s a bark out of the blue, and a border collie comes zipping towards you, wagging his tail so hard that his whole bottom wriggles from side to side. You coo excitedly and crouch down to give him a cuddle when a man with grey hair emerges from the lodge. It’s a warm day, but he’s wearing a suit with a cowboy hat.
In a booming voice, he calls your name in greeting and makes his way over to you. ‘We’ve been expecting you, young lady! The name’s Champ. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
You stand and shake his proffered hand with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Champ. It’s good to be here.’ You gesture to the empty parking lot. ‘Am I early or something?’
‘You’re our only guest this week, actually,’ he replies in a thick Southern accent.
You scratch the back of your neck, taken by surprise. ‘Umm, but the lady I spoke to on the phone - she said that there are regulars joining? A company retreat or something?’
‘Sadly, they rescheduled. It’s just you, my dear. You’re our VIP!’ he grins and claps you on the shoulder. ‘Come! Walk with me. I’ll have someone take your bags to your room. You can leave the keys in the car, it’s safe - but you keep any food to yourself or Jameson here will run away with it!’
The border collie barks at his name and Champ scratches him behind the ear, dispatching him with a wave of his hands.
Your host starts at a brisk walk. ‘So, how was your journey, young lady?’
You have to power walk to keep up with him as the gravel fades into firm sand. ‘Long, but glad to be here. I’ve been really looking forward to getting away.’
‘First time travelling alone, I assume?’ Champ smiles at you kindly.
You nod sheepishly. ‘I’m a bit nervous, to be honest.’
He laughs. ‘You’re entitled to nerves, but I promise you, you’ll forget all about that in three, two, one -’
Right on cue, you round the back of the lodge and you can’t help the gasp that slips out as you stumble to a stop.
The full landscape of the ranch comes into view beneath your feet. A picturesque river cuts through the green sweep of land, small lodges with matching red roofs are dotted all over one side of the bank, and bigger barn-like structures stand on the other. The Bighorn Mountains tower over the entirety of the property. You see horses grazing in a huge, fenced field, tails flicking lazily at flies.
Champ practically glows at your reaction. ‘It’s taken thirty years to get to where we are. I hope it will stand for many more decades to come.’
‘It’s - stunning,’ you say rather inadequately.
Champ winks at you. ‘Wait till you go into the mountains, my dear. Come along, now.’
You resume walking side by side, and he continues, ‘Now, since you’re our only guest this week, I can give you two options for your trip. We can do day-long rides with you, and you spend the nights here at the ranch. It’s more comfortable, but it does mean that you don’t get to go as deep into the mountains.’
Champ stops to take a breath. ‘Alternatively, you can go on a week-long pack ride with our cowboy and camp along the way, just the two of you. It's a magnificent journey, I can promise you.’
It’s a lot of information to take in so quickly, and you hesitate. ‘Um - ’
He holds up a hand at you and pauses abruptly, something catching his eye. ‘Ah, speak of the devil. Before you decide, you need to meet our cowboy. He'll be your guide for the week.’
You’re craning your neck to catch a glimpse when Champ bellows so loudly that you nearly have to take cover. ‘JACK! Son! Say hello to our guest for this week before you take the horses to pasture.’
Your ears still ringing, the silhouette of a man on horseback comes into view halfway across the yard. The dust seems to magically settle and part, and a handsome face framed by a cowboy hat, a tidy moustache and a wicked sharp jawline comes into focus.
‘Whoa.’
You belatedly realise that you said that out loud when Champ wriggles his eyebrows at you.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ the cowboy calls back, tipping his hat politely. His voice rings brightly in the space between you, but the delicious lick of his Southern drawl makes goosebumps chase across your skin. You manage a weak smile and a wave, not trusting your power of speech at the moment.
‘Be back at four to take the lovely lady on her orientation ride, alright?’
Jack gives him a two-fingered salute. ‘Got it, boss. See you soon, ma’am.’
You watch unashamedly as the cowboy smoothly steers his horse around, and with a whistle, the dozen or so horses follow suit as he canters out of view.
‘So? What say you?’ Champ interrupts your thoughts with an expectant look.
You can’t help the stupid grin that breaks upon your face. ‘The pack trip sounds good.’
Champ claps his hands together so loudly that you jump. ‘Your wish is my command, ma’am. Or rather - Jack’s.' He winks. ‘He’ll pick out a horse for you and take you for a short ride to make sure you’re comfortable before the trip starts tomorrow. Sounds good?’
‘Perfect.’
Stopping outside one of the lodges near the river, Champ sweeps his arm in a flourish. ‘There we go, this is your lovely room for tonight, with the best views of the mountains. Poppy’s left some lemonade and sandwiches inside if you need a pick-me-up, and your bags will be with you shortly. Just make sure you’re ready by four. Got it?’
He holds up a hand to you, and you give him a high five. ‘Got it, Champ.’
‘Welcome to the Statesman, my dear.’
Watching you bound up the stairs with a spring in your step, Champ gives himself an imaginary pat on the shoulder. Well done, old chap. The plan is in motion.
You lay your outfits on the large bed as you chew on a delicious sandwich, weighing the options for your afternoon ride. You packed according to the list the ranch sent in your orientation email, but you wish you’d brought something nicer. They really should’ve included a hot cowboy warning.
You wanted to spend some time on the porch and enjoy the magnificent views of the mountains from your doorstep before the ride, but by the time you’re finally happy with your choice of clothes, you’re startled by rapping on the door.
Sucking in a steadying breath and smoothing back your hair, you turn the knob.
Fuck me sideways. This man is devastatingly good-looking on close inspection.
‘Hi, again,’ you smile, hoping your words didn’t come out as squeaky as it sounded in your head.
The cowboy returns your smile with teeth and tips his hat at you - black suede with a leather band - then offers you his hand. ‘Jack Daniels. Pleasure to meet you properly, ma’am.’
You give him your name and your hand. His grip is firm and assured, the slide of his palm against yours feels weathered and rope-worn. You cross your arms self-consciously, but the words that come out are bolder than you feel. ‘So, Champ says you’re my own personal cowboy for the week?’
He chuckles and plays along, giving you a small bow. ‘I’m at your beck and call, darlin’.’
His rich voice curls around every syllable, dipping and climbing with each inflection, but the languid cadence doesn’t waver. You decide here and then that this man can call you darlin' any time he wants.
He hooks one thumb through a belt loop, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He runs his eyes up and down your body, both professionally assessing and not, lingering on your breeches, riding boots and half chaps. He arches an eyebrow at you and says in a playful tone, ‘So, I see you’re one of those fancy English riders.’
You gesture at the flannel shirt you’re wearing, the ends tied in a knot to give it a cropped fit. You think you look cute - hopefully. You choose to crack a joke, ‘Give me some credit, cowboy, I’m trying to fit in.’
He holds his hands up in surrender, pushing himself off the door. ‘My apologies, darlin’, where are my manners? The illusion is perfect. You ready to go?’
You grab your riding hat. ‘Absolutely.’
Jack takes one look at your helmet and tuts, plucking it from your fingers. ‘Oh no, that won’t do. That is one thing I don't allow on my rides. We’ll find you a real hat.’
It’s a short walk to the stables. You hang back with all the subtlety you can muster to quietly study the cowboy you’ll be sharing close quarters with for the next week. His walk is deliberate, he almost prowls, narrow hips undulating with the rhythm of his strut. When he reaches up to adjust his hat, his shirt strains over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up in the afternoon heat. Your eyes are about to dip a lot lower when he turns back to look at you, and you duck your head like you’ve been caught with your finger in the pie.
Are you imagining the touch of self-satisfaction that���s crept into his warm eyes?
‘So, how long have you been riding?’ he slows down so you can catch up with him. You’re relieved he doesn’t call you out on your very obvious appraisal of him.
You shrug. ‘Since I was a kid, but I haven’t been on a horse since - ’ You pause to rearrange your words. ‘- for almost five years. And I’ve always ridden the English way, so I don’t know how well I’ll do with Western riding.’
He brushes away your concern. ‘Western is easy, it’ll be a piece of cake for you, I’m sure.’
The stables are large and airy with rustic beams framing a vaulted ceiling. Utility barns are clustered outside in close vicinity, but all is still in the mid-afternoon hour. Your footsteps echo as you make your way down the concrete corridor, Jack’s sturdy cowboy boots treading heavier and louder than your riding boots. Large and tidy stalls line either side, some empty and some occupied.
‘The horses spend most of the summer outdoors,’ explains Jack. Stopping in front of a huge chalkboard nailed to the wall, he gestures at the daily schedule listed next to each name, written in a neat hand. ‘We keep them on a weekly roster to make sure their workload is evenly distributed.’
Resuming your slow course deeper into the stables, Jack asks conversationally, ‘What are you looking for in your horse for the week?’
It’s a broad question that you don’t quite know how to answer. You purse your lips. ‘To be honest? I don’t know, it’s been a while.’
‘Ok. Let’s put it this way - what’s important to you?’ He ticks off the options with his fingers. ‘Character? Temperament? Speed? Stamina?’
Is it just you or did his voice dip an octave on that last word?
Flustered, you struggle to come up with a reply. ‘Um - ’
Seeing that you’re overwhelmed, he wipes the slate clean with a wave of his hand. ‘I apologise, I didn’t express myself well.’ He changes tact. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your favourite horse?’
That you can do. You think about the last horse you really loved, before you met your ex, casting your mind back to long weekend afternoons at the local stables. The answer comes easily to you as your eyes fall to the tips of your black boots.
‘I like a horse that's forward-going but responsive to contact, and on the hot-blooded side with a bit of an attitude - I like a challenge.’ Feeling his eyes on you, you lift your gaze to his apologetically. ‘Sorry, was that way too vague or way too specific?’
‘Not at all. I appreciate a lady who knows what she wants,’ he reassures you, seemingly pleased at what he’s hearing. ‘I got just the horse for you.’
