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punk-in-docs · 2 days ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 — 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭

𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

warnings. violence towards reader (punch in the face and stomach), very poor comfort

a/n. this chapter is pretty similar to one of my other one-shots ‘cold hands’ if you wanna check that out as well 🫶🏻

2.5k words

@ssasansandsandy

series masterlist

“I assume you are aware of why you were called here today?”

Joffrey’s voice carried through the entire throne room, echoing off the stone pillars. His pale eyes glittered with unmistakable malice, almost excitement at what he intended to make happen today.

“I am not, Your Grace,” she answered, chin raised and hands folded in front of her stomach.

Behind her, a crowd of lords and ladies from across the Westerlands had formed to bear witness to the king’s judgements, while occasionally murmuring with each other. But her attention was set solely on her nephew, who sat upon the throne. The height of the dais elevated him physically, just as his crown elevated him in status. Yet, her pride prevented to let her unease show. Her gaze held his for she refused to wilt beneath their stares and satisfy him by lowering hers to the ground.

She noticed Cersei’s absence, wondering if her sister knew of this. Beside the king stood Varys, Littlefinger and Pycelle, scrutinizing her with fixed stares. The Hound stood behind them, tall and broad and golden, now that he was part of the Kingsguard. His new armor seemed to glow, reflecting the light off of the golden chest plate while the engraved details shone. His shoulders were squared and tense, making him seem even bigger and more formidable than usual as he stood beside the throne, towering over everyone else in this room. His dark eyes were set straight ahead, deliberately looking over her rather than at her, as though acknowledging her presence would somehow break his carefully maintained stoicism. The other members of the Kingsguard were stationed in front of the steps, leading up to the throne.

The memory of last night flashed through her mind — Her desperate pounding at his door, the sudden rush of relief when he pulled her inside his chambers and the way he had lied right to Ser Meryn’s face, protecting her despite the risk to himself.

It was contradictory in a way that intrigued her against her will. He was fearsome and cold and rude, yet capable of such quiet heroics. But there was no time to ponder about what made him do what he did and why he didn’t do what would’ve been expected of him, she reminded herself, so she willed it away.

Joffrey flicked his wrist impatiently towards Pycelle, who spoke, “You were summoned by His Grace to answer to the charge of whispering with Lady Sansa Stark on multiple occasions and stand accused of conspiring with the northern folk, who are currently in rebellion against the crown and therefore your own house.”

Due to her unpleasant past with her nephew and their relationship shaped by mutual disgust, it was indeed no wonder he accused her of treasonous scheming, but this? The absurdity of this charge was beyond her. Sansa Stark was a sweet girl, no doubt, but nowhere near having the courage nor the stomach to conspire with the queen’s sister against the crown.

Littlefinger’s talent for causing mistrust in various families was no secret, which made it easy for her to figure out who had planted this nonsense into Joffrey’s head based on some whispers he may have heard.

Her hard eyes flickered to where the small man stood. She held his gaze, letting her stare linger. The Master of Coin would recognize the silent accusation, she was sure. After making her wordless point did she return her attention to the expectant gaze of the king upon his throne of swords.

There was no reason to lie, she told herself.

“I have spoken with Lady Sansa, yes, but only to offer comfort and friendship to a child in a strange place,” she responded. “Those whispers you accuse me of are not only false but simply ridiculous.”

Joffrey’s smirk has vanished, but the evil in his eyes would never leave.

“I do wonder, my lady,” Littlefinger chimed in. “why care about a girl you barely know?”

Her eyes narrowed at him, his sly expression immediately conjuring up annoyance inside her.

“As I said, Lord Baelish, she is alone in a foreign place. The death of her father must be saddening her deeply and expressing my condolences is hardly a crime.”

“Her father was a traitor!” Joffrey yelled, quick to defend his own cruelty.

“A king must punish crimes, treason most of all, to keep the peace of the realm,” Pycelle agreed. He could very well kiss Joffrey’s ass with how much he was flattering him at every opportunity.

“A king should keep his word, most of all,” she bit out, “which you broke by calling for his head.”

The murmurs in the court behind her grew louder instantaneously. Joffrey looked like he had been physically struck, his face registering momentary shock at her bold retort. His pale skin flushed, before his features contorted into undisguised anger. With a jerky motion he rose abruptly from the throne and pointed an accusing finger at her.

“How dare you!”

“Disrespectful!” Pycelle concurred with him to only further his outrage.

She cast down her gaze in stubborn obstinacy.

A voice in her head yelled that she’d gone too far. She knew better than to challenge Joffrey so openly, especially when no one else in this room would dare concur with her. Yet something in her refused to retract the words or apologize. The truth had been said, and she would not take it back. Let them punish her if they must, but she would not pretend cruelty was justice.

The Hound’s eyes met hers for the briefest moment. In that fleeting connection she thought to see a warning, perhaps.

“I was right to question your loyalty,” Joffrey seethed. “Your lack of a husband at such an age shows you contribute nothing to our family’s legacy but your insolence!”

Her eyebrows twitched and her lips parted. The unfairness of this statement almost had her at a loss for words and made raw anger bubble up in her chest.

“I was betrothed, yet circumstances beyond my control severed that arrangement. The failure lies not with me!”

Joffrey had the audacity to scoff. A small smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth and his demeanor seemed too calm all of a sudden, considering his outburst only moments ago. A dark premonition crept into her mind.

“Ser Boros,” he said. “Show her how ignorant disrespect is punished under my rule.”

As soon as he spoke the words, her stomach clenched and twisted and she could feel her heart hammering uncomfortably loud, like it would burst out of her chest at any moment.

She knew what was to come. Despite the fear clawing at her neck, she would not cower and flinch, nor cry and beg. Endure, she told herself.

Boros Blount stepped forward. Standing her ground, she mentally braced herself for him to carry out his command, which followed without delay and without mercy. The golden gauntlet clanked as it struck her cheek, making her stumble to the side.

The court gasped collectively, a wave of shocked murmurs rippling through the crowd, though she barely registered the sound.

Quicker than she could find her footing and blink back the tears threatening to spill, his fist connected with the same cheek once more, letting pain radiate through her entire face when the gauntlet broke the skin. Droplets of blood ran down her cheek.

“Leave her face now,” Joffrey ordered. “We shouldn’t ruin it for her future intended.”

The next blow landed in her stomach, letting a strangled gasp escape her throat. Her knees buckled, but she refused to fall completely. Her body doubled over as she tried to catch her breath.

Another hit, and another. The moment blurred together, as did her vision from all the tears she refused to let fall.

Through the haze of pain she glanced up and could make out Varys’ silhouette urgently counseling the boy sitting on the throne, who had his eyes set on the scene before him with sickening delight.

Sensing Blount’s drawn back fist from out of the corner of her eye, she squeezed her eyes shut in dreadful anticipation, only that the expected blow never came.

“Enough,” Joffrey called out, sounding bored. “She has learned her lesson. Let this serve as a warning to anyone who dares question my royal judgement.”

She forced herself to stand upright. Her cheek throbbed mercilessly, the broken skin stinging where the metal had ripped it open. Her ribcage felt like it was wrapped in fire, each breath sent a sharp flash through her body. Still, she squared her shoulders, ignoring how this simple action made her want to double over again. In her eyes however, the stubbornness remained.

“Dog! Bring her to her chambers, make sure she doesn’t conspire with anyone else on the way,” Joffrey spoke, dismissively.

The overly large man moved from his post, impressive figure striding towards her with heavy stomps. She felt the intensity of his eyes bore through her, but kept hers steady on the ground.

Without uttering a single word, he strode past the beaten girl and expected her to follow without waiting or turning. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she followed after him.

Her battered body screamed at her with every step she took, pain flashing through her like lightning bolts. The courtiers scattered to the side like hens to let the Hound pass. The lioness marched after him and kept her eyes on the white cloak billowing behind him, still holding her chin high. She would cut off one leg before letting those bystanders see her break.

As soon as the heavy doors fell shut behind them, he slowed his pace ever so slightly.

She wondered if he would say something to her or stay broodingly silent, like most days. Before she could ponder about his confusing behavior any further, he suddenly turned in such a fast motion one would not expect from such a massive man. He gripped her upper arm, closing his calloused hand around it. A noise of surprise and protest escaped her lips, before she tried to twist her arm out of his grasp. Tried.

Only now he could really take in her pitiful appearance — bruised and bloodied with her eyebrows drawn together to appear unfazed, but she wasn’t fooling him. He knew this look all too well. Fear masked by a wall of anger.

“Do you never learn?” he hissed through clenched teeth and hunched down to bring his face closer to hers. She turned her head to the side, away from his intense eyes and biting remarks. Her wounded pride stung all the more as humiliation and frustration coursed through her veins. His unjust condemnation only intensified the indignation burning within her chest.

“I only spoke the truth.” Despite her defensiveness, her voice sounded tired.

“That’s your fucking problem,” he growled. “Don’t know when it’s better to shut your mouth.”

Rage flashed in her eyes and she snapped her face back in his direction. “If injustice is answered with silence, no change will ever come.”

“What change? Helpless maidens getting beaten?”

She averted her gaze to the golden chest plate at his mockery. A childish urge to fight and scream at him overcame her, his crude sarcasm angering her, but she did not do any of that. A sudden exhaustion weighed her down and only made her say, “He thinks it will bend me to his will.” But he is wrong.

“And you’d be smart to do that.”

Releasing her arm from his grip, he straightened his back while keeping his eyes on her. She gave up years ago to gauge out any possible intentions from his expression alone — It seldom betrayed anything. He turned his back to her and continued their way, seemingly not caring if she followed or not.

Her feet remained motionless in the hallway for a few moments, alone and drained. Raising one hand, she deliberately touched her ruined cheek but immediately retracted it with a gasp when a sharp sting shot through her face. Her fingertips came back bloody.

“Come on,” he threw over his shoulder.

With a huff she trailed a few paces behind the man.

