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rainydaydreamsideblog · 5 months

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(The Maze Runner) Imagine: He Protects You

It can be dangerous, especially for the only girl in the Glade.

Warnings: Guys being creeps in the Glade (nothing graphic), bullying, the Maze, danger.

. . .Thomas. . .

It’s a beautiful evening in the Glade. You’re walking straight along the treeline on your way to run a final errand for Alby at the end of the day. The sun is no longer visible, as it already descended far enough to be blocked by the walls.

Suddenly, you get the creeps. It was hard to explain, but you feel goosebumps bloom along your skin, and you get the distinct feeling that you’re not alone. The lovely glow of the bonfire is in your field of vision, but it’s so far away. It’s where most of the guys are gathered. You can hear their distant whoops and hollers, reminding you that help is far away too.

A twig snaps, and your suspicions are confirmed. There’s a figure following several feet behind you, lurking in the shadows cast from the trees above.

So, you veer off your original path to draw closer to the homestead where there would hopefully be someone who hadn’t made it to the bonfire yet. Whoever it was must have caught on to what you were doing because they instantly pick up their pace. You begin to hurry, increasing your speed so that they can’t catch you before you make it to what you hope will be a haven of safety.

Your heart is pounding, and your chest heaving with panicked breaths as you finally make it to the homestead.

“Hello?” you call frantically.

Suddenly, Thomas appears. He sees your nervous state immediately, his hand taking yours. But then his eyes lock onto something behind you, and he moves right past you to intercept your pursuer, effectively blocking them from you.

“What’s going on?” he demands. Your follower is frozen to the spot, stuttering, failing miserably to offer up some sort of explanation. Thomas steps forward, towering over the guy. It’s plain to see that he is furious. His forearms flex and his jaw is clenched. You can hear his angry breaths as he speaks again. “That’s what I thought. Now, get out of here.”

As soon as the guy is gone, Thomas turns around to face you. His close presence eases your fearful state when he steps into your space, filling your nose with his scent. “You okay?” he asks gently.

You manage a nod.

“We’re going to tell Alby right away. This isn’t going to happen to you again. Come here…” He carefully pulls you into his arms for an embrace, as if you’ll break apart if he’s too sudden. You