You must be in the middle of the stables structure now, when Jack makes a sharp right turn into a spacious room. Your eyes widen at the rows and rows of beautifully polished Western saddles, bridles and an assortment of other tack, some of which you don’t even recognise. Eyeing the signs above each saddle, you remark, ‘I see there’s a recurring theme in the names.’
Jack hoists a gorgeously embossed tan saddle off its rack on the wall, holding it against his side as if it weighs nothing, then grabs the bridle next to it and a saddle pad. ‘What do you expect from a ranch that also runs a distillery?’
Your eyebrows shoot up. ‘A distillery?’
‘Whiskey,’ he replies, making his way to the exit. ‘I’ll show you when we ride up the mountain, it’s on the other side of the ranch. Champ spends most of his time in the distillery nowadays.’
‘Can I help with anything?’ you ask, your hands feeling very empty as you trail behind him.
‘Not a chance, darlin’, you’re the guest. But you can watch if you want,’ he adds mischievously.
Lord have mercy. This man has gotten you more wound up in the last fifteen minutes with a few cheeky words than anyone has in a long time. Pull yourself together, woman.
You pass at least another dozen stalls - this is easiest the biggest stables you’ve ever seen - before Jack’s long strides ease, and at his whistle, the handsome face of a palomino pops up from behind a door. He nickers and nudges the cowboy familiarly on his arm, ears pricking up in alert when you come into view behind him.
‘Meet Scotch,’ Jack says in introduction, giving him a firm pat on the neck. With an easy swing, he rests the saddle on the top of the door and unlatches it, leaving it ajar for you to shuffle in behind him.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ you can’t help but coo, running your palm from his forehead - painted with a fetching white star - to his grey, velvety muzzle. ‘He’s sweet.’
‘Wait till you get him on the open road - he’s a speed demon.’
You must have let your nerves show, because Jack reassures you, ‘But only if you want him to be. He’s just as happy going steady.’
You lean against the wall as Jack makes quick work of tacking up. You admire the gentle way he fits the bridle over Scotch’s head and the bit in his mouth. Reaching out, you help untuck his white mane from the browband, etched with pretty flowery patterns, and brush out the tangles with your fingers as Jack fastens the clasps.
You can’t help but catch your bottom lip with your teeth when, with a soft grunt, the cowboy lifts the saddle over Scotch’s back. His shirt, tucked neatly into his jeans, stretches taut and you eye the hint of a soft belly underneath. It rests above an almost obnoxiously large belt buckle in the shape of - are you shitting me - a flask with Statesman spelled out in capital letters.
You quickly look away before you’re consumed by the want to reach out and check if it’s a real flask.
The Western saddle has far more bits and bobs than you’re used to, but you’re too far gone to pay attention to what Jack is doing with his nimble fingers anymore.
‘There.’ He straightens, dusts off his hands and places them on his hips, one dark eyebrow up. ‘I hope you were paying attention, ma’am, I might quiz you later.’
Oh shit. You stammer, ‘Um, I mean, you were quite quick -’
Jack crosses his arms and smirks. ‘I’m pullin’ your leg, darlin’. You’re so easy to rile up.’
Before you can restrain yourself, you take a step forward and give him a playful shove in rebuke. The joke’s on you though - the pectoral muscle underneath your palm is lean and hard, and your push makes no impact at all.
‘Employee of the year, ladies and gentlemen,’ you jest, retracting your hand reluctantly.
He leans in close and gives you an almost insolent smirk, voice dropping intimately. ‘Stop distracting me, darlin’, or we’ll never make it out of this stall.’
Fuck’s sake - your cheeks literally flame. You’re about as subtle as a bucking bronco.
Taking mercy on you, Jack herds you out of the stall with no further teasing, and Scotch follows obediently behind. You’ve barely scraped your brains back together when he stops by a doorway at the end of the stables, holding up a hand that brings the gelding to a smart square halt.
‘Stay,’ orders Jack in a stern voice as if Scotch was just a very large golden retriever - he has the colouring after all. He then nods at you. ‘Come on in, darlin’.’
Stepping into the small room, you gasp in delight - every conceivable surface is covered with cowboy hats of all colours and materials.
‘Let’s see what your size is,’ Jack mumbles to himself as he plucks some options off the wall. There’s no mirror, and you hold your breath when he steps into your space, putting one hat after the other on you as he narrows down the sizing. His face is set seriously, the bow of his upper lip drawn downward, brow wrinkled in concentration.
Eventually, you run out of oxygen and you breathe him in - summer grass, leather and smoke. Your tongue darts out and wets your suddenly dry lips.
In the minutest of glances, you catch his eyes flickering to your mouth for just a second. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t have spotted the fleeting stutter in his movements as he fits you with a cream suede hat with a brown leather braid. It sits snugly on your head without any pinch.
‘Try tipping your head forward and back,’ he instructs you, breaking the quiet tension. The hat doesn’t slip, and with a tap on the brim and a smile, he declares, ‘I think we’re good to go.’
Stepping into the open air, the bright afternoon sun makes you wince, and you pull your new hat a bit lower to shield from the light. You follow Jack across the yard, heading towards a chestnut with white stockings, fully tacked and waiting at a wooden post. Ruffling his thick mane, Jack says proudly, ‘Darlin’, meet my horse, Whiskey.’
‘How very fitting,’ you remark, smoothing a hand on his strong neck. ‘Hi, Whiskey.’
Scotch, who has been following you two dutifully, bumps noses with his friend in greeting. Reaching for his reins, Jack looks at you with a question in his eyes - all the tacking up, prepping and joking around is done. Suddenly, the likelihood of falling off your horse and flat on your bum in front of the cowboy seems extraordinarily high. Maybe you really didn’t think this through -
‘Hey,’ Jack cuts short your thoughts, chucking you gently under the chin. ‘Don’t be nervous. It’s all muscle memory - like riding a bike, you can’t forget. You do know how to ride a bike, don't you?’
Your shoulders quake with a laugh at his attempt to lighten the mood.
He tilts his head at you. ‘May I give you a leg up, darlin'?’
At your silent nod, Jack brings Scotch around, and you hope he doesn't see you wipe your sweaty palms on your breeches. One hand on the saddle horn, the other on the cantle you bend your left calf up and back by the hinge of your knee.
Jack steps in right behind your heels, his frame dwarfing you even as he leans down at the ready. One strong hand closes around your ankle and the other just below your kneecap. His voice is deep and brushes against the shell of your ear. ‘On three, darlin’.’
He hoists you up so easily that you nearly go all the way over the other side of the saddle, but you grasp the horn just in time and land squarely in the seat, albeit a bit clumsily. You can’t help but wonder what else he can do with his easy strength - a whole lot of other things, you reckon -
Scotch shifts underneath you as he adjusts to your weight. The basic instincts of being on horseback kick in slowly but surely. You gather the reins in your non-dominant hand, put the tip of your toes through the stirrup irons, push your heels down and sit up tall. You inhale deeply and smile at Jack, who’s checking the tightness of the girth and the length of your stirrups.
‘All good?’ he asks you.
‘Yes,’ you reply, relieved that you feel less like a fish out of water than you’d feared.
Jack unties Whiskey from the post. Slotting his foot in the left stirrup, he effortlessly pushes off the ground and swings his leg over the saddle, settling gently into his seat. It’s really not fair that he’s able to do it so easily in jeans that tight.
Whiskey starts leading the way towards the back of the property and Scotch follows, obviously not pleased to be left behind. Jack holds Whiskey back so that you’re walking alongside him. ‘You’ve seen people ride Western?’
‘I get the general idea. Reins in my non-dominant hand. Leg aids are similar.’
‘If you want to turn to the right?’
‘Reins to the right and shift my weight the same way,’ you reply, recalling the research you did before the trip.
Jack nods approvingly. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it sorted, darlin’.’
Going up a gently sloping path, the ranch disappears behind you as you begin to climb above the property, and the landscape dramatically opens up. Your breath catches at the sight of the rolling plains that stretch too far for your eyes to see, towards the Bighorn Mountains. Scotch’s ears prick up in excitement at the space, nickering and chomping at the bit. You keep your contact on the reins light even as he prances underneath you, mindful not to pull on his mouth.
Jack smiles, and you hope you're making a good impression. ‘Wanna warm up with a little lope?’
‘Lope? You mean a canter?’ you retort jokingly.
He chuckles at your cheek. ‘Alright, ma’am, look at you with your fancy words.’
With a stern finger pointed his way, you warn him, ‘You’re not allowed to laugh if I fall off, deal?’
‘I know you won’t, but for your peace of mind, I’ll cross my heart,’ he jokes and traces the motion over his chest with his thumb. ‘After you, darlin’.’
With the lightest nudge of your heels, Scotch steps straight into a smooth canter. The sudden movement jolts you forward in the saddle and out of balance, but you quickly adjust, and your hips begin to follow the flow of the familiar four-beat motion. The wind sings in your ears over the steady rhythm of hooves hitting the earth, the mountainscape blurring into green and blue.
Jack is keeping pace next to you from a safe distance, meeting your eyes when you send the biggest grin his way.
For the first time in months, you feel joy.
The sun sets on a mild evening, so you agree to an al fresco dinner by the fire when Jack poses the question to you on your return from the afternoon ride.
After a quick shower and changing into casual jeans and a sweater, you meet the rest of close-knit Statesman team at the dinner table, and Champ explains the logistics of the pack trip to you.
‘Since it’s just the two of you, you’ll only need one packhorse. You’ll sleep outside for the first two nights, then on the third, you’ll get to the Halfway House.’
The peculiar name piques your interest. ‘Halfway House?’
Champ chuckles. ‘Halfway as in halfway through the trip. We’ll drive out to stock up the house, bring you fresh clothes and anything you’d need for the second half of the trip back to the ranch. We’ll also collect your dirty clothes and have them laundered by the time you’re back. So make sure you pack two bags, we’ll sort them out tomorrow.’
Turning to Poppy, he starts discussing the provisions for the trip, and you take the chance to shuffle closer to Ginger. Jack is at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a man introduced to you as Tequila (you didn’t ask), so you’re sure he can’t overhear you. You clear your throat. ‘So, I was wondering what the… lavatory arrangements are like out there?’