“His charge against me made no sense at all. Lady Sansa is too frightened to even think about treason.”

The Hound only grunted. The king doesn’t need sense to punish, he wanted to say, but reminded himself to whom he was speaking to. She was a Lannister, still, even if not the worst of the lot. While he trusted she wouldn’t reveal the comments he’d shared in confidence, he refused to take that chance. Trust was a stupid mistake for which too many men had lost their lives.

“You should take her as an example in that regard. Would spare you a beating or two.”

“Voicing criticism is not treasonous at all, and only a fool of a king would believe so.”

Stubborn, he thought. Rigid stubbornness combined with an unwavering sense of justice and a sharp tongue. No wonder Joffrey had it out for her.

She made it exceedingly difficult to keep her out of trouble. His thoughts drifted as he observed her determined gait despite the obvious pain. Her unwavering principles, while admirable in theory, consistently placed her in precarious situations with those in higher positions — Joffrey, Cersei and before them Tywin Lannister. There was a bitter irony in how these were all her immediate family. The young woman seemed incapable of bending even when self-preservation demanded it, a quality that both frustrated and oddly impressed him, but mainly frustrated.

When they reached the door to her chambers, he spared her a long glance before opening it for her. Without adverting his eyes, he reached behind the plate of his armor with one hand and pulled out a white piece of cloth. Before she could ask, he roughly shoved it into her hand but couldn’t bring himself to tell her she should clean her cheek with it. Still, she understood.

“You need better armor than your words. And for fuck’s sake, learn when to fight and when to yield or Joffrey will break more than your pride next time,” he told her. “A dead lioness can’t bite.”

A voice in her head told her to yell at him for speaking so crudely to a lady or for lecturing her about matters he didn’t understand, but she could only stare up at him with wide eyes.

Turning his body away, he left her standing in the doorway of her room. Her gaze followed him while clutching the piece of fabric to her chest, until the clinking of his chains grew fainter and he vanished behind a corner.

There was no man alive more confusing than him, she thought. Her gaze fell to the cloth in her hands. His initials were stitched into the fabric in one corner, she noticed now — S.C.

a/n. love him sm when he’s angry but reluctantly caring UGH

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punk-in-docs · 2 days ago

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hands 🤤

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punk-in-docs · 2 days ago

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Hell yes.

alright me and the other 9 sandor fans... what do we think of a (maybe fanfic) oneshot of a hand maiden reader who haunts sandors thoughts like a man's shadow? glad to hear it! cricket chirp cricket chirp

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #the hound #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #sandor the hound clegane

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punk-in-docs · 5 days ago

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"🌹"

A little wip for your viewing pleasure from a very future chapter of ‘Like a rotten dog-‘ one of the first/early bits I’ve written. It’s out of context atm cause there’s a long way to go to get here;

Sandor��s eyes flick to you. Don’t.

He read the anguish in your expression like taking words from a book.

No. Red. No.

“No.” You state. Loud and clear.

Sandor glares your way. Fucking, no. Keep your trap shut. Woman.

Your defiance whistles through the air like a clean knife. Joffrey and Cersei eye you like an oddity. Like you’d suddenly sprouted horns and cloven feet.

You step forwards. Placing yourself slightly in front of Arlis.

“I’ll take her punishment. Your grace.” People in the insipid crowds are awed to silence by this new spectacle. Scandal.

#punkwrites #angst #angst with a happy ending #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #sandor the hound clegane

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punk-in-docs · 5 days ago

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for every "🌹" received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing

#ask memes #punkwrites #sandor clegane x reader #John Ross x reader

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punk-in-docs · 6 days ago

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Like a rotten dog: part I

The Hound x Handmaiden reader

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V

summary; how would meeting the hound as a new servant go... just fluff - no smut (yet) might fuck around and make this a series. not sure yet. Divider not mine. From @zaldritzosrose

You’d been scrubbing dresses for hours. Hands pruned. Eyes stinging with salt of your sweat, and soaps. Nearly chafed your knuckles raw.

You fell into a trance of it. Your work. Watching the pretty red, gold and peachy skirts billow out in the cloudy water. Before you’d peg them out to dry in the searing sun, then start on another. The embroidery so fine on them. One dress cost more than you’d ever earn in two years. Twined with pink flowers or rose vines, intricate gold beads that formed stars.

You’ll never get stars or flowers. You worked as a handmaiden. All you got was leftover scraps, dirt and toil.

You were a step up from a kitchen wench in a soiled russet dress near worn to rags, that was true enough. But you’re not sure the leers from hungry filthy guards, the occasional cup of watered down wine, and long hot hours of work are worth the meagre station.

But you’ve never really known anything else.

A harsh bellow of your name roused you to attention. It bowled its way to you from the doorway to the kitchen’s. Shattering off the stone in its displeasure.

Standing and stretching out your legs was a welcome relief. Taking your hands from the cloudy water and drying them on a rag. You leave your fellow maid, Alssa, with your workload.

You trudge inside. The heat sticking your thin dress to your back. Hair coated in long strings to your neck. You huff, holding your skirts, and trudging down the uneven steps, sloping drunk with age and gravity, to the bustling, noisy kitchens.

The wall of heat is suffocating when you walk in. It’s a dank cellar with no windows and no natural light. The corners crawl with dirt and rodents. The air fugged with heat and spice. Continuous chopping fills the air.

Candles shake light on numerous surfaces. Some glimmer with blood and entrails from animals being plucked or carved. Some where bread is being rolled. A huge stove where iron pots are stirred over tongues of flame.

Cook is waiting on you. Darria. A permanently cross, elder woman, with meaty arms, numerous chins and jowls, and a grey scowl that could curdle milk. Salt and pepper hair scooped back to sag like old ribbons off her craggy face. Concealed in a linen cap.

“Raela is sick. I’m short a girl. You’re the most presentable. You’ll do.” She snips at you.

“Do for what?” You ask. A simple enough request. But none of the ladies here are quite used to the boldness of your tongue. Time in royal service hasn’t blunted the razor edge of your courage just yet.

“Hells teeth girl.” She curses. Slapping a cloth down on a surface. Fingers caked in dried blood and cooking burns scarred in old rosy flesh up her arms. “To take a tray to a lords room.”

Wafting her cloth in the direction of said tray. Upon sat a flagon of Dornish wine. A goblet. A plate piled high with roast chicken, bread and cheeses.

“Which Lord?” You ask with careful derision.

“The Hound.” She declared. Unfeeling.

She reroutes her attention to wiping down the surface near to her. Ridding it of slimy black blood and chicken guts. Slopping it into a basket on the floor. The red seeping into the cracks of her skin and knuckles.

You sigh. Swallow your dry throat. Because you can’t exactly refuse.

No matter how much stories of his ferocity turn your fellow maiden girls stomachs. You’ve heard tale how he’s cleaved men in half with that sword of his. With no more effort than cutting through a cooked ham. A fierce swing of his huge arms.

He was impossible to miss at court. A towering plinth of armour by the spoilt boy princes side. All growl and bark. A nasty bite too. Lurching along in big strides like a leashed stray in clanking armour.

Always he was armed to the canines. Swords. Daggers. Eyes stormy cynical and hunting for blood. A scowl that could chill hell - made more severe by the twisted flesh of his half burned face. Covered only slightly by an unruly mane of dark waves.

And you were apparently late to deliver his supper.

Starving dogs only made them crueler.

You’ve no choice in it. You keep promising yourself you won’t walk into danger; so careful to creep silent in the shadows to avoid it. Yet here you are; apparently welcome to drop food into its lap.

“Of course.” You come for the tray and hoist it into your hands. The edge digging into your middle.

“Step lively.” She barks at you. “Wouldn’t do to keep the big brute waiting. Lest he knock the pretty teeth out your head.” She threatens. A smirk showing her twisted teeth. Ill delight.

“Excellent.” You remark archly. Under your breath.

If she heard your sniping comment, she doesn’t show it. Too busy you suppose. Feeding near 200 people was a trial on its own right. As she reminded you all so often.

You make for the steps and begin the climb from out the warm twisted bowels of the keep. Air becomes clearer. More civilised. Threaded with roses rather than dirt and sweat. You see gardens and gilded rooms. Climbing flowers reaching round yellow stone columns. Footsteps echoing off tile and courtyard. There’s pattering fountains and pleasant oasis gardens to stroll in.

You pass a group of guards posed outside a door. A royal bedchamber. You feel their glistening eyes wander and climb over you. Like you were juicy quivering prey waiting to be devoured. Some of them call after you. Their words harsh and lewd. You don’t pay them any mind. Let the words roll off your back like beaded water.

Another thing about this cursed keep. You too had to guard your steps. Tread soft as velvet. Keep a shining dagger from a smith in Volantis concealed in your skirts. You never dare invite attention in this poisonous snake den.

You travel along corridors and wind up more stairs. Eventually coming to the hounds lair. Or kennel, as Joffrey often calls it.

Fetch my dog from his kennel.

You get a whiff of the strong deep red wine as you shift the tray and knock upon the door with your elbow. A growl from within tells you to come.

He’s at table when you enter. Blocking out half the light from the window.

Sat curled on a chair at the round table in his room. The chair he occupied pulled back far from the hearth. Almost turned with his back to it. Like he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Really for one of his station, his room is sparse. Monklike even. Really he’s lucky they didn’t just put straw down for him. Throw him a hambone and keep him chained til they have use of him.

His rooms boasted hardly any decoration. No saffron curtains, and ornaments. No frills or statues like the rest of the knights or golden lannisters rooms you’ve seen. Those lions certainly lived for their fucking gold.

He has one very wide chunky wooden bed. All solid sturdy oak. Thickly carved with a white linen canopy curtain messily tied at all four post corners. Cushions sagging, and covers messed and mushed in the middle.

One trunk at the end of it. Worn. A faint insignia painted on its top. Gold background with three running black dogs.

A chair nudged between the shaded windows. Light spotted in patterns through the wooden shutters. Casting a shaft, one that danced with dust mites onto the floor like spilled cream.