She gives you a encouraging smile. ‘It’s all au naturale, I’m afraid. But there are plenty of bushes so privacy won’t be an issue. We bring a portable shower for guests for the days you camp out, and there’s running water and electricity at the Halfway House. But at this time of the year, Jack usually just washes off in the river.’
Your jaw drops at that revelation, and before you can close your big mouth, you babble, ‘Wow… um, by wow I meant… bathing in the river must be… cold?’
Ginger gives you a knowing grin and clinks your glass. ‘I think you’ll have a great time on this trip, honey.’
It’s early, as the first day of a pack trip always is. The chill from daybreak still clings to the thin mountain air, but the glare of the sun is already strong, even from behind his sunglasses.
Jack runs through his usual checklists. Vetting the horses, triple checking the tack, bedding, food, supplies, first aid kit. He’s collected your bag from your doorstep and loaded it on the packhorse. You pack light, which he appreciates.
He spotted you at the breakfast table earlier, almost done with your toast, when he crossed the yard with the horses, so he reckons you’re on track to make a punctual start. With the heat forecast, he wants to make it to the cover of the forest path before midday. If you make good time, a sunset dip in the lake is on the cards.
As he double checks if all the straps on the saddle bags are properly buckled up, his routine is disrupted by a firm pat on his back.
Champ is a bundle of energy even at this early hour of the day, his suit on just the right side of presentable despite the wrinkles. ‘Have a good trip, son, and make sure you show our guest a good time. I like this one.’
‘You like everyone, Champ,’ retorts Jack, but there’s no real bite in his words. ‘Not sure it counts for much.’
‘I got a good feeling about her, I’m telling you.’
The younger man sighs, one hand on the rump of the packhorse and one on his hip as he braces himself for the usual spiel. ‘C’mon, boss - ’
‘You’re young, you’re single! If you insist on hiding away on this ranch in the middle of nowhere, you might as well at least try to have a good time when the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Why don’t you bother Ginger about it? She’s young and single too,’ grumbles Jack as he resumes his checks.
‘Because I know she can take care of herself. But you?’ Champ makes a face.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss,’ he grumbles. ‘Just so we’re clear, I’m not hiding from anything. I actually like this job, but half the time I think you’re just trying to get rid of me.’
Spotting you over Jack’s shoulder, Champ gives him one last clasp on the arm. He leans in and says in a low voice, eyes sincere. ‘You don’t have to punish yourself forever, son. Live a little.’
Jack shakes his head as Champ moves away and calls out to you, his boisterous voice carrying even further in the cold air. He knows Champ means well. It’s not the first time he’s tried to set him up with someone, and he can confidently wager it won’t be the last.
He knows for a fact that his boss rescheduled the Kingsman’s annual trip to engineer this one-on-one pack trip - they’ve been coming to the ranch the same time every year without fail since he started this job. He has no doubt they were more than delighted to be in cahoots with Champ in a scheme like this.
Jack huffs a dry laugh to himself. He must be coming off as really fucking sad for Champ to go to such lengths this time.
He straightens his well-worn denim jacket as you approach, looking almost shy this morning. You’re wearing a light fleece over what appears to be the same outfit from yesterday, hands tucked into pockets, hat dangling from the chin strap looped around your wrist.
He gives you a smile. ‘Mornin’, darlin’. Sleep well?’
‘Morning. Probably not as well I should have, considering we’ll be sleeping on the hard ground for the next couple of nights,’ you answer with a yawn, leaning on the post where the horses are waiting. You rub their noses affectionately. ‘Morning boys, how are we this fine morning?’
Jack gestures at the third horse. ‘This is Bourbon, our packhorse.’
‘Hey Bourbon.’ You give the pinto a firm pat, smoothing out his matted forelock.
‘You ready?’ asks Jack.
You put on your hat and nod determinedly. ‘Now or never.’
‘It’s not too late to back out, you know, ’ he jokes as you both start untying your horses from the post.
‘Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me now, cowboy,’ you quip.
When you’re both mounted, Champ and Ginger make an appearance, waving and beaming from ear to ear as you ride by. Champ grins, ‘Have fun, we’ll see you in a week! Don't come back unless you have plenty of stories to tell!’
You retrace the same path you took yesterday, up the back of the ranch and into the mountains. As the orange sun crests the top of the Bighorn, it dawns on Jack that he hasn’t spent any amount of time alone with another person for a long while, let alone seven continuous days with someone like you.
He shakes his head. You’re a guest, that’s all. One who hasn't lost your gentle hands and soft seat despite not having spent any time in the saddle for years; who is quick on your feet yet easy to fluster; who laughs at his jokes and poorly concealed innuendos - but a guest. It’s his job to keep you safe this week, and he’s good at it. He’s done this for years and years.
Sometimes, he thinks that it’s all he has.
Something like anxiety gnaws at his chest. You’re quiet, and he picks up on the stiffness in your shoulders. He clears his throat. ‘Nervous?’
You turn to him at his question, sucking in your bottom lip. ‘I suppose. Not about the riding, but… I’m a bit nervous about spending the week with you, to be honest. No offence.’
Well, at least he’s not the only one.
‘None taken,’ he shrugs nonchalantly. ‘And don’t worry, darlin’. Ol’ Jack doesn’t bite.’
His pulse skips a beat when you send him an almost impertinent sidelong glance. ‘I hope you do a little bit, cowboy.’
It takes him a second to let out a bark of laughter, and your whole body relaxes at the throaty sound. ‘Maybe I’m the one who should be nervous, then. Shall we stretch our legs? Start the day with a lope?’
Scotch recognises the word and whinnies, tossing his head excitedly.
A gentleman at heart, Jack adds, ‘Or later, if you prefer. We can go as fast or as slow as you want, darlin’.’
A slow heat burns under your skin at his words. Surely he must know what that sounds like, especially in that raspy drawl of his.
It must be the altitude that’s throwing your judgement out of the metaphorical window. Brazenly, you drag your eyes over him. His left hand grips the reins loosely, resting casually on the saddle horn, thick fingers of his other are splayed on his firm thigh, hips rocking to the pace of his horse.
You meet his curious stare in a challenge, imbuing your words with as much meaning as you could, letting a coy smile stretch your lips.
‘Let’s go fast, cowboy.’
As soon as your heels touch his sides, Scotch takes off at a lively stride, and Jack watches you go with a chuckle to himself.
‘Careful what you wish for now, darlin’,’ he mutters under his breath, and then he comes after you - fast.
Notes: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this first part! Comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated. If you would like to be tagged in the next part, please fill in my taglist.
If anyone is interested, there are some more horsey notes below (if it's boring, please let me know and I'll shut up lol):
About 'gentle hands' and 'soft seat': a kind rider uses 'quiet' aids to communicate with the horse (i.e. no pulling on the bit or flapping legs), and follows the horse's movements with their hips (i.e. their seat) to be gentle on the horse's back. It's a very subtle skill and you use a lot of core strength that is built over the years - sitting quietly on a horse is much harder than it looks!
If you can't tell, I ride the 'English' way and have never ridden Western. I've done as much research as I could, but if there are any inaccuracies, please let me know!
#jack daniels au#jack daniels xf!reader#jack daniels x fem!reader#jack daniels x you#jack daniels fanfiction#jack daniels fanfic#jack daniels x reader#jack daniels#jack whiskey daniels#kingsman fanfiction#kingsman golden circle
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❝𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑❞ + ( Heinrey, Mckenna, Kosiar, Kaufman, Ergi, Riftan )
+. cw— afab-reader, explicit smut, suggestive themes, sub-dom dynamics[ pleasure dom, service dom, soft dom , switch with sub reader and sub with switch reader],use of pet-names, slight fem-dom(Kaufman’s part) [m»f]cunnilingus, foreplay, cockwarming, oral activities, implied breeding kink, corruption kink. | tags— @zoraedits @etheralyonn @manjiroscum @sukunababy @dejwrites + tap here to view my works.
≡ EMPEROR HEINREY ALLES LAZLO :: Emperor of the Western Kingdom
Heinrey is needy, starved, and wants you to top him; just for once. His whimpers and moans wouldn't stop when you sit on his lap, taking all the time in the world to shove his cock inside you. His lilac pupils roam all over your luscious skin as you guide his hands around your waist encouraging him, “C’mon hold me close!”.And the next moment you could feel his lips sucking yours passionately until you pull away. He is exhausted, breathless yet he craves more, nothing more than to see you bounce on his aching cock and milk him dry. “Ohh Fu-ck! The rumors, they're so right; you do feel good”, he huffs at the fall of each word as you keep thrusting your hips. He might be exhausted but his cherry tainted cheeks are such an invitation. “Hey, Hey Look at me when I fuck you”, you hiss palming his face but he melts under your touch kissing your hands and giving you a stare through the corner of his eyes before slamming you to the bed. He has his way to take things under control.
≡ MCKENNA :: Personal Bodyguard & Cousin brother of Heinrey
Mckenna is so sweet and chatty in bed. He'll play with your hair singing you a song or humming a tune as he listens to you. But under his sweet melodious voice, there lies a sly guy who wants nothing but to see you fall apart under the slightest of his touch. He has you seated in between his legs, his chin pressed against the crook of your neck. While your hands are busy with the album his hands are gradually hanking up your nightgown up to your knee. And by the time you notice, you're too late. His fingers are already playing with your peachy folds. The moment you open your mouth gasping his other arm makes its way to your lips, rubbing rashly; providing you a distraction and being sucked in the heat you'd take his calloused fingers sucking as he whispers, “There you go — yeasss! There you go baby girl. Easy. Ye-ah that's it. Eæ-syy” and starts to bite your necklines as you throw back your head against his shoulders.