“Took your fucking time. Where’d you go for those shagging chickens girl? Essos?” He growls.

“My apologies ser. We were short a maid.” You apologise. You won’t turn meek. You’ve learnt to keep your back to the door. Be snappy. Be polite and then turn your heel and flee.

He grunts. Inconsequential.

You cross the room and set the tray on the table. Out of habit you take the flagon and pour the wine into the goblet.

Then you discover the reason why every word he says, comes dragged through a vile growl. Why there’s sweat beading on his forehead. How he seems to curl into himself like a wounded animal. Teeth ready to bare and snap.

He’s injured.

His shirt is half pulled off his shoulder, fingertips left blood smears in the linen, he’s trying with fumbling too-big fingers to mend a jagged wound to his shoulder. Lacerated at the edges. Not a clean sword wound. It looked more like a bite. You could see indents of teeth where they’ve made their home deep in his trapezius.

You put the flagon down. He snatches hungrily for the goblet. Blood coming in slow thick rivulets down his shoulder. He wipes at it with woven cloth.

He grunts in pain again. A low simmer of a growl coming under his breath.

That’s when you let your eyes and mouth stray; just enough. Just when you were busy being careful.

“That will fester if you stitch it up without washing it.” You warn.

“Don’t bother, maid.” He snarls. Hiding his pain behind a shield of anger, and then a wall of aggression. He was more shielded than a fortress. Wine sunk its heavy spices onto his breath

You take a step towards him. “I’ve tended wounds before, Ser-“ you begin to explain.

The chair scrapes the floor like a dying wail when he stands abruptly. Strange for a man of his size to move so quiet as he did.

His whole body engulfs your attention. Designed to intimidate. Wide shoulders. Huge chest. He couldn’t half move quick - sharp. Ruthless as a hot knife through butter - when he needed too. In his case you’re sure it was life or death; the matter of being quick on his feet.

“I don’t care if you’ve fucked the shagging maester before. I don’t need help.” He spells out plainly. Grunting every word harsh. They fall like rocks from his mouth. With crushing intent.

His shadow fell over you. Big as a damn grizzly bear. Made you think of the tales spun to you as a child, of when they used to pit bears against lions in the arena for sport. Big. Lumbering. Ferocious temper and teeth to match. Carpeted in dark fur. Get on the wrong side of them they’d maul you to shreds.

That seems to apply to him too.

You couldn’t fail to notice he was as hairy as one. His shirt had fallen even wider from his shoulders. Over his sternum now. The wide neck draping down over his shoulder. Nearly down to his pectoral.

His chest was carpeted in dark hair. Every muscle was crude and rounded. He was so widely built, you couldn’t take your eyes away.

“I need wine.” He snatched the flagon and poured more into his cup. Nearly sloshed it over the edge.

“Having a belly full of wine won’t help you stitch it.” You point at his shoulder. Voice laced with derision.

He gave you a look that was all thunder and cut glass. His hair shading his ruined eye. “Works fine for me.”

“I’ve seen bigger bastards than you, succumb to wounds smaller than that.” You warn.

He twisted his face into a sneer. Lip curled. Showed his blunt teeth. The ruined side of his face twitched and pulled with it. He sinks back into the chair. It’s hard to know what groans more. The wood or him.

“Aye?” He challenges.

“I’m big fucker. Tougher to kill.” He assures you. Grunting as he tries to mop away more blood.

“I can’t imagine the prince would be pleased to lose his loyal hound to infection.” You intone darkly. He glares.

“Shall I send for maester Pycelle?” You offer.

“Fucking doddery cunt.” He growls. You take it as a ‘no.’ He continues trying to stab at his shoulder with a curved needle and slowly reddening thread.

You turn. Taking his onerous mood and the lull in the speech as your queue to leave. He didn’t exactly strike you as one who waved or dismissed servants at his leisure. He was high-born but he didn’t act it.

His voice stops you when you hand touched the door.

“Not seen you here before, little maid.” He snarls the name at you like it’s filth. He grits his jaw around the words.

You step back. Face him across the room.

“I joined not sennight ago. Ser. Whilst the King was away in Winterfell.”

He grunted again. You come to realise that’s how he answers most questions.

“What kind of maid knows how to sew bloody wounds and pretty dresses?” He seeks. Dark look blazing your way. Searching into places you’d rather he didn’t dig.

A true hound with a bone to pick.

“One who hasn’t spent all her life in a wretched slum in flea bottom, living on scraps.” You answer snappily.

“And where has the little maid spent her life?” He asks.

You frown. Tilting your head. He barks at you. Tried to intimidate you. Bites your head off at every word. And now he’s asking after your life before this keep. The duality set your head spinning.

“The North. Living on scraps.” You tell.

“Where?”

“The cold bit.” You jest. Eyes narrowed.

“Your accent isn’t northern.” He points out.

“No. I’ve worked for many houses since I left the north.”

The slightest curl of his lip tells you he almost found that comical. He almost had a reaction. Almost let a huff of amusement crash through his chest and out his nose.

“You stitched up lots of men then. Big northern fuckers too.” He stated.

“Aye. And even spitting fury at their worst, they were still more polite than you.”

He laughed. It sounded like stones and grit grinding against each other. An underused noise, you feel.

“We can have this very illuminating conversation or I can leave now and let you bleed and fester to death. Pass me the fucking needle.” You open your hand.

He has the brass balls to look mildly impressed that you, a handmaiden, is daring to raise your voice at him. It makes a healthy change from stares, grimaces, and wailing children who cry at his very monstrous appearance. From people scurrying away from his glares.

“Stubborn wench. Aren’t you. You gonna call me to heel girl?” He challenges.

“Someone has too. Dealing with mullish bastards like you. Hound. As I said, I’m not from the south. I wasn’t raised with pretty manners and a silver spoon like every lady you bow before.” You tell him acidly.

“Yet you got yourself here without those pretty manners.” He snipes.

“I’m a good liar.”

“You’ll need that to survive here.” He warns darkly. Makes your stomach drop to hear it.

“Needle. Dog.” You command.

He sneers. “Least you didn’t call me, Ser.”

The needle glints in the candelit as he hands it over. It looked a ridiculous implement in his huge fingers. Like something doll sized. You take it gently. Hand brushing against his. Back of his knuckles wearing the same coarse hair as his body.

“You’re not a ser? You’re of the kings guard.” You explain. Coming to his side. Approaching carefully. Some lingering advice of ring wary when coming near wounded animals. Keep your hand flat and you won’t loose fingers.

“Not a ser. Didn’t want to take the oath. I’ve seen what knighted ser’s do to small folk like you.” He snaps bitterly. You don’t dive into that one. You knew that well enough yourself.

You shift more stringy hair off his neck. Soaked thick with blood. It still followed a wave.

“You’ve soap? A basin?” You ask.

He jutts his chin across the room where it sat next to a bowl and a smeared cracked mirrror. A small cake of misshapen soap in a wood bowl sat to the side.

You cross to it and lather a fresh cloth in some water with the soap. It’s the simplest. Barely any scent. No decoration or gild to anything. It was clear he preferred living without it. Or wasn’t afforded it. You don’t know which is more likely.

He does a double take when he glances at your back. Eyes gliding over your shoulder blades.

Because a twisted scar knots and tugs across the smooth skin of your back. One he recognised but nowhere near as ugly as his.

Your pain wasn’t born by fire. The flesh looked like it had been torn into. By dagger or tooth. It wasn’t clean or delivered by the sword. Great pulls across the flesh, now knitted back together, skin catching almost silver pink and new in the half light.

You had really survived tougher things.

No missish maiden, indeed. They were ten a penny in this place. Clearly you were forged of greater mettle.

Takes a lot for a person to survive wounds like those. He would know.

You bring the jug back. Set it on the table near him. Pour some into the small soap bowl. Begin to wash and mop at the injury. Water trickling down that large chest. Darkening his breeches and his blood smeared shirt.

You feel him tense. The muscles in his shoulders ruck up. He turns his head away.

“I won’t hurt you.” You reassure. Voice softer than dove feathers.

“Are you soft in the head girl? Look at my face. Think I haven’t been hurt before.” He barks. Teeth gnashing.

“I’ve no desire to add to your collection.” You tell.

You continue mopping blood. He winces, grunts at the sting of the soap.

Mending in silence. You continue mopping blood out the way to see what you’d be stitching. Cleaning as best you could as you went.

He drinks his wine. Rolls the taste in his mouth as he considers you.

You’d stepped awfully close to him. Brave.

Soft hands working at his neck to cleanse. Taking away the rotten ruined flesh. One thing he couldn’t get over; the scent of you that now seemed like it filled the damn room. Filled his damn head.

The salt of clean sweat. Soap. Sunny yellow jasmine. The softness of your body draping under that ridiculous pink dress. Braids tied around your neck. Gathering over your tits. It clung to your hips and legs. Certainly a pretty sight.

Your hair is what fascinated him the most. Fell in soft waves over your back. Redder than cinnamon.

Fell past your shoulders. Twined with the scent of those yellow petals like the damn rest of you.

He wondered if he were to take those locks in his hands, how smooth they’d be. How full of scent they’d be if he put his nose to the crown of your head. Silk and perfume. All things good.

How could he dare touch something soft and kind for once in his life.

His big scarred hands had only ever touched, with the intention of bringing back blood. Only knew how to touch with knives and swords. He knew violence. Dealt it. Lived it. Breathed it.

Grizzled old dogs like him shouldn’t sniff after pretty maids like you.

“You got a name, little maid.” He turns his head. Gaze seeking for hours.

You meet it. Again, brave.

“Aye.”

You give him your name.

That tugs a laugh out him. Like pulling something hewn to a rock.

“That’s a northern cunt name if ever I heard one.”

You scoff. “Do you talk to all the handmaidens like this? Call them cunts…”

“Usually. On a good day.”

“Bet they love that. You must be popular.” you remark dryly.