≡ KOSIAR LILDER TROVI :: House of Trovi
Kosiar is soft, gentle yet so dirty in bed. He loves to go down on you, make you roll your eyes snapping your sanity as his tongue plays with your folds. He hooks his arms around your sweaty quivering legs and places open-mouthed kisses earning trails of your moans. But he knows your melting point, anymore than this and you'd try to get restless and all fidgety. And so, he just stops burying his wet lips in yours making you taste your cum. “See, how good you taste sweetheart.”, he speaks softly against your mouth but you're too breathless to reply. “Hey hey! Don't burn out on me. I'm not done yet.”, his cheeky tone laces goosebumps all over your naked body as he swiftly scoops you in his lap, pushing his leaking cock inside you. He is careful with you so as not to hurt you and gives you time until you properly settle in before another session. His buffy arms scooping you perfectly onto his lap as he peppers kisses along your neckline. He knows you're sensitive, that it tickles you. And the way you giggle exclaiming,“Ohh Gawd Stop-”, struggling to win against him yet melting within his embrace makes his heartbeat even faster.
≡ GRAND KAUFMAN :: Prince Of Kingdom Lupit
Kaufman is so submissive in bed and not to mention he's cocooned in his shell. He needs time to open up to you. Even though he would make the first move by curling his toned arms along your boobline resting his head against your nape, to soak himself in your warmth, the moment you turn around to face him: his eyes travel everywhere but could never meet your gaze. So, you need to distract him which is not so tough since he's not good with eye contact. You could simply palm his face kissing him until you hear his struggling moans and hums. And, when his relaxed voice seeps through your skin, your hands automatically travel down to his chest then to his belly, and finally slip it into his pants. He might be shy but he sure is in his vivid senses. He breaks the kiss immediately slamming you against the wall yet is careful enough not to hurt you as he puts his hand on your back. His aroused cock is in your palms as he rests his head on your caving shoulders panting heavily. A sweet chuckle falls from your lips as he kisses your neck while you praise him, “Good boy!” with a sucked in breath.
≡ DUKE ERGI CLAUDE :: Close Friend of Heinrey from Western Empire
Ergi Claude is sly, seductive, and sadistic; unlike his friend he's not at all gentle in bed but you won't know it during his small talk. He likes to watch his partner from a distance until he finally gets his hands on you. Of course, he doesn't like to share, doesn't like to be in the shackles of emotions either but he crawls back to you late at night when everyone is asleep. At first, he'll let you settle in his presence; he is way more intimidating when it's just two of you. “You look so pretty today. Had a special guest I suppose?”, he asks as you are busy undressing. No, he doesn't press you for an answer but he gets undeniably impatient and impulsive at the thought of you with other men. He swiftly grabs both your arms in his hand pressing you up against the wall. “Is that— the perfume I gave you?”, he asks direly rubbing his nose against your nape. You could sense his longing in his groans as he slowly grabs your waist squeezing your waistline and making you gasp. And don't you dare to avert your eyes from him: “Now why would you wear my scent in presence of other men, huh?”, his voice is stern, bold, and doesn't give you much time to answer since his lips clash against yours.
≡ RIFTAN CALYPSE :: Commander of Remdragon Knight, Lord of Antol
Riftan is perceptive and always has his ways in bed. “Just hold on to me ’kay baby?”, he huffs before pulling out another orgasm from you. And you curl your exhaustive sweaty arms around his shoulders he grabs your under thighs pushing his fat cock hitting your sweet spot earing an aching gasp from you. Your eyes roll back as he starts to thrust slowly. “Gonna. Fill. This. Womb. With. My. Cum ” he groans thrusting deep at the fall of each word. His cock is big, fat and aroused that it aches your vaginal nerves. “Do you like it?”, his voice wakes you up from the delirium; Nails digging his sweaty skin, mouth face pressed against his broad shoulders as you pant and say,“Ahhh! I love it. I lOve it. Looove it.”, roaring your pleasure. And as he coats your gummy walls with his seed, he doesn't pull out to stuff full with his thick cum. “Are you okay?”, he asks as you rest against his shoulders eyelids barely keeping up. “Yes, my lord! I'm”, you assure him with a kiss against his temple.
#manwha x reader#webtoon x reader#smut headcanons#smut drabble#remarried empress#riftan calypse#x poc reader#x fem!reader#x female reader#xf fanfic#smut fic#smut fanfiction#x you#x you smut#smut scenarios#smut imagine#smut hcs#headcanons#x y/n#webtoon#manwha#drabble fic#drabbles#heinrey#visual novel#smut#riftan calypse x reader#under the oak tree#remarried empress x reader#webtoons
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Winter nails
Just a small, soft moment.
Sebastian truly is my comfort character.
With an attentive look, Sebastian moved towards her before dropping onto the sofa next to her.
"What are you doing?"
She grinned at him and wiggled her fingers in front of his nose.
"Nail varnish. Look. Like the snow outside."
Beaming with joy, she turned her hand back and forth to show him the glitter in all facets of the light. As she began to run the brush along the next nails, leaving the bright, glittering colour on them, Sebastian leaned closer and silently watched the way she dipped her fingernails in colour while his nose wrinkled slightly.
"The smell is a bit pungent."
She paused in her movement.
"I'm sorry about that, I can...should I...?"
Indecisively, she looked first at him, then at her nails and then at the high windows in the common room, which couldn't be opened. As her lips pursed thoughtfully, Sebastian tapped the tip of her nose and stroked her cheek gently.
"It's all right."
When he received only a simple nod in response, he grabbed one of her hands and the nail varnish bottle. His brow furrowed in concentration, he let the brush glide over the nail, then turned her hand briefly to look at his work from all sides and nodded before moving on to the next nail.
She smirked and leant forward to press her lips gently against his forehead.
"Don't move, or I'll paint over it."
She laughed, which earned her a partly amused, partly frustrated look from Sebastian.
"I said, don't move."
#hogwarts legacy#sebastian sallow#sebastian sallow fluff#sebastian sallow x f!mc#sebastian sallow xf!reader#sebastian sallow x mc#sebastian sallow x reader
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Just letting you guys know I’ve got a few extra things lined up for June, so I hope you’ll enjoy them <3
I will be posting my usual stuff as well, don’t worry, none of that will be overlooked, but I will be indulging myself in more x F!reader fics/drabbles over the next month for fun!
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Four Weeks of fun!
Ransom Drysdale x Beautiful
Join Ransom and Beautiful on their vacation full of fun, love, and adventures, from Italy to Las Vegas. With no asshole families around, who knows what these two will get up to. Will we see more of Beautiful's wild child side that only Ransom seems to bring out? Will we see more of Ransom's calm and less compulsive behaviour thanks to Beautiful?
This 'mini series' is a collection of oneshots still apart of Always Meant To Be...
The Start
Naples
If you want to be tagged in this or my other pieces of work, let me know. Also, make sure you have notifications on for me as sometimes I can't always tag people.
@letsdisneythings @smile1318 @readawaythereality @dad-supremedeactivated04291992 @marebare21 @imjustanotherperson @slutforchrisjamalevans @summersong69 @gretavankleep37 @calimoi @noonenuts @nighttimestan @sarahbellesaurus @bloodyinspiredfuck @coffeebooksandfandom @lewisroscoelove @oceansrose2002 @teambarnes72
#chris evans#Ransom Drysdale#ransom drysdale x reader smut#ransom drysdale#Ransom Drysdale x beautiful#Ransom Drysdale xf!reader#Always Meant To Be
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A Weekend Away
AN: Real talk, the idea for this came to me in a dream. I have reached Stephanie Meyers levels of fandom lmao. None of you should be surprised that this is an au, this Dave never went down the path of The Equalizer, instead he made a decision that made him filthy rich. We're talking big wealth here so I hope you enjoy this incredibly self-indulgent, soft, rich, devoted husband and father. Quick thanks to my girl @wheresarizona for beta-ing this and for the gorgeous moodboard / header, as well as @foli-vora, thank you both for generally being supportive and amazing. Hope you enjoy xox. (I might turn this into a 3 part series depending on the response.)
Pairing; Dave York x f!reader
Warnings; daddy kink 🤡 piv sex (wrap it up), squirting, swearing, dirty talk, oral (f-receiving), let me know if I missed anything. (Should be completed blank-slate female reader, but if there is anything I missed - please let me know!)
Word count; 3K
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist
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His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet in your shared bedroom, a clearing of his throat announcing his presence before his hands rest on your hips. His lips quickly descend to adorn your shoulders with kisses.
“We’re taking off soon, baby. Is everything good to go?” Your last few words come out almost as a sigh - his lips have traveled from your shoulders to your neck and now to your ear, where he takes it between his teeth. He hums in the back of his throat in acknowledgment before he answers.
“I’m sure everything is going smoothly. Let's sneak in a quickie before we leave, hm?” His voice is mischievous, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. “Put that down - the housekeeper can pack for us.” His hand wraps around your middle and travels up, holding the weight of your breast in his hand and before you can say anything he’s turning you, spinning you in his hold to devour your mouth with his.
Whatever argument you had in your head, whatever garment you had in your hand drops to the floor by his hunger for you, and then you’re falling, or rather being placed onto your back on your plush bed, and he's surrounding you. Your dress is up around your hips, and he's slotting his in their rightful place - his tongue is thick in your mouth, and you aren’t kissing, you’re being kissed.
“I need you, baby.” He’s pulling down the straps of your dress with an urgency that makes you melt. His frown at the flesh on display for him has you pulling your swollen lower lip between your teeth, and it almost makes you light-headed how he can still make you this desperate this quickly. Your nipple is in his mouth, and your fingers curl into the short crop of his hair, the pained moan that escapes around the bud is almost lewd, but then the door to your room swings open, and she toddles in - your baby girl.
“Is that my princess?” He lifts his head away from your saliva-slicked nipple to smile at her. She lifts her arms to him, and he lets out a resigned sigh - no quickie right now. “You, my lovely—” He speaks to her with a smile in his voice and in his heart, “Have impeccable timing.” He kisses her full cheeks, one then the other, over and over until she laughs.
You lay in the bed, watching them as you right yourself, unable to be too disappointed when you see him like this - his face lit up with her laughs, her chubby little hands on his face in hopes of delaying a tickle attack.
“I’ll finish packing up here. Why don’t you go check in on everything downstairs? Make sure the dogs are packed and see if Nana needs anything for the girls?” You stand up, fixing your skirts before reaching down to pick up the cardigan you’d dropped.
“Fine,” he sighs, the baby laying her head on his shoulder, and he can't help but kiss her halo of hair. “Let's go check the hounds, princess. Mommy said so.” He gives you a quick peck before they’re both out of the room, and with him gone, you can focus on packing for the weekend.
You look over what you’d already grabbed while trying to catch your breath, ignoring the way your underwear sticks to your skin, and with a shake of your head, you’re running through what you remember of your schedule for the next few days.
Alma walks in as you’re coming out of your airy walk-in closet, one of David’s more casual suits in hand.
“Let me do that.” She reaches for the garment bag in your hands, tutting at your momentary refusal. “The girls are packed and ready, the dogs are waiting in the mudroom, and we’re good to leave. Let me help you.” She took no nonsense, and you loved her for it. She’d been in your life since you met David; she’d been in his since childhood, and now she helped watch your girls.
“Alma, this is a weekend away for you as much as it is for us. I don’t want you working, is Richard packed and ready?” Her husband was going to be joining you at your country house, a weekend of doing nothing but enjoying each other's company.
“Yes, he’s downstairs with David. They’re talking about sports or something, who knows.” She waved away your words and started packing things into the open suitcase. “The rest of the staff have already left to get the house ready. After this, we’ll be ready to leave.” She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met; it was obvious why David considered her a second mother.
“Yes, I just need one more thing, something for date night tomorrow.” You spoke over your shoulder, a brisk walk back into the closet to grab something to wear.
“That sounds great - Richard and I will watch the girls.” She called back, an amused sigh at her refusal to take a break.
“You don’t need to!” You called back as your hands carded through the array of dresses that hung before you. David had well and truly spoiled you, and there were absolute confections hanging here, much too formal for a simple date with your husband. You settled on a slinky black number he’d yet to see you in.
“Alma, I have told you, and so has David – this weekend is for rest. You do not have to watch the girls.” You spoke as she helped put your dress into its own garment bag. Once again waving away your concerns.
“They aren’t work for me – they feel like family.” She zipped up the suitcase before turning to you.
“They are. We are your family.” You pulled the heavy suitcase off the bed, smiling at her and meaning every word.
-
His hand was gripping your thigh, his thumb making a steady pass over the skin in range, raising goosebumps in its wake. He smiles to himself, his other hand curled around the steering wheel, and he knows exactly what a tease he's being. You ignore it.
“Daddy, are we almost there?” Charlotte calls from the backseat of the SUV, her little voice cutting through your tension.
“Yes, baby, we’re almost there, just under an hour, I’d say.” He answers her, his kind eyes looking at her through the rearview.
“Is Nana gonna be there?” She’s playing with a new doll, one he just bought her.
“Yes, baby, Nana is coming.” She smiles at his response. Evie was quiet in her seat beside her sister, her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. “Evie, honey, you okay?” His hand moved from your thigh, reaching behind to tug on her little foot.
“She’s tired. Missed her nap today.” You turned to smile at her, her big brown eyes – her father’s eyes watching you both.
“Aw, well, at least you’ll sleep tonight.” He focused on the road. “Did you think of where you wanted to go for dinner tomorrow night, honey?” He grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.
“I didn’t. I’m happy to go anywhere.” You brought his hand back into your lap. “I packed you a nice suit.” He smiled.
“I made a reservation in case you didn’t find a place. Supposed to be a nice place – hope you packed yourself a dress.” His hand gripped your thigh again.
“You’re the best, you know that?” You meant it. He was. He was a wonderful husband and a loving, doting father. And if the way they treated you whenever you stopped by the office was anything to go by, he was a well-liked and respected business owner and boss.
Before you knew it, he was pulling into the long driveway into your summer house. Every time you saw it, you thought about how your marriage had started, how you’d both lived out of a tiny studio apartment while you both worked and worked. He’d come back from his days in the military with a few scars and ideas of starting his own security company.
Years later, you were all reaping the benefits of his discipline, of the hard work, and the lucky breaks he’d gotten. One government contract led to another, and soon his security company was the country's most used and most successful.
“Okay, my lovely ladies, we’re here.” He parked in the gravel, a big smile on his face as one of the staff came out to take your bags and his. “Thank you, Jeffrey. In the room is fine and don’t worry about us this weekend. No hard work, okay?” He clapped the other man on the back before opening the backseat, where Charlie held her arms up. You were both holding onto your children when the dogs came bounding over. It was going to be a great weekend.
-
The food was served at dusk on the patio, the large table set with a simple but delicious meal. Everyone ate together, you, David and the girls, Alma and Richard, along with the chef and the housekeeper, the driver as well. Everyone was welcome at your table, and they all knew it. There were no awkward smiles, no tentative words – the table was filled with laughter and conversation. The girls were passed from you to David to Alma when they weren’t chasing after the dogs.
“Alma, stop – sit down.” He rose to stop her from chasing after Evie. “Here, have some more wine. I got the one you like. Relax, enjoy,” he said it with a smile, and she reluctantly sat with a slap to his arm. Richard smiled, pulling her in to place a kiss on her temple while the girls enjoyed the fresh air.
Once the plates were cleared, most of the household had gone to bed, and the four of you were sitting in the cozy living room enjoying the peace and quiet of the countryside. He had a book in his hands that he was reading with Charlie while you rocked Evie in your arms. Pretty soon, though, she was asleep.
“I’m going to put her to bed.” You got up slowly, cradling her head against your chest. “Bath time will have to wait until tomorrow.” Charlie was yawning as you walked past.
“Come on, Charlie, it’s bedtime.” He closed the book, following you up the stairs, him going into Charlie’s room while you went into Evies.
By the time he’d finished with Charlie, you were getting out of the shower, laughing at his pout at not having waited for him.
“Go get clean, and then maybe we can finish what you started before we left.” You slid your hand down his stomach, relishing the groan he let out when you palmed the bulge of his crotch. “Go on, get clean for me, daddy.” You smacked his ass before moving towards the bed. You didn’t make it far before he pulled you back, both his hands cradling your face as he licked into your mouth.
“Don’t bother getting dressed. Daddy wants you just like this.” He pulled the towel away, sending you to the bed naked, his palm landing a heavy crack to the meat of your ass.
Your skin crackles with excitement as you wait for him, nestled in the crisp, clean sheets. The sound of the water running ramps up the arousal, a deep anticipation filling every inch of you for the way his cock would soon fill you - for the way he’d surround you, the way his goal always seemed to be to consume whenever he fucked you.
Your heart skipped a beat when the water shut off, kicking the sheets off so he’d find you just how he wanted you.
He came out still dripping, his cock bobbing.
“You ready for me?” Cool water droplets fall from his hair onto your skin as he crawls up from the foot of your bed, a kiss dropped onto your shin, then your knee, your inner thigh before he’s spreading your legs open with the breadth of his shoulders.
“I’m always ready for you.” You reach down, threading through his damp hair, your heartbeat pulsing in your cunt at the way his eyes rake over your pussy, all glossy and ready for him.
“I know, baby.” His molten mouth descends, pressing kisses to your mound before he curls his fingers around the tops of your thighs, pulling you towards him hard enough to pull a gasp from your mouth. “Spread your pretty little pussy open for daddy. I wanna hold you close to my face.” He bites at the meat of your thigh as you bite the plush of your lower lip, complying with an almost delirious ecstasy.
The hand not threaded through his hair snakes down and does as he asks, spreading open the lips of your sex for his mouth. He groans, staring at the ripe berry of your clit.
“That’s my good girl. Keep it nice and open for me.” He dives in, his tongue honing in just where you want it most, and it’s like your whole body is wired with a current only he produces, an electricity that lights up every inch of you with pure want.
Your belly trembles as his tongue strokes at the very heart of you, ramping up higher and higher as he presses himself closer, his mouth surrounding your clit in a steady suck. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream - your eyes almost unfocused at the way he moans obscenely into your skin.
It’s too quick, the way stars burst behind your eyes and at the center of your being, and through the haze of euphoria, you hear him laugh.
“Already?” He places an open-mouthed kiss to your clit, a rumble in the back of his throat at the way your legs try to close around him. “Just a few licks and you’re getting me all wet?” He smiles, his tongue cruel and sweet all at once.
“Fuck me already, David,” You push his hair back slightly, separating his face from your cunt, and his smile widens. “I want it.”
“What do you want? Tell me.” He kisses your thigh before kneeling between your legs. Your mouth almost waters at the sight of his cock, the tip sticky with his own arousal.
“I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me scream.” You all but moan the words, sitting up slightly to rest on your elbows. He reaches for a couple of cushions and taps your hip. When you lift them, he positions them under, elevating you at the perfect angle.
“Perfect, don’t worry, daddy’s got you.” He gets into position, the tops of his thighs pressed up tight against the backs of yours, and he lifts your legs up, so your calves press against his chest, your feet up by his shoulders. “Look how fucking wet you are for me.” He slides the fat head of his cock through your folds, soaking himself in you. “Bet I’m gonna just glide right in aren't I?”
He notches himself, sliding in right to the hilt without resistance, a shared moan filling the air.
“So fucking wet, you always feel so fucking good, baby.” He watches himself disappear into the clutch of your cunt, relishing the way he shines in your arousal.
You can do nothing but pant at the way he’s hitting something sacred, something white-hot that blanks your brain every time he pushes against it.
His hand shifts to your belly, and he presses down. Your brain short circuits, and you cry out almost involuntarily.
“There it is. That’s the spot, huh?” He speeds up, battering against the cosmos in your pussy. “You wanted to scream, so scream for daddy.” He’s railing now, focusing his energy on hitting the bullseye he knows he’s found, and the pressure is building - something that feels too good to breathe is creeping in, flooding your veins, your hands coming up and pressing against his chest. “Come on, goddamn it, give it to me.”
His eyes are black with lust as your pussy leaks with the arousal he is ripping from you, and then it happens, a wet gush around where he keeps up his assault. A scream rips from your throat, and he laughs triumphantly.