Everything you’d come to know about southern bred ladies. Like the rest of your fellow handmaids here.

They were all very docile and easily flustered. Weak as doe deer in the presence of any sort of rough behaviour. Life in service scared some of them. Exposure to men and nobility and their true violence.

Some girls came to this keep green as grass to the ways of the world.

You came to it knowing full well. You held no faith in stories of knights and fair maidens anymore. You pitied those who did.

“Run a mile usually. Cower out of here crying. Clutching their pretty little skirts for dear life.”

You contemplate him a long while. Squeezing water out the rag before repeating your bathing.

Watching that big body slumped in his chair. Curling over like an autumn leaf. Hair curling like a curtain over his damaged eye.

Lords was he big.

He took up all the air in the room the way lightning steals ozone. You swear you can smell petrichor and fresh dirt. Though that could be the grit on his boots from the training field.

It’s his face that interests you more. The rough whiskery beard across his jaw and bearing only his pink lips. The sturdiness of a thick black brow whose twin had been burned away. The slight drooping of eyelid where his eye gazes out with nothing but contempt. Stitched himself together with wine and spite. This is a broken man who never disrobes himself for anyone.

Yet here you stand with your hands knotting his very flesh back together.

If you told your fellow maids you’d tended the hound, they really would call you soft in the head.

“You’re not half as frightening as you think you are.” You admit quietly. Starting to thread the needle.

He huffs. Disbelieving.

“Cross swords with me you’ll soon find out.”

That makes you smile.

He doesn’t know why but he cherishes that a little. Making a pretty maid smile. He tucks that somewhere in his big chest. Some secret pocket somewhere only he knew of. So he could take it out again later in a quiet moment and laugh bitterly at how an ugly old dog could make a maid laugh with him - not at him.

“I just wash the linens. Pour wine. And empty the chamber pots. Remember?” You sass.

“That why you got a dagger in your dress, girl.”

Your spine prickles. A hot sweet fluttering coarses through you.

Especially when one big paw of his lurches out and a finger taps to the side of your thigh. Straight onto the hilt of the dagger. He taps it. Sends a shock rippling right through you.

You shift on the spot. Annoyed. Caught out.

Clever dog.

He winces when you pierce his flesh with the needle.

“I’ve seen worse than you bearing down on me Clegane. Dealt with worse.”

He flashes you the full scarred side of his face. He leered like he should terrify you. A sick smile on his mouth that usually worked in deterring others. “Doubt it.”

“Takes more than the sight of a burn to send me running. If you’re looking to scare me, you’ll be waiting a long wait. I know scaring people gives you joy.”

You concentrate on the stitches you’re making. Pulling the skin taut. Making sure it comes together.

Surprised he didn’t have a squire to help him. Then again, if he didn’t want a title, you doubt they’d offer him a squire for this kind of work.

“Killing gives me more joy.” He insists.

“You must enjoy your orders then. The ones that come screeching out that princelings spoiled brat mouth...”

“Some of them.” He admits.

“But never say that where the walls could have ears.” He warns.

You nod. You know full well what a royal court is. It’s backstabbing snakes and spies and disloyalty disguised as cooperation at every turn. There are those in this castle who would turn on you for very little coin at all. Rife with venom.

People who liked to deal in snide whispers and ill intent. You kept well away. Head down. Did your duties. Cursed the lot of them.

Fuck the lot of them.

You finish looping the thread into his wound.

His hand finally unclenched from a huge fist on the table. Relaxing if only a little. The way a rock relaxed from the onslaught of rain. Barely.

“There…” You say. Finishing with a knot to hold the stitches well and true.

“Try and wash it with soap and keep it dry if you can. Seven help you it should heal clean.”

He peers around and once more makes a guttural grunt.

Your work was neat. Small stitches that spoke of a practised hand.

You wash your hands in the bowl and take the bloodied rags away. Dispose of the ichor stained water. You leave his needle and thread the soap bowl. Knowing he’d need it again.

“Anything else, my lord?” You ask.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Certainly.” You fire back.

Gathering yourself to move the used utensils and cloths into your arms.

You made to leave across the room. Light treads creaking across the wheezing floorboards.

He chews his teeth around the words lodged in his throat. They finally birth past his tongue.

“How’d you get that scar. On your back?” He asks. Voice grisly.

Hand on the door. You give him your clever answer before you step through.

Your smile is devastating when you explain.

“Mauled. By a hound.”

You shut the door to his sneering expression. You think you almost hear laughter before the door shuts into place.

Some moons later, you trudged back to your room. Fully intending to climb into bed for a handful of hours of sleep if no one caught your attentions.

The kitchen thankfully was dark and empty. The silence laying thick in the keep from outside and within told you that even the rats in the kitchen had gone to sleep too.

You rubbed your eyes. Sluiced in sweat that you’d have to rise early and wash off. Bathe yourself in perfumes and present yourself prettily for your service tomorrow. Run soap and oils through your hair. Make sure your dress was spotless.

You were to be helping see to the Imp on the morrow.

You’d need your wits about you. You’d been warned he was dastardly when he had a mind to be. But he liked cynical girls and sparkling wit. Cook grunted. Said you’d be perfect for him.

You weaved through the labyrinthian corridors where the maids slept. Straw down on the cobblestone floor. Rats clinging to the edge of the halls. You come to your door and the wood whines like a howling gale when you open it.

You were lucky to have the tiny fucking rat trap they called a room to yourself. The maid whose meagre straw bedded pallet stood a hairs width from yours, had wanted to room with another.

You didn’t give two shits. Meant you got some peace and space to breathe when you retired to bed in the small hours. Just when the pink of dawn knocked slanted into your room in rosy lilac hues.

You sunk into the sagging itchy mattress. Only made bearable by thin linen sheets and a semi decent bolster pillow.

The candle on the tiny washstand flickered, melting into a puddle of wonky wax, dripping against the wood. The light cast in flickering tongues up the mouldy mustard walls.

All your earthly belongings heaped in a trunk under your bed. Your very few dresses pegged for dear life on hook in the corner. You hung dried flowers - lavender and jasmine - up to bleach in the sun, in the small spit of a window. Barely enough to shift light into the room that felt more like a cell than decent living quarters.

You hide your earnings in a leather pouch in the wall behind your bed. You know full well maids or little birds come snooping when you’re not there. You sleep with your dagger under your pillow. The lock on your door broken and old. Unserviceable if someone decided to bust their way in.

You lay back in your bed and untie your leather slippers. Your feet raw and throbbing. You sigh with ease. Shoulders straining against the bed.

You’re toeing the line of sleep and consciousness when comes a scuffle at your door. Instantly your hand sinks under your pillow. Snatches for your dagger. Warm in your hand. Deadly.

“Whose there?” You call out. Voice a terrible strain in the silence. It hums. It burns for more.

No answer comes. Just the clank of heavy steps back down the halls. Then you’re left with the silence punctuated by the squeaks of rats outside. Their little nimble tickling footsteps. And the roar of torches that barely light the way.

You open your door. Peering down. Catching the corner of a dirty white cloak and the back of a dark wavy head as it disappears round the corner with a shifting click of armour.

You look to your feet. There sits a small whetstone. With a sprig of yellow jasmine flowers tied in a clumsy ribbon. Merry yellow and green.

You smile as you turn the stone in your hand. The flowers you lift up to savour their sickly scent.

His way of thanking you. Making sure you always had tools to sharpen your dagger. This was his way of giving you the best safety he could. Perhaps the only way he knew.

He really wasn’t the fearsome grizzled old dog they made him out to be.

tagging some hound peeps - i'm new to this guy - be gentle with me! I've tagged based on all the wonderful hound fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde

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punk-in-docs · 6 days ago

Text

I’ll crawl home to her- pt I

John Ross x Married!reader - Slow West AU

pt I - pt II -

Summary; In fair Colorado we lay our scene; a new farm hand comes to your Ranch to look for steady work. You welcome him to your home with open arms. Rugged and handsome. Its not hard to be infatuated with the kindly and gentle giant, John Ross. There’s just two problems; He’s still running, possibly with a bounty on his head; and you’re unhappily married.

TW; Domestic violence/undertones of sexual violence/unhappy marriage/sexist remarks and mindset to women. This is real angsty ok so please take care. I mean it. Headers not mine credit to @anitalenia and @elleisdesigning 🐴

Heat squeezes around you like a rattlesnake. Hard and mean.

Sweat sluices down your brow. Clammy down your back. Stinging your eyes. Sticking your dress to your skin. Cloying.

When you turn your eyes to the sky above you lose yourself in its pure blue. It’s purity is searing. Soft as a birds egg shell. A shade that you’ve heard the ocean to be. You watch a lively flock of birds arc away. Flying on to better places.

All you’ve seen your whole life, is an unending sprawl of tumbleweeds and dust. Pious frontier wooden shacks. And plains. And all you’ve ever known is cruel heat. And an even crueller hand.

You’re sticking to a small scrap of the shade offered by the kindly spread of a dry honey mesquite. The brittle branches try their best to shelter you from the blazing noon day sun.

The little air offered coming across the plains is baked dry by the sun. Dust whirls, loping over your boots. Sticks to your plain petticoated skirts and soiled apron.

You work tirelessly. Like a saint. A cursed one. Work your fingers to the bone day in and out. Little reward is spat back your way for it.

You clean and keep the small house for your husband. You cook every morning, noon and night for him and his men. Tend the chickens. Milk the cow. You sew. Mend his clothes. Clean his clothes and his boots. Help in any capacity when an order is barked.

You are chastised nearly every day, by violence or cold treatment, for the dire fact that the crib he built, stands in the corner of your room, vacant.

He reminds you bitterly. Time and time again. Likes to impress the fault upon you when his hand breaks your skin.

His satisfaction is taken in the violet-pink bruises he can leave. Bright as desert willow flowers. The scars he gives serve as your reminder. Sometimes with a horse whip. Sometimes he deems his own callous, weathered hand, serves your punishment best.

Know your place. Woman.

The ranch holding you own is a modest one. Two barns, farmhand quarters and a farmhouse. Five acres. But it is the biggest holding for miles. Which makes him smirk and preen meanly through his shining teeth, when it’s remarked how much of a lucky sonnofabitch he is. He’s not a humble one to deny his fortuity.

He keeps four farmhands to help with the cattle herd and the harvest. Corn and hay. He is slowly breaking in the team of wild horses your father gifted you both. Bought them from a Cheyenne trader so he said. It was intended as a wedding present.

You had loved them dearly and they you. Scarlet fever cruelly took them both two years past.

Ellis keeps you in comfortable means. As he likes to boast to his drinking cohorts in the saloon in town. You’re never short of a coin or two to buy supplies. Though it’s whereabouts is secreted from your knowledge. The leash he keeps you on runs short. Minuscule. Choking.

You dread when he goes into town with the hands. When they soujourn to a cathouse or to gamble cards. When the liquors in him, it turns him rotten. Bad.

Hot whiskey breath bursting across your cheek where he pins you to the wall. He starts accusing you of being cold. The twisted poison womb of yours that won’t give him a son. No one to leave this ranch too. Pain tends to follow in short order.

You scrub at the blood stain on his blue shirt sleeve. Like the sullied blue sky you were marvelling at. Now its dropping blood. Your blood.

You push it to the washboard. Your jaw grit tight. The crust of rust red slowly comes off with your back breaking diligence. Your fingers are pruned and raw, but there’s still your sheets and dresses to do.

You’d talked back to him yesterday. When he’d made a comment about the way you’d made rabbit stew and yellow corn for dinner.

He split your lip and nearly caved in your cheekbone with his fist. It hurts even now, warped and bloated with a purple bruise, running like a blue crescent moon under your eye. Your lip has scabbed over. It pulls tight.

You were forbidden from going into town. Case anyone saw your state. He bid you stay on the farm and sew. Sew your mouth shut.

He would fetch the things you needed. He was all you needed. Governed your life like the skies above. Like God he towered over you above all, with a warped wish of seeing to your continued sufferance.

You finish your hard scrubbing. Muscles burning with the strain. Taking the pile of wet linens over in a basket to peg them out on the line.

Where they’d snap and shift on the meagre wind and bleach dry in the sun. Lingering soap notes ghost on the wind. Ivory clean and spotless. You could only wish your life was as such.

You can hear the distant din of Ellis as he works. The whooping and shouting of the farm hands. The angry baying and grunting of the horse they’re trying to break in.

You wipe the back of your hand over your brow, before you look up past the shade. Past the billowing linens. To the dusty track of road that ribbons past the cattle field. You see the dust kicked up. Someone coming back to the house most like.

You pay it no mind. Continue in your chores. Cowed and silent. Working with your hands to keep yourself from thinking too much. To keep your eyes dry of tears. You’re never sure which it is these days.

A new sound joins you. Close. Dust and dirt shifting under a booted foot. A heavy tread.

You assume it’s one of the boys. Come back up the house to fetch water. Or to scrub their hands. You shake the sheet in your hands out. Get one corner on the line.

Beyond the blinding white spread of the sheet. A shadow slants across from beyond. A broad brimmed hat. Wide shoulders. The voice that accompanies the unfamiliar figure, near makes you leap out your skin.

“Good day, Miss.”

The accent is strange. Voice warm like hot honey. Words fall roughly rugged over his lips in a pleasing way. Like something tumbled over rocks and glens.

The linen blows on the line before you. When you bat it aside, this stranger comes clean into view.

Broad seemed a word that was made to suit this man. In the suns fervour, you don’t see all of him properly, until you bring a hand up to shade your eyes. Blinding sun and blinking dust out your view. The gold band on your finger catches the light and glitters.

He’s certainly a lot to see. Too much man to take in with the naked eye.

Sun bronzed skin. A thick set brow under the shaded brim of his wide hat. An even thicker beard all over his chin and jaw like a bristled carpet. It reaches down his neck too. Meets his chest with the same coarse darkness. His eyes are all shadow but you feel their warm depth.

No malice seeps from him like with Ellis.

But his utter size does set you rather on edge. He towers two full heads over you. Biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks.

His shoulders are the widest you’ve ever seen. Built like a bull and a head taller than the biggest hand horse you’ve seen. No part of him is unassuming or without power. Thick arms. Long legs. A chest that is barrel solid.

He is older than you by a handful of years. But not decrepit. Crows crease at his eyes like the well-travelled lines on a folded map. Like veins in aged skin. A squint from too long spent toiling under a searing sun.

His clothes are simple but well presented. A smart brown jacket over a beige shirt. Trousers neatly hemmed. Boots were worn but cared for. He wore spurs on them too. They catch in the sun like fish scales. He’s not shy to farm work. That much is clear.

“Beg your pardon. I’m looking for Dawson Ranch. Barkeep in town tells me there’s a position going for a farm hand.”

“Oh.” You smile. It reads more like a wince. You forget one side of your face is bloated. Tender as raw meat to the touch.

“That’s us, sure enough.” You tell this man. Dusting your hands on your apron. Drying them as much as you’re capable. Soap scent swilling around you. All ivory clean and cotton. Home. You smell like home.

You step out from behind the linens. Leaving your basket in the dirt to talk to him. You feel small under his deeply honest gaze. Almost enchanted by it.

“It’s nice to meet you. Mr..?”

He nods. Slides his hat off his head. His hair is black as ink too. Thinning at the crown of his head. Still not enough to make him appear unhandsome. Weathered maybe. It betrays his years. Age he wears well.

He holds his hat to his chest as he nods a formal greeting at you. It’s been so long since you’ve seen a man take off his hat to talk to a lady.

Those manners seem lost here to the likes of you. Makes you feel grand. Feel seen. Where everyone else calls through you. Looks through your role as the ‘little’ wife. Your opinions are ignored. Your efforts unacknowledged in the face of men.

Except this one;

“John. Just call me John.” He urges.

You’ve had many John’s or Jack’s, Smith’s and Doe’s come to work for you. It’s the way of it out here. Frontier rules. Gritty life. If a man offers one name. You take it. It’s not your business to pry.

You don’t care about the hidden seedy morals of a man’s character. You care about the strength in his back. The power in his arms. That fortitude and graft for labour means an earnest living for you all.

He extends a huge hand for you to shake.

His nails are a little dirty. Round moons of them ringed with dirt. But the rest of him looks clean enough. He takes pride in his dress. It’s refreshing to see. Most men out here grew lax with personal hygiene. His clothes rustle. Bringing with him the scent of ponderosa pine, petrichor, and wood resin. A man of the earth indeed; all he owns slung in a saddle bag, hefted on his wide back.

You take his hand. Shake it politely. Your palm lost in his warm grip. For a man with power, he touches gentle. Calluses and tough skin rough against yours. Like rough grain wood, meeting and catching on soap worn silk.

“I’m Mrs Dawson. My husband owns the ranch.” You tell him.

He nods. “I’m hoping that job is still for the taking. I know I’m no’ a young man anymore. But I assure you. I work hard. Twice as hard as two men. I’ve a strong back, and I’m good for lifting, helpin’ with the harvest, and fixing fences.” He sells himself earnestly.

“Reckon we got plenty of those. Always need a man willing to fix broken things.”

“Aye. Mrs Dawson. You’ll not find me work shy.” He tells proudly.

You smile. He remarks how sweet it looks. Like a dash of cream and sugar in something already so indulgent and sweet. Warm yellow like Texan peaches. The lines by your eyes crease up. Divots in your cheeks. Your smile blinds him with its bare beauty.

A purple bruise cloaks your right eye- his brows pull together in the middle. That’s an ugly shiner to be on such a bonny face.

“I don’t doubt it from the look of you. John.” You assure sweetly. Hands resting on your hips. A body like his isn’t formed of slothfulness.

“I do believe Ellis is still looking to take on help before the winter.” You beam.

You hope so. This refreshing man, with his unusual accent, and comely manners is certainly a nice change of pace to be on the receiving end of.

You nod toward the white panelled ranch house. Not some few yards away. Take a step towards it.

“Why don’t you follow me. Come take a seat on the porch there... I’ll run fetch him for you.” You offer.

He casts a look around. The laundry still to be done. The way your hands are cracked and raw looking. You notice his look. Take to hiding them in your apron pockets. Red knuckles that chafe and sting on scratchy linen.

He watches the way your hair stirs in the wind. Wisps of it clasping your soft cheek. It’s plaited in a thick strand down your back. Tied with a blue ribbon. It’s frayed at the ends. Cracked boots. Your dress has seen better days too. Stitched a different colour at one shoulder to mend a break. The lace trim is faded and old yellow like ancient bones on the front. Your husband hasn’t bought you a new dress in years.

Your whole character strikes him as a woman who scrapes by, who mends, makes do. Lives small. Crushed under the weight of a domineering spouse. Kicked into place like a mangy mutt. Abused. Yet still expecting obedience-

The wind shifts again. Hair crossing your ruined cheek. That bruise. It bothers him. Something opens a pit in his strong belly. He recoils at the thought of it.

“Don’t want to take you away from your work. Mrs Dawson.” He shifts on the spot he stands on. You feel like he’s a man who doesn’t give his ground easily.

You twist back. Your boots crackle on grit and dust. You blink at him. Not one man has ever worried about you or the consequences of your labours, should they go uncarried.

Your eyes catch his expression. Sombre. Sunlight beads gold at the sweat on the nape of his neck. Dark hair matted wet.

“It’s damn near a half hour walk from town.” You explain gently. Worrisome.

“Suns at its highest.” You peer up to the sky. “You must be parched. Come take a seat and I’ll fetch you some refreshment. Least I can do for a guest.” You cajole.

“Don’t need a big man like you keeling over. I sure ain’t strong enough to lift ya.” You explain with a grin. Wry humour peeking through.

He slides his hat on his head. Nods. Follows a step or two behind you. Some white chickens scatter around. Pecking at dry grass under the shade of a tree. Clucking gently.