“There it fucking is, one more - I want you to do it again.”
Your brain is mush, and he’s soaked, but his thrusts don’t let up. He presses against your belly harder - his hips snapping quicker and quicker, and this time it happens faster. He doesn’t let your body curl in on itself like it wants to; instead, he spreads your legs, slotting his hips between them to kiss you as he chases his own high. One of his hands a reassuring press against your throat while the other palms your breast.
A handful of thrusts is all it takes for him to slow to a grind, coming with a deep groan, the pressure of it against your clit triggers a feather-soft orgasm as he fucks his come as deep as he can.
He collapses on top of you, breathing hard against your neck. Your brain floats in a haze of bliss as you both catch your breath. Your hands raise almost on their own to run along the smooth skin of his back, soothing yourself as much as soothing him.
“I love you, baby.” He lifts his head and presses a kiss to your mouth, sealing his words with it.
“I love you, too.” You run your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him tight against you for a few moments, enjoying the comforting weight of him for a little while longer.
Eventually, you both rise, and together you quickly change the sheets, giddy with laughter, and when you finish, he pulls you close. Whispers his words of devotion in the quiet darkness of your home, the both of you falling asleep-tangled in one another.
-
Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @just-here-for-the-moment @ezrasbirdie @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @marydjarin @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @lori-tovar @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @greeneyedblondie44 @maxwell--lord @princessxkenobi @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi @dihra-vesa @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @goldielocks2004 @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @mrs-ghuleh @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name @zombiesnips-blog @quica-quica-quica @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @mandosmistress @deadhumourist @felicisimor @tuskens-mando @no-droids-on-sunday @sophiefatale2495 @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @gamingaquarius @localddreamers @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @recklessworry @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @maievdenoir @kissasith @breezythesimp @altarsw @artooies-scream @staygolddindjarin @lorosette @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @allthatsleftbehind @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @planetariumx @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed @swtaura @evelynseventyr @send-me-to-valhalla @shirks-all-responsibilities @androah @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker @ichigodjarin @oliviajdjarin @actuallyanita
#david york#dave york#dave x reader#dave xf!reader#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#the equalizer#the equalizer 2#dave york x you#pedro pascal characters#the equalizer 2 au#husband dave#suburban murder dad
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It’s that time of year again!!! I’m using @absurdthirst template for kinktober this year and here is my schedule.
***These are gonna be very heavy on the smut and some will also be quite dark so please heed all warnings before you read.***
1: Shibari - Marc Spector x f!reader
2: Gagging - Pero Tovar x f!reader
3: Threesome - Frankie x f!reader x Santiago
5: A/B/O - Frankie Morales x f!reader
6: Underwear- Marcus Pike x f!reader
7: Bath/Shower sex - Pero Tovar x f!reader
12: Cock Warming - Joel Miller x f!reader
13: Monster Fucking - Werewolf!Ezra x f!reader
17: Hate Fucking - Joel Miller x f!reader
19: Somnophilia - Din Djarin x f!reader
21: Breeding - Pero Tovar x f!reader
22: Sex Pollen - Javier Pena x f!reader
23: Erotic Dancing - Marcus Pike x f!reader
25: Lactation - Din Djarin x f!reader
30: Public Sex - Frankie Morales x f!reader
#pedro pascal#frankie morales x female reader#marcus pike x female reader#javier peña x fem!reader#oberyn martell x female reader#dean winchester x reader#marc spector x reader#joel miller x f!reader#pedro pascal x reader#dieter bravo xf!reader
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Little first date
Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Reader
Summary: Johnny take his bonnie out for their first date, also meet the people who are important to his life.
Warning :T-M rating. All round fluff. talk of moments of insecurity.
Part 8 of Little Bear series
Masterlist
Should you? Or should you not?
Picking up and putting down the piece of napkin in front of you, you keep changing your mind.
Gosh, why am I so indecisive?? Surely there is nothing to lose here.
Other than my own pride.
You let out a desperate moan as you buried your face into the pillow. Thinking back to the night you met the Mohawk…. John MacTavish;
“No pressure bonnie.” as he grabs one of the napkins and asks for a pen from the bartender, he quickly scribbles down some numbers and a little doodle of bar of soap beside it and pushes it towards you. “Here’s my number, text me or ring me when you are ready. I’ll leave it in your hand.”
He seems nice enough. Great sense of humour, handsome ( even with a strange mohawk. Is he trying to imitate Mr T? You wondered.) and those strong arm muscles… the slight chest hair that was peeking through the gap of his shirt when you spotted his dog tag…..
Ah stuff this. Why not? You always think you need to step out of your comfort zone. And this is another great chance to do it, isn’t it?
Making up your mind, you carefully thinking up of what to say, texted him and pressed send before your nerve got the better of you.
You nearly jumped out of the skin when your phone went off not even a minute later after sending the text, you scramble forward to try to pick it up, nearly dropping it in the process.
“Heeellllo??” cursing yourself as your voice squeaked with nerve, you cough a bit and tried again, “Hello??”
A cheerful voice calls out your name, “I've been waiting for you!” Johnny chuckled, “So..you still keen to go out on a date with me?”
“Um. Sure. I think so? If, if you are up for it??” you replied with uncertainty.
And this is how you ended up at the pub, thirty minutes earlier than the agreed time, fretting all day over what you were going to wear, make up or not, should you walk? Should you call for a taxi, what should you order for food, what to talk about so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself?
This is all new to you. Never has someone asked you out before. Nor flirt with you.
You have never gone on a date before.
“You alright there bonnie? I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.” steadying you with his strong arm, he greets you with his flashing smile. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” he added softly.
You felt a light tap on your shoulder, dragging you out from your little swirl of panic whirlpool. Turning your head over your shoulder, there you see Johnny, dressed in tight fitting jeans, simple dress shirt and dark leather jacket.
You feel your cheek burning hot, can this guy get any more handsome? You stood up from your stool clumsily, nearly tripping over in the process, if his reflex wasn’t quick enough to catch you.
He waved his hands dismissively, “They are getting here a little bit later, citing not wanting to disturb our date.” Pull out the stool slightly and urge you to sit down again, “ We can worry about them later. So, what would you like to drink? Food? Any preferences?”
“You. you look. Um, very nice too.” Oh, why are you so tongue tied? Wrangling your hands together, you quietly replied, “No, I didn’t wait too long. So, Um. Where are the others?” You half wished his friends and sister would arrive soon, so you wouldn’t have to face him alone, but the other side of you is nervous to meet a new hoard of people all in one go , and wanting to spend a bit of time with him. Ah, that conflict of mind and emotion.
Sensing your nervousness, he gently eases you into conversation by asking simple questions about yourself, hanging onto every word you say, like each of them with great importance, asking all the right questions when you mention anything that he doesn’t quite understand.
He only started talking about himself after you are slightly relaxed enough to ask what he does during time off, his hobby ( you found out he is a huge football fan, even played as a goalkeeper in local clubs for a while until work got too busy.) his family, his younger sister Mini, who he speaks fondly of and the all sort of mischiefs they get up to when they were younger.
You nearly choked on your beer as you laughed with all the stories. “Sounds like you two had quite an adventurous and happy childhood.”
“Funny enough, I was the wild one when we were younger, and she was the one who had me on a leash, now it’s the total opposite.” he chuckled. Taking a sip of the beer, you see a twinkle in his eyes, “My parents would have to rebuild the barn countless times if it wasn’t for her stopping me setting it on fire.” putting his glass down, he stares at you softly with his steel-blue eyes, “You have a beautiful laugh, bonnie. Has anyone ever told you that?”
For the second time tonight, you think your face is going to combust with all the heat creeping up towards it. Looking down at your plate of dessert, pushing the chocolate fudge around with your fork, trying to think of a reply.
Before you can come up with something, you saw a hand slapping of Johnny’s back, making him spill his drink.
“Hello! You must be the unlucky lady that has to put up with this man here, " Johnny growled as you chuckle nervously, "Kyle Garrick, but you can call me Gaz.” Holding out his hand to shake after you introduced yourself, he smirked as he point towards your date,
A dark skinned man with a wide smile appeared.
“Oy Gaz! Watch it!!” Johnny complained, but there’s a playful smile on his face. He stood up and gave the man, Gaz, a quick hug, before turning back towards you.
“You know how excited he was when he got your text and after he got off the phone with you? He was practically dancing around the office and shouting for joy. Price, our captain, had to ask Simon to restrain him.”
“Shut ..shut up Gaz, don’t give all my secrets away…. “ Stuttering and going a bit shy, Johnny elbowed Gaz in the stomach.
“Well, he was telling the truth.” Another voice, deep and husky, piped up. Followed by a woman’s light giggle.
“Where is Captain?” Johnny asked. Gaz shook his head, “He had to go home. He sent his apology to you and your lovely date, saying he would meet you next time.”
“Hi, I’m this bampot’s sister, everyone calls me Mini.” her broad smile reminds you of Johnny’s own, you can really see the family resemblance there.
The Man right beside her, who seems to have a permanent frown plastered between his brows and a black surgical mask on, quietly introduced himself as Simon was a complete opposite to the rest of the group. This must be Ghost, who Johnny previously mentioned before. He doesn’t seem like the type of person that cracks jokes? You wondered.
Oh, there’s next time again. Everyone seems to be so confident there will be a next time!
As the evening draws to a close, you bid goodbye to the group and with promises of future meet ups, Johnny offers to walk you home.
The rest of the evening was spent in good company. They welcome you with open arms, Gaz and Mini taking turns to spill Johnny’s secrets and embarrassing stories. Simon even cracked a joke in between.
“That means he likes you.” Johnny whispered in your ear. “He doesn’t usually talk at all in front of strangers.
Even though it’s already springtime, there was still a bit of a bite to the evening breeze. You shivered as the wind started to pick up.
Suddenly you see a hand in front of you, you look up, Johnny offers you his hand, silently asking with his eyes. You hesitated for a split second extending your hand, with him gently wrapping it with his large, callous but warm hand. He shifted his body slightly, blocking the wind out for you.