You lead him over the dusty ground and up the steps, right onto the warm wood porch.

Two rocking chairs creak idly in the heat clogged wind, like old bones. Duke, the lazy hound dog lollops on the porch. All rusty jowls, wiry fur, sunken eyes like raisins lodged in a cake, and a slow thump of a tail. Lounging in the sun. Something with a bark to keep the predators away from the hen house.

You push open the door, hinges creak. You turn back to see John lazily reaching down to pet the hounds black ear. The thumping of a tail grows louder. Dog grunting in the back of his throat. The satisfaction of being scratched. It makes you smile. To see a man so large, be so gentle in all things.

You bring back a pitcher of lemonade. One enamel glass. Set it on the small round table beside the seat he took. He slanted his hat in his lap again. Now he was out the suns ferocity. Shaded by the overhang of the house.

His legs folded up high in the chair to rest his booted feet firmly on the ground. He made the chair look tiny under his frame.

When he reached over to accept the cup from you with a heartfelt thanks, you note the thin line of skin on his left hand. The fourth thick finger. Skin kept bleached pale from the domineering eye of the sun. A mark of a long absent wedding ring.

You don’t pry. You mind your business.

You settle for one moment into the adjacent seat. Your aching feet thank you for the respite. You lower into the cradle it offers gladly.

“Some beautiful land you got here. A good outset.” He comments.

It is rather. Close to the creek in the woods to south. You have a well for water near the house. All your outbuildings sheltered by a large copse of tall trees the west where a hill begins. Wood to be felled when you need firewood. It’s comfortably nestled. Protected somewhat by storms. Tornados ravage you well enough to be sure from the great plains, but you’re lucky to be safe from flash floods here.

“It is peaceful.” You agree. “Plenty of grazing for the herd. Have to be careful of rustlers now and again, mind.” You tell him grimly.

“I ken my way around a gun if that’ll help.” He offers. Seriousness takes his gaze.

“That’s always a help.” You tell him. “Plenty of game around here for shooting too. Rabbits and deer. Keeps us well fed though the colder months when our larder runs low.” You explain. Your chair whines a little where you rock.

“Feeding all those mouths must get mighty difficult.” He suggests. He was used to feeding two and even that rotted a hole in his gut for worrying, some weeks.

You pick at the worn hole in your brown gingham skirt. Fingertip prodding it like a slow healing wound. Festering. As does the question.

“It’s not easy. But then again. What life out here is?” You infer.

He nods. That was spoken in a tone that belies your true feelings on the matter.

It’s hard. Back breaking. He spies the truth of it swimming across your earnest eyes.

You consider the fact that you’ve not asked much about him. His life. The carved path that led a man here. Of all places. In the middle of nowhere seeking work.

“Where is home for you?” You seem. It’s an innocuous enough question. As they go.

He toes the line; the thought of lying. He could say anywhere. Chicago. Montana. But he answers you with sincerity.

“Scotland.”

“That’s damn far.” You remark with a wobbly smile and a half laugh like a silly girl. If Ellis were here, he’d snort laughter at you. Make a comment to cut you off at the knees and get his hands sniggering at you too. Silly stupid woman.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t roll his eyes or drape you in hegemonic patronisation.

“Feels very far. Some days.” He explains.

“You got any family?” You pry. You didn’t intend to. The harmless question rolled off your tongue.

“A daughter. She’s there now. Home safe.” His smile is gentle. Cautious.

“Good for her.” You say. You mean it. Perhaps you’re envious of anyone who found safe four walls and cosy comforts of home.

What must that be like.

He turns and catches your look. As he half raised the cup of lemonade to his lips. You turn away. Shame coating your face. You’d said too much.

Footsteps interrupt your conversation. A new voice mingling with the sound of dusty treads marching up the drive toward you.

The man walking towards you both, comes with a natural grace that others would call a swagger. He’s well turned out. Dark clothes. Black shirt and chaps. A blue bandana round his neck. Tan leather waistcoat, and boots that look expensive but worn. He’s patted in dust and sweat. Hat tipping low over his head. Curls of swept back hair dampen at the nape of his neck. Beard muzzled with blond-ish stubble. Lean but with a wiry strength.

The way he calls your first name gets John’s teeth gritting. It’s the way one would call a dog to heel.

“Get lunch on. Boys are hungry. So am I.” He demands. Casting a commanding eye over the laundry line, half abandoned, to see to John.

“No good sitting down all slothful when chores need doing.” He chides. Tone backed with a thin thread of steel intended to cut. Razors followed by vinegar that stings at your pride.

You shrink back into your role. Nail the coffin lid back on. Firmly shut down on your role. You nod. Rise from the chair. Pushing yourself up from the armrests. Shoes pressing on the groaning floorboards.

“We have a guest Ellis.” You state quietly. Tone soft enough not to be a challenge. Watery weak and soft. An insipid ghost of a character when set in front of your husband.

“His name is John. He’s come from town. Looking for work.”

John stands his cup down carefully in the side table. Shifts on his knees and rises to a full stand. Slow. Rising and rising to full height. Calmly slots his hat on his head. The chair creaks behind his vacating it like an omen.

Ellis casts a look up and down on him. Under the shade of his hat, pale eyes glittered like cut glass. Giving him a look like he can’t quite believe how tall and big this man is. And he was huge.

Towered over even the lean figure of your husband. Ellis won’t like that.

“Good lord.” He barks a laugh that distinctly reminisces a coyote. Grin too full of sharp teeth. Flashing bright. A handsome smile.

If it wasn’t entirely packed with soured arrogance.

“They don’t make many men like you, anymore.” He scoffs. “Don’t reckon I ever seen a man so tall.”

John nods. Distantly so. He kept his calm.

“Barkeep in town assured me you’re looking for more hands.”

Ellis’ face fell into a contemplative sneer. Teeth rubbing together as he considered. The accent. The build. The crow’s feet by his eyes. He tots up the thought of weak knees, having to slow down for an old timer. Having a creaky old man around wouldn’t help. It would hurt.

“Ain’t you a little old to be working a ranch.” Ellis cuts. Nasty.

You look down to your feet. Offence was his way when he felt threatened. And he was very quick to feel browbeaten. It never took much to flip him into derision.

John blinked. Weighing for the right words. They come off a civil, but gruff, tongue.

“I’m a fair worker. I can shoot and ride. Reckon I could pull and shift double what one of your young boys could. I can mend fences. I’ve a strong back. I’m not work shy. And I’ve ranched before. Easy.” He explained. His guard up. Cutting to the quick like he’s flaying meat to the bone. Rugged and careful.

Your husband tilts his head. Still mulling it over. The silence stretches. Pulsing with the shift of dirt under feet as Ellis prowls closer.

“You seen off rustlers before? That’s dirty rotten work.”

“I’ve done dirtier.” John pledged. Eyes on his. Dark. Unscared.

It flicks unease into you. But again, his past is his business.

Ellis smirks. “Welcome to Dawson Ranch. John.”

He steps forwards. Juts out his hand for the new hand to shake.

John does. Genially. But the frost in his eyes didn’t thaw. Not one bit. It can’t.

This man’s knuckles on his right hand, were purple and splitting as peeled grapes.

His glare at the man could blister skin.

“Come on. I’ll show you to the bunk house. Then you can help me tend the cattle before sundown.” He urges. A slimy grin on.

John watches carefully as your husband slings those destructive hands to his belt. Thumbs tucked there. Skin dirtied and tanned.

He watches as he casts a derisory eye to you. That cut glass in his eyes snares nasty and bright.

“Thought I said to start lunch...” He says with little patience. A simmering anger that could creep up to an ugly boil any second.

You shrink. You fold in on yourself. Spine withers like a curled November leaf. Head down. Walk back to the kitchen.

“Can’t tell her nothing. Dozy filly walked right into the stall door the other day in the barn. Nearly knocked herself out cold.”

He smiles like it was funny.

John, regretfully, says nothing. He narrows his eyes in the savage sun. Turns his head and sets on the span of your back.

Ellis’ eyes follow you the whole way inside. Burning acid holes in your back like hateful cigars. A warning. Like he expects disobedience. And is ready to bloody his other hand. To cut his fist on your teeth.

John doesn’t like it one fuckin bit.

He puts his back to Ellis for a second. Let the man wait.

He peers past the doorcase and catches you at the grubby light from the dirt smeared window, over by the sink basin.

“Thank you for the refreshment. Ma’am.” He tips his hat at you.

Your smile is half bolstered. Lifts on one side a little. The split in your lip burns and twitches. Bruise bunches.

“You’re welcome. John. Take care.” You say. Wringing the cloth in the basin in your hands.

He nods civilly. When he takes his eyes from you, you still feel scorched. Like a sunburn yet to heal.

Then he’s back around the door. You listen to the cluck of the chickens. The murmur of their voices. The way Duke whines when he yawns. The sound of the dust that cracks underfoot. The dry wind kicks up whirls of dirt again.

You reluctantly set your mind back on your chores. You think about the bloodied washing. The lunch you’ll hurry to make. If the bacon, beans and biscuits you had planned, will stretch to feed six.

Most likely you’ll have to go without. But that’s what you do. You’re used to that.

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punk-in-docs · 7 days ago

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Sometimes having multiple wips feels like this.

#writing #punkwrites #I tend to multi task my crisis’

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punk-in-docs · 7 days ago

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It’s LIVE. FEAST YOUR EYES…

come drink this delicious man and poor sweet reader in -

COMING SOON- By no one’s popular demand. Tags based on all the wonderful fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde

#punkwrites #rory mccann #slow west #sandor clegane #cowboy #ranches #tw angst #angst with a happy ending

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punk-in-docs · 7 days ago

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I'll crawl home to her- pt II

John Ross x Married!Reader - Slow West AU

pt I - pt II -

TW; Domestic violence/undertones of sexual violence/unhappy marriage/sexist remarks and mindset to women. This is real angsty ok so please take care. I mean it. Western dividers not mine credit to @anitalenia and @elleisdesigning 🐴

Night rushes steady over the ranch. An indigo wash that comes sticking to everything. Brings out the dozy fireflies and the racket of cicadas.