Two of you slowly stroll towards your flat in comfortable silence.
“Thank you for the lovely evening.” looking up at him, as two of you came to a stop in front of your place. You feel a slight emptiness in your heart, as you realise the date has come to an end. Johnny still holding your hands in his, caressing the knuckles softly with his thumbs.
“Can I kiss you, bonnie?” he whispered softly, asking for permission.
You only snapped back into sense after he slowly broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours. Sliding your hand down towards his chest, feeling his thumping heart.
You nodded your head shyly, body trembling slightly with anticipation. Bringing his hands up, he gently cups your face with his hands, leaning down, his lips hovering over yours for a few seconds, before closing the gap.
Oh, how you feel your body is going to melt into a puddle. Eyes fluttering to a close, your arms come up around his neck, pulling him down further, trying to make your body closer to his as much as possible.
“.. That was my first kiss…. “ you softly blurted out, making a confession. You don’t want this moment to end. Never have you felt such an overwhelming sense of emotion towards anyone else. Is this what falling in love feels like?
Feeling his arm around you, tightening his embrace, he took in a shaky breath before speaking.
“Well, I am very honoured to be your first.” he whispered softly into your ear. “And I hope this will be one of the many firsts that is yet to come.”
You knew you were a goner right there and then.
A/N: This actually went out a little bit longer than expected. oops. Word vomited too much sorry. was half watching Woman world cup final and half writing.
@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world
Tag list:
@kaplerrr
@homicidal-slvt
@floral-force @okayyadriana @deadbranch @cumikering @siilvan
@random-thot-generator
@random0lover @devcica @jynxmirage @nrdmssgs @glitterypirateduck @roosterr @brewed-pangolin @groguspicklejar
@johfaam @alverdekote @okamimarta @thedevillovesflowers
@liyanahelena @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot
#johnny soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#johnny soap mactavish x fem reader#soap x reader#soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish imagine#johnny soap mactavish xf!reader#johnny soap mactavish x you#Little bear series#sofasoap writes#call of duty#johnny mactavish#john mactavish fluff#johnny soap mactavish x female!reader#johnny soap mactavish fluff#comfort fic
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Happiness - Part 2
Fandom: LOTR
Ship: Eomer x F!Reader
Trope: Arranged marriage
Note: Reader is Elfhelm's daughter and I invented a lot for what I didn't know so probably A LOT of mistakes.
Fun facts: I only wrote this extended fic for this one sex scene during their wedding night. This gif is my favourite thing to look at right now. It's late and I'm tired so.
Word counts: 4 090
Warnings: Dealing with grief, loved one's deaths, depression, SMUT at some point, poverty, war's aftermath, diplomatic relations, pregnancy, blood, miscarriage
Tags: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk
During the long weeks leading to the wedding, your days were either spent with your mother or Gera, taking over in your mother’s absence.
Indeed, thanks to your father’s insistence, she had been appointed as the wedding organizer. Or something akin to it. She was fussing and busying herself like she had never before, not even for Moira’s wedding. Your mother was a force of nature, but she could be a lot and having Gera was a good contrast to your mother’s buzzing energy.
First, the chiefmaid had kept you company or helped you find your way around the place. Quickly, she became a big part of your days. You visited orphanages with her and brought food to those in need in Sofia’s company. Over these shared times, she became a godmother of sorts - and her daughter a friend - always present when you needed them, and you always there when they needed you.
“Milady, I do believe it is most improper for you to work with the cooks in the kitchen.”
It had taken you almost three whole days of imploring her before you had managed to make Gera yield.
Gera did not believe in such a fantasy as fun. It was working or resting, no in-between. With that statement in mind, she had still followed you to the kitchen while you were asking questions to the bewildered pastry chefs meeting the future queen in such an unofficial manner.
When she asked for what purpose you wanted to cook, the word “fun” came out of your mouth. “To forget” would have been a more accurate description. Eomer’s attitude towards you had become erratic and even avoidant. You could not know why as he would not give you straight answers, always mentionning something he needed to take care of. The gestures of affection he had towards you were limited to him occasionally kissing your forehead and offering you his arm while walking. You had not had a good walk in days, the weather going grim with your mood.
The plates you were cooking always ended up given to people in need.
After that first expedition, it had become a habit of yours to go down to the kitchen to help, a few hours here and there when you could.
But, for every effort you made, Eomer seemed to have forgotten about you. Your actions were out of boredom, but if it could benefit the poorer all the better. He was always busying himself with new economic plans or diplomatic correspondence. He would not tell you about any of those things either and you figured it would take his mind off of things to talk about more mundane things. Like cooking. Suffice to say, it did not work.
So, when he stepped into the kitchen one day, leaving Gera to usher the poor cooks away, you were surprised, to say the least.
“Milady, you do know it is most improper for a future queen to wander around without an escort.
It had to be a trick of the mind though, Eomer did not feel that way and he had made that clear, spending all of his time away from you. Telling you about her. Amongst the fleeting moments of affection you had shared, he had talked to you about Enora. About the woman she was. It felt as a much needed talk for him. For you, it left you questioning everything. Even his commitment to you. Especially his commitment. It was clear that he wanted to keep you out. What for, that was a question you did not have the answer to, as many others when it came to him.
I had Gera until you arrived, my lord.”
He called your name in a soft commanding tone. You could feel the embrace you were missing in his words.
“I am sorry, that you find no suitable distractions in the castle. Nevertheless, you can not come in here. It is not your place. Nor mine as it turns out.”
You sighed. This day was bound to happen. It was improper, and that was that. People would talk. Even he had to uphold his status. He had to, even if he did not want to. Just like you soon enough.
“I know. I am aware of that. I just… Needed space. From the wedding’s preparation, from my mother - I love her but she’s hovering a lot these days, maybe… maybe even from myself. I cannot hear myself think these days.”
You could have sworn his cheeks took a hint of pink as you looked at him from under your lashes. Unbeknown to you, he had grown quite fond of hearing what you were doing and who you were doing it for, your good deeds to his people never going unheard. The cakes going to orphaned children in need, bread to the beggars in the streets, when you were not willingly spending time with the servants, giving a hand where you could. He admired your dedication and kindness a little more every day, despite himself, and his lost lover’s shadow.
-Yet, you do not share that with me. We have not talked much or been in the same room for longer than a few moments since the engagement has been announced. Were you trying to avoid me?”
“I know. I feel the same way.
Over the weeks, your presence had been missing. The little things he would have loved to be doing with you. Your hand on his arm at the engagement party imprinted in his mind. He missed you. All of you. Eomer had thought himself more of a practical person, reasonable, and smart. In this case, he had thrown everything out of the window. Where his first fiancée enhanced his duties, you made up new ones. You were so different, her and you. You could not compare to her and she could not compare to you. She was gone and you were alive. So alive, he yearned for you in a way he had forgotten. You made him feel again.
His head bowed, his eyes cast down. Words were escaping him. He had thought long and hard about this relationship.
“Yes. I was trying to avoid you.”
Your anger was only growing within you. You were frustrated by his actions but could not blame him for them. When it came to Eomer, you had become blind. As soon as you had recognized it for what it was, it felt easier to smile when thinking of him even if he was not thinking of you. No matter what he would do, you knew you would forgive, for you would love him. From that first day until the last.
His voice was lower now, as one of a child being chastised.
“I was afraid.”
His steps brought him next to you, only a meter or two from where you were. Just as he lowered his voice, you softened yours.
“How could you be afraid? I am just a woman.”
His hand took yours and you released a sigh you did not know you were holding. In the back of your mind, you willed your memory to keep those moments tucked away safely. You were sure they would not happen again.
“A woman in grief. A woman I chose. A woman I can not seem to care for as she needs.”
He closed in on you, a mere breath away now, his palm a gentle reminder of his presence on the side of your face, your eyes closed for your own sake. You could not drown in him. You would not. Not when it meant heartbreak.
“Sometimes, I try not to seek you out.”
You could not look at him, but from under your lids, you could feel his breath fanning over your cheek, his head bowed to you in silent prayer. The question burned your lips.
“Why not?”
His hands were now cradling your face, your eyes forced to look at him. His brows furrowed, lips parted in quiet stillness, the way he looked at you, mercy and hurt in the eye, made your heart clench in despair.
“I am guilty of selfishness. When I am with you, I forget. I forget what she looked like and who she was. When I am with you, the ghost of her disappears and I don’t know if…”
His lips parted, as if to say something again, were an invitation you could not refuse. Pushing a little you grabbed him by his collar and kissed him with everything you had. His hands found your waist, making you pull away brutally.
-What for?
“I am sorry, my lord, I…
-The… Just now. And… I did not wish to make you forget. You loved her. Why would I wish to erase her from your memories? She’s a part of you. But, I am selfish too, and…”
You took a deep breath. The feelings you had wanted to snuff out were too strong now. They had to be faced and felt.
-I promise.”
“If you are feeling the way you tell me you are, then I need to know you will be there fully when you’re with me. I… Eomer, I cannot compete with a ghost.
There had been no hesitation in his voice.
He grabbed your face in his hands, and kissed you again, slowly, with eternity in his mind.
The day of the wedding was the worst. You could not see each other all day, it had you both on edge. You were nervous beyond what you could handle, your mother feeding you sweets and Gera swiftly pushing the maids out of your room. You were sure you would suffocate.
Every day it was something new. One day it was a brush of his lips below your ear. The other, his fingers linking with yours discreetly. Another one, he pulled you into an alcove, kissing you senseless, breathless, leaving marks on the exposed skin of your neck.
Once you walked down the aisle, your father’s arm securing and anchoring you, your nerves disappeared. Your father’s teary eyes as he handed you over, almost made you cry, but Eomer’s fond looks shook you to your core. Only then did you notice that the sword he had at his side kept his hand from shaking. A genuine smile on your lips, you had covered his hands with your own, wishing to settle him. The emotion in the man had been threatening to overwhelm him. He had hold onto you for comfort as you wished he would.
The ceremony and the festivities had gone by so fast, it had felt like the blink of an eye. Your parents were dancing and seemed happier than you had seen them in a very long time. They were smiling and laughing, bickering so much, you felt happy for them too. Eomer’s hand surprised you, sneaking under the table and linking his fingers with yours. He leaned down and kissed your cheek, before kissing your lips, your hand cradling his face the cold metal of your wedding band only making it harder to stop. You were his. To love and to hold, forever. How could he have been so lucky, he would never know. But he was willing and wanted to make you understand that. Your doubts and need for reassurance, although not voiced, were clear to him, in the soft moments you shared, a hint of anxiety always taking you over. He never wanted you to doubt his love and attachment for you.
Quickly enough, the night came to an end and the moment to go back to your chambers arrived. The thought of him sharing a bed with you brought a new kind of warmth to your body. The past few days your imagination had been running wild. Not that you would own up to it in front of him. Ever.
Upon entering the room, the door closing behind you, you stepped back until you were met with the wooden surface. It was your salvation when Eomer showed himself, barefoot and naked from the waist up. You wondered if your legs were not going to give out.
In the semi-darkness, silence overcoming everything, he feared you might have swallowed your tongue. In truth, you thought you had, your breathing becoming laboured and uneven.
He called your name, as you were staring, eyes blown while looking at his chest and the expanse of his shoulders, the grave notes in his voice only eliciting more heat to bloom in your abdomen. You bit your lips, not hearing him until he grabbed your shoulders.
“Hm?”
He chuckled, his knuckles caressing the side of your jaw, goosebumps left in his path. Your hands were clasped behind your back, not knowing what to do nor how to do it. Unease took hold of you where there had been only anticipation before. Eomer noticed. He stepped back, looking at you with hunger. He swallowed discreetly. You looked magnificent. His own chest was raising and falling rapidly, the adrenaline in his veins thining his patience to a thread. It made you feel desired and loved more than you could fathom.
“My love, what is the matter?”
“I-… I’ve never been with…a man before…”
You sighed, the endearment on his lips only making it harder to speak.
Fearing you might take offence if he said he knew - even though he did know -, Eomer kissed your temple trying to soothe you. His smile mirrored your own, as his hand slid behind your back, bringing you closer to him. His eyes kept looking into your own.
“I will show you if you wish.”
His lips a mere whisper away from your own, you only nodded. The span of his hands covered your hips as he kissed you. You could feel the laces of your dress coming undone thanks to his handy work, tender kisses caressing the length of your throat, and Eomer holding you against him in a gentle grip. Once the pool of cloth at your feet, your light under-dress was the only barrier between him and you. His kisses were growing heavier with every passing minute, the gentle hold he had turning into him trying to melt his body with yours. Without a word he hoisted you up in his arms, carrying you towards the bed. As he laid you down, your eyes went to the shadows of the fire on the wall before coming back to Eomer, his hair undone, tickling your bare shoulder in the dark. The space above his collarbone, the bridge of his nose, his fingers against your throat, everything illuminated by the feverish light.
Before he looked, his lips against your own he quietly asked “Is this alright…wife?”
Before you could dwell on it, he claimed your mouth for his own, his chest to yours. Your fingers found themselves in his hair, earning a grunt from him, making your core clench and your hand stop. He smirked at that as if he knew what had happened. His palm pulled up your last garment until the birth of your hips, almost revealing yourself to him.
A “Yes” escaped your tongue before you could keep it against the roof of your mouth. After all why would you?
The sweet nothing in his mouth made you whimper out of nowhere.
He helped you out of your dress, leaving the soft caress of his palms up and down your chest, the planes of his hands down your stomach and your back, open-mouthed kisses on your breasts leaving you arching into him, struggling to breathe and how he could be everywhere all at once you would never know, but you would not have stopped it for the world. His mouth trailed down your stomach, always looking at you, always making sure you were alright, just the right amount of overwhelming from him. When he reached the apex of your thighs, you noticed his bare ass in the flickering light of the fire. You swore under your breath. It only made him laugh against you.
“See something you like, princess?”
An idea came to you.
-Hmm?”
“Queen.
You propped yourself onto your elbows, looking him dead in the eye.
-Indeed… then I should treat you as such, should I not?”
“I am not a princess.
His mischievous eyes were new to you. You did not mind them one bit.
You moaned loudly when his tongue flattened against your clitoris. His eyes narrowed and he kept on going, a thirsty man finding a source to drink from. Your body arched of its own accord, full cries escaping you. Something deep in your belly was threatening to snap when he stopped. Concern was etched on his face, his lips gleaming in the dim light as he reached for your face. You shivered at the sight.
“I am alright, husband.”
You nestled your face in his palm, kissing the calloused fingers one by one.
“What about you?”
His body settled next to yours, and you could feel him against your thigh as you turned. Your mouth ran dry at the thought of him inside you.
“I am content.”
He pushed a hair out of your face, feeling the heat of your breath against his nose. What a sight you were. Pupils blown, lips swollen by his ministrations, your skin reacting to the harsh touch of his beard, a path down your body he started following with his fingers down and down again between your thighs. As he met your core, you held onto his shoulder, whimpering again, biting your lip in a silent plea for pleasure. Despite it all, you managed to utter a question.
“Only content?”
His head in the crook of your neck, you felt him stop, now looking straight at you with an adoration you were sure you could not grow tired of. You felt his fingers as he entered you. One, then the other. The soft burn of the stretch kept you from saying anything, your nails digging into his back, his hair now hovering above you, kisses raining on you. He did not answer you, only moving his fingers back and forth until you could not feel the burn of them anymore. He had you rocking your hips onto his hand, filthy sounds surrounding you, the thought of ever leaving this room having left you entirely, drunk on him and only him. Only then did he answer.
“I could not be happier than in your arms.”
“Tonight is not about me. But if you ask…” half a smile crossed his features, as you were marvelling at him, sweating and hungry for more. You never thought anyone could look at you with such reverence in their eyes.
Your heart clenched. Your hips stilled between his hands before he pulled your legs apart.
“If any of this hurts you, please tell me.”
As he pulled himself out, you could feel it down your thighs. It made you hungry for more, somehow. The emptiness he had left behind was soon replaced by the warmth of the sheets on you, his arm sneaking around your waist. He pulled you to him, your head resting on his chest, eyes weary and tired. He did not say a word, the pad of his thumb tracing the column of your spine in lazy strokes and you could hear his heart under you ever so erratic becoming soft and in rhythm with yours. Never could you have imagined this to happen to you. It was nothing short of a miracle, that he found you and you him. You let yourself bask in it for a little while, the shadows of the room luring you into a daydream you longed for deep in your soul.
He laid himself on top of you, his weight never suffocating you, his eyes ever so inquisitive. You nodded slowly, fingers weaving in his hair making him close his eyelids under your care. He placed himself between your legs, your folds welcoming him in a warm embrace. As he pushed into you, a tear escaped you, a dull pain at the pit of your stomach appearing. It stopped with the movement of his hips against yours, ever so gentle, his irises never leaving your face, forehead against yours, before leaving blazed kisses on your skin. Something feral woke up deep inside you, your hand clawing at his back, enticing him to keep going. His groans and moans were echoing in your chest, when he bit down on your shoulder with a swift bite, drawing blood to the surface. The heel of his hand was gripping tightly your ass, moving your legs until they were locked at the ankle behind his back. You felt a renewal of pleasure as he moved your legs higher, visibly impossible for him to stop. His hips were sure to leave bruises on your own. Soon after, you met your end, in a blinding white light, clenching around him. Then he could not stop himself from rutting into you, leaving his seed deep inside you.
“Do you want a boy or a girl?”
The question was asked as if in pleading, praying the bubble you were in would not burst with its utterance. Eomer merely smiled, reassuring you. He grabbed your fingers, kissing your knuckles one after the other in a tender gesture.
“Both.”
His cheeky grin made you smile despite yourself. Your eyebrows rose of their own accord, not able to hide your surprise. Amused by his newly found confidence, you laughed and kissed him deeply, weaving your hand with his. When you tried to pull back, his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and a shiver ran down your spine, eyes wide open. The warmth you felt before, came again. You pulled yourself up and as you were laying on top of him, kissed him as deeply as you could. He did not stop you, his hands on your hips again, where you could feel the friction leaving him hard again. The power you had over him was so obvious. It would have been a crime not to use it to your advantage.
On instinct, a hand to the headboard to support yourself, you dragged your core up the length of him never looking away from his eyes. This new side of you was a pleasant surprise he was delighted to discover. A grunt and an insult passed his lips as the movement dragged down, before starting again, and again, and again. Seeing him willingly relent his control into your hands did things to you, you never thought yourself capable of. Abruptly, his grip on your hips tightened in a desperate gesture to stop your actions.
-…inside me.”
“As much as this is pleasant, I’d rather be…
It had rolled off your tongue so easily. Sultry tone and all. Eomer wondered how he would cope if you were to disappear from his life, taking all you were away from him. The answer never came as he snapped back to you, guiding you down on him. A soft whimper escaped your lips, your back arching into his skillful hands, while he kept on guiding you, the movement of your hips made him jerk upwards deeper into you. Making you cry out in pleasure was his new favourite thing to do, he believed it to his very core. The little sighs, your heaving chest, your hands clasped on his, right on the dips at your hips, the full-out cries, the whimpers, the way you felt as you desperately chased your climax, everything turned him on more and more with each passing minute. The worst part was the way you looked at him, with only desire dilating your pupils, adoration in your every movement when he pulled you down for a sloppy, messy, heated kiss. Forehead against his, your hips moving on instinct, the hot breaths shared between you, all of it turning feverish upon reaching the high you were seeking, before it all snapped, a heat leaking into you as he pushed deeper than before.
You stayed there, relieved, shivering in pleasure. He was still, inside of you, not willing to let you go just yet.
“Sleep now. We have all the time in the world, wife.”
You did not even bother to meet his eyes, as yours were already closing.
“No. I want to be pregnant. Now.”
Eomer laughed and it shook your whole body. Barely registering his kiss on your temple, you fell asleep as he had asked you to, in his arms, protected and content.
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