Darkness fills corners of your house that golden lanterns light doesn’t reach. Laying draped down edges like dormant cobwebs. The wind picks up, forever fierce and cool. Rattles like fingers shaking at your windowpanes.

The newcomer seems to have settled in. Got along with the other fellas well enough. That was a glowing testament. They’re generally an easy bunch.

The bunkhouse off the barn is full at present only four cots in it. Your husband told you he was happy enough to take the small room, way off back of the barn.

Ellis won’t have the men in the house. He often sits out with them. The large and old scarred dining table is situated under the overhang of the porch to the left of the house. Half covered by the shade of the old oak. You carry the pot out. Serve them each bowls of stew and hunks of warm corn bread.

You eat alone in the kitchen. Often with a scant portion of cooling food. And quickly. Listening to their laughter and conversation outside as the darkness gathers. They call in their thanks to you as they cross to the bunkhouse. Night Mrs Dawson. G’night, Ma’am.

You stand at the basin and scrub the plates. Scrub the pan. Anything to not be looking at Ellis when he wanders in. The part of the night you look forward to the least. When day is done, and you’re left alone with him.

The worst is when he suggests you turn in early and retire to bed. The not so gentle assault that happens between your bedsheets that leaves your thighs tacky. The misery that comes when you still bleed the next month. The derision that sits in his cold eyes each time. Like two dead stones. It’s chilling.

You scrub harder and harder with the lye soap. The bristles on the brush you use scratch and scour. You hear the dreadful whine as his boots creak on the porch. The rattle of his spurs.

“Your new friend is settling in well.” He sneers. Hooking his hat by the door. Shrugging off his leather waistcoat. He comes to the table behind you.

You knew you wouldn’t have heard the last of that.

“Seems a nice man. I’m sure he’ll do well here. Genuine.” You answer.

John seemed kind of man, who what you saw, is what you got. He clutched his character earnestly and openly in his big rough hands. No hidden nastiness to dip into.

John seemed nice. Granted, you’d not known him long. But he chose his words carefully. Moved slow as a lumbering bear. His strength lay a different way in him. Granite faced and soft spoken. Whereas other men who’d have been his size, would lord it over everyone.

There sat the plain differences. Ellis was all angles. Sharp as a knife. Something that gained its worth from splitting your skin. Mean metal. Imbued with the harshness of old sweat and faint copper of blood.

John was softer. Rounded edges. Blunted by his age. Well-worn like a sturdy oak. Something that threatened tall but didn’t harm. Sheltered everything around it in cool shade. Cradling hands and kind whiskey brown eyes that left you melting under their gaze.

The other farm hands had sniggered when John told them he wanted to wash up before dinner. He paused to say grace before he ate. The only one who had complimented the stew you cooked. The bread you baked. Appeared behind you in the open doorway with a stack full of plates and asked if you needed help. Ducked in the doorway to give them to you.

Your hands brushed his when you took them off him. Skin warm and rough. Making your cheeks burst with heat. A flush of it down your neck.

You couldn’t look at him. It was too much. But you felt his tender gaze fall to you.

You shrank away like a little mouse. Back to your chores as your master cracked the whip and barked his orders. Watched you with eyes colder and paler than any ice.

There’s no sound from behind you. But you can feel the burn of Ellis’ eyes in the nape of your neck.

“I don’t like that accent of his. Don’t know why a broken old crock like that ain’t got a place of his own by now. If he’s so good at ranching.” He scorns.

You don’t think he’s a broken crock. Old or otherwise.

“What’s wrong with his accent?” You ask gently.

“I don’t like foreigners on my land. Eating at my table. Staying in my house. Coveting my wife.”

There’s the ugly knives edge. You’d seen it in his face all day. Waiting to cut tendons when you least expected it. The flash of a blade that lurked, waiting for you in the dark.

“He was civil to me. That’s all.” You implore. Twisting round to face him.

“Something wrong with me giving a man a light refreshment after he walked all the way out here? To work for us?” You question. Knowing full well you’re barrelling towards a smack if he deems it so.

Ellis’ light eyes soak in your pretty speech.

“Don’t go getting attached. If he ain’t got the strength for this job. He won’t last the month. He can take his pay and move on.”

That thought makes your throat dry. A mourning cry for the man whose shown you one semblance of decent sweetness.

“He’s strong. You saw him mend that fence today. Said he lifted twice what the others did. We could use a man like that in winter. The barn roof needs mending. The bales need bringing in...”

He cuts you off.

“Said we’d see, didn’t I...” He repeated. Voice amped full of ire.

You hear him cross to the cabinet. The rattle of it opening. The clink of a glass and the slush of a bottle.

You dread that sound.

Hate the way his voice will come to stumble and slur. How he will launch into insobriety, murky loose tongued. He don’t let you touch drink. You’re not lucky enough to ever be insensate. You have to feel and live through everything he forces on you.

Putting the now scrubbed pots and bowls aside to dry. You dry your labour chafed hands on your apron. Turn and see Ellis settled at the table with a full glass of whiskey and a cigar. You can’t stand the stink of them. Silvery and wisping in whirls up to blacken your ceiling. Worse than chewing that tobacco he loves. You wonder if he does those things just because they make you itch. Just to let you see he won’t be ruled.

“Take him some sheets over. I said you’d run along. Seeings as you’re all pally.” He says. In-between expelling a mouthful of smoky air.

“He’ll need a blanket.” You state. “It’s gonna be cold out tonight.” Casting a look out the window towards the huge looming shape of the barn. Windows glow gold and square in the night like bullion.

“Sheets. Wife. No more. Don’t coddle the old fucking man.”

You nod. You cross down the hallway and up the stairs to the linen cupboard. Come back with an armful. You tuck a thick blanket under the linens in defiance. Curl your hands around the secret. Walk out the back door as Ellis sinks deeper into the bottom of a glass.

You take a lit oil lamp and cross from the back porch, round the dusty grassy ground to the bunkhouse. Cut round to the back of the barn. Steps gentle in the quiet night.

Only backed by the relentless chip of cicadas in the bushes. An owl calls far off in the trees somewhere in the woods. Coyotes howl in the distance. Air cool on your hot skin. Your dress chafes at the nape of your neck. Stuck with sweat once again.

You see oil lamps on in the bunkhouse. Skirting past, your path bathed with the glow of the lantern you hold. You head round the back of the barn. Coming to the small door that isolates the old tack room.

You had it turned into a room last summer. The Sampson boy from town came to help you with the ploughing. You’d set it up as a room then. It afforded more privacy and space than the long rectangle of a room that houses the others. Bunks virtually piled atop one another. A screen covering a tub to bathe in. Otherwise they go the creek to do it when it’s hot out.

The room you give John boasted a modest bed in one corner. Iron frame and a not totally moth eaten feather mattress. It had a wash stand and basin. Even a small heat stove in the corner. A perfect nook to be tucked away in. Listening to the creak and rustle of the old barn.

The planks shifting and whining in the wind. The gentle scuffling and scratching of the horses in their stalls. Worn rugs make the floorboards less severe. Ones you’d spent hours beating the dust out of. The room smells of sun warmed cedar wood and old charred soot. The faintest hint of lamp oil too. An undercurrent of hay and musky animal sweat.

A slice of light under the door tells you he’s still awake.

You rap lightly on the door. The whole thing rattles in its inset frame. A timid little noise to announce your arrival. You wait but a fraction of a second. And then steps come to the door to swing it inwards.

You don’t know if you dread seeing him. Or if some little defeated corner of your starved heart, craves it.

He fills the doorway. You hope the room isn’t too low so as to cause him to stoop.

Your eyes settle, unfortunately stuck, in the divots of his neck. Which glimmer wet. His shirt is opened wide over his hirsute chest. He’s carpeted in dark thick hair. It nearly joins with the beard and his mutton chops. His hair is brushed back slick on his head. Curling at the tips.

He’s washing up for bed. There’s a damp cloth held in his other hand. He leans against the doorframe with one hand. Soap bubbles on the cloth. Up his arms. He’d just lathered it over the back of his neck. Splashed cool water over his face.

“I’m sorry to impose.” You begin. Swallowing down the suddenly thick wad of spit in your throat. Your cheeks feel all prickly again. Heat pushing under your skin.

“It’s your home. Ma’am. Needn’t be sorry.” He explains with good humour. Shrinking back from the door.

You smile. Meek. Step over the lip of the door. Shoes step soft across the groaning floorboards. You walk and place your bundle on the bed. Start to fold them out and tuck them around the mattress.

He moves behind you. Keeping distance. You can feel the air displaced by his body. Cutting through the twirl of dust mites that were kicked up in the flickering lamp light.

“Let me help with that.” He comments gently. Setting his cloth down. Drying his hands on a cloth slung over the edge of the bowl.

You turn your head back. Hands floundering on the starchy feeling of the laundered linens. Your mouth flounders on a response.

You’re used to just doing things without being asked. Chores fall to your hands because that’s the way things are naturally set. The men go to work. You perform the chores as needed that they couldn’t do. You keep house and you’re tied to the stove whilst they do the important work.

“It’s quite alright. I’m used to it.” You offer.

“You won’t have to mother me, and tuck in my sheets. Lass. I’m old enough to do those things myself.” You assures you. Countenance all warm and soft.

Then follows that smile again that makes your stomach squirm, like you’ve eaten nothing, stomach empty as a tin drum, and then drunk fiery Kentucky bourbon.

He nods down to where your hands splay across the bed. Half bent at the waist. Fingers spread wide. He sees the cracked state of your dry knuckles. Nearly flayed open. From scouring heat and washing. Harsh lye soap.

If you were his wife, he’d never let your hands get in such a state.

Cracked. Angry. Dry and raw. From scrubbing and washing and being kicked around like a mangy stray dog. Being snapped at, and from what he’s seen and the way you’re talked about, you tossed under the crushing weight of derision and disregard.

He sat at that old table tonight and watched your husband curse and say unflattering things of you. How you’re a thorn in his side he could never be rid of. How he cant wait to ride into town and visit his favourite girl in the cathouse. Get himself a nice proper fuck.

It’s a wonder John didn’t snap his cutlery. Or better yet, snap Ellis’ stupid nasty neck.

He pushed it out his mind. He didn’t want thought of that snake on his mind when you were right before him.

You swallow. True enough. Your hands did often sting, and the skin sometimes split. Sometimes you had to apply ointment and bandage them.

“They look sore.” He states. His voice lowered. Something gentle. Tone wrapped in wispy cotton.

“Lye soap isn’t the kindest.” You explain.

“The chores always fall to you that way?” He asks.

You don’t answer. Maybe that’s all the answer he needs.

It’s your duty. It’s been your duty since the day Ellis put that gold band on your finger. Since he stopped looking at you with love and started to use his fists and snarls to make a point.

“Someone has to keep the house in order.”

“You ever get any help? I’m sure there’s some girl from town who could help with the washing. Help with the cooking even. Take the load off your shoulders.”

Your stomach curdled. You brush off imaginary dust. Eyes trained on the linens. That would mean new eyes to your humiliation and his cruelty.

“Ellis wouldn’t like that.”

“I’ve not known the man long. But I can’t help but feel there’s not much Ellis does like.” He besmirched.

You smile. Fleeting. Nail struck right on the head. Stabbed clean. Right to the quivering heart of the matter.

“That’s about the size of it.” You answer.

“Then let me help you with the sheets. Lass.”

Not a firm order. Not a snap. A gentle urging. Words calling from a soft tongue seems foreign to you. You were only used to callous vinegar sharp words. Lashing like a cat o nine tails. You weren’t accustomed to gentility.

You can’t help but nod.

You move to the end of the bed. He takes to the other end. Gets the sheets wedged around the mattress. He sets the pillows in snug in their linen cases as you make sure the thick blanket is over the end of his bed. Pushing it around the frame between the wall.

You brush up the bed to smooth a wrinkle as he leans and brushed down. Bent at the waist same as you. Your hands accidentally collide. His rough skin, warm, passed over on your rough red knuckles.

Your mouth falls open. You jerk your hand away like you’d caught it on the stove. He seems to falter too. A lightning bolt rips through him. There must be a storm rolling hereabouts; because you felt it too.

He seems to go far away. His gaze distant. He stands to a height and turns to retrieve something from his washstand. You shift on the dusty floorboard. Shoes catching on a patch of wood that rubs and creaks.

He comes back with a bottle that looks the size of a dolls in his gigantic hands. You see he’s finally managed to scrub that stubborn dirt from his nails.

“My Rose used to get hands like yours. She swears by this. Makes it herself. Dab a little on at night. Should help keep the skin soft.” He holds it across to you. It’s a honey coloured oil with a lavender sprig dried in it. Dried sweet purple.

Your mouth dries. It’s so often things are taken from you. You don’t know what to do when a hand holds out something offered.

“I couldn’t.” You wince.

He tilts his head. “Come now. Lass. I can’t have my employer suffering needlessly.”

You step and take it out his hand. Rub your thumb over the glass. It’s cold. Yet the care housed in that little bottle spoke leagues. Even from across the sea, a daughter cared for her father so much, she would ease his pains in whatever way she could. Miles apart.

That was love. Bone deep and so honest it could shake worlds. And you could sob with misery because of it.

“Rose sounds like a lovely young girl.” You admit.

His eyes crease with the force of his smile. The fond memories that must be conjured by the shape of her name.

“She’s exactly like her mother. God rest her. Thankfully. Doesn’t take after my ugly mug.”

You smile. It’s so open and honest it makes his chest tighten. “Lucky girl either way. And if she were stood here now. I’m sure she’d be agreein’ with me.”

He chuckles. Bashfully. Looks to his dusty shoes. It’s the first time you see you’ve disarmed him with kindness. He stands with his hands curled to his hips. His middle shakes with a quick burst of laughter.

“She’d call me a daft old fool right enough.”

“There’s joy in that sentiment I’m sure.” You point out.

“Aye. Not for me there isn’t.” He recounts. His eyes slope into yours once again.

You smile again. Sway on your feet a little. Cross your arms over your chest. Like you’re not used to the way laughter can move through you. A foreign and strange sensation. Take it from you. Because you don’t know where to set it down. What to do with it.

It makes him ache. The way you grin.

Draws attention to that purple eye. And just like that, he’s desolate all over again. Has to tuck rage back behind his teeth. Scour it away lest it cost him the first decent living he’s had in months.

“Anyway. I’ll let you get your rest. I’m sure there’s plenty my husband has for you to do tomorrow.” You clear your throat. Crossing to the door. Back to meekness. Back to being boxed into chores. Your life as roomy as a coffin. Twice as desolate. You pick up your lantern from where you set it.

“Goodnight. Lass.” You hear him call softly.

You look back and smile. “Goodnight. John.”

You place your hand on the door and duck out the frame. Entire body kissed by night. Washed over your gingham dress in a malty periwinkle blue. Naked moonlight threads itself into your hair. It’s every kind of bewitching.

You pause. Holding your skirts where you stepped over the threshold. Before you twist back. Something comes over you in a wave. Maybe it’s sentiment. Maybe it’s bravery. You couldn’t pin it down to be sure.

“Breakfast is served at six sharp. If you take my advice. I’d get there about ten too. Rashers of bacon. Biscuits. Coffee. Fried eggs. Tomatoes. They eat like starving jackals. Means the meat tends to go pretty quick.”

“My momma always told me the best way to take care of a man is to start his day off right. Good strong coffee and bacon grease. …” you nod towards his stature. “Big man like you needs a good feed. I imagine.” You tell. Giving away your secret.

“Your mother sounds a wise woman.” He offers.

Your eyes go distant. You pick at a piece of gouged wood on the doorframe. Sharp ends tickle your fingers. Other hand fiddles with your oil lamp. “She was.”

“She’d thrash the lights out of me for letting a man like you go without a meal that’ll stick to your ribs.” You beam.

With your while face washed in darkness. That battered eye looks less severe.

“You are too kind. I’ll take yours and her advice then. Be foolish of me to not respect the wishes of the deceased now.” He promises.

You smile. Stepping away. Pulling the door closed. The closing of it in the latch echoed loud in the night.

He mourns the way your steps grow fainter and fainter across the dirt and grass.

When you raise your lamp and look to the house, you see the golden doorway of the back porch. Filled with a shadow. It’s Ellis.

He nods towards the stairs. Your steps slow. Hesitance. Stomach falling to shatter at your shoes like glass. The shards cut and graze. Brings back blood.

Here comes your other duty; equally as disdainful. You know full well what he wants. He always takes what he wants after he’d sunk a glass of hard liquor. He wants between your thighs whether you like it or not.

You hate every cursed step you take towards that rotten house. You disdain the way he open handed slaps your ass all mean as you trudge up the stairs. Posture stiff already. Spine rigid as steel.

You cringe when he puts his hands on you. When he gets you in your marriage bed and arranges you the way he likes. Rips your dress at the shoulder getting you down to your shift. Uses you the way he likes.

You turn your face away. Twisting to be anywhere else when you grip the sheets and feel whiskey muggy breath heat the side of your neck.

You pinch your eyes shut. Swallow back your sounds. He grabs you rough. Fistfuls of your flesh gripped as he takes his pleasure and yours is not even considered.

“Hope it fucking takes.” He hisses. Through ragged breath. “Bout time you gave me a son.”

You want to snap that you’re glad it never takes. There must be something blessedly wrong with you. You’ve tried and tried for years and yet your womb still remains empty.

Because you’d sooner die screaming than let your babe be witness to his violent hands, his cruelty.

If he had a son by you, he’d shape that lad to be the same as him. Vicious.

He’d whittle your boy into a cruel little knife.

One that would find its way to sneak between your ribs on the daily. You don’t like to think what would happen if you gave him a daughter. The thought makes your weak heart shudder.

When he’s done. The wrought iron bedframe stops creaking against the floors. Shuddering to a stop. He rolls off you, out of you. Turning on his side to collapse into sleep.

You wait til he snores. Deep and hog-like. You sneak out of bed in your soiled shift. Ignoring your tacky thighs.

You sneak quietly through the house. Go to the basin you’d filled earlier in the kitchen. Still slightly warmed by the cooling embers of the stove.

The tub is tiny. But you strip your shift. You wash every bit of his sweat off you. Particularly scrubbing hard between your legs with soap. Anything to take the evidence of him away. You scrub til your inner thighs are sore. Tender.

When you step out and pat yourself dry. Squeezing your hair with a flannel to rid it of the wetness. Your eye catches the small bottle on the table. Roses’ ointment that John gave you.

You sit in the nearly dark kitchen. One lamp on low in the corner. Flickering away.

You gently dab it into your sore fingers. It does soothe. You indulged yourself in a small spec of kindness. When you creep back to bed, the scent of lavender is carried with you.

It stays tucked on your pillow with you like a floral purple secret.

Across in the barn. John is in a bind of his own.

These sheets smell like the bright clean soap that lingered uniquely around you. And lord above. That twines something strangling around his heart like piano wire, that keeps him awake long into the night.

Eyes turned to the wooden beams of his ceiling. Not thinking about the crease of your smile or the shade of your eyes. His soft old heart keeps lurching to thoughts of you. Beating with pure adoration.

Don’t you dare. He warns it. Don’t you fucking dare.

#punkwrites #john ross #slow west #sandor clegane #rory mccann #John Ross x reader #western #cowboy #wild west #wild western au #frontier #smut but not the good stuff yet #i would die for this man #tw angst #sexual violence #tw; abuse #angst #angst with a happy ending #Spotify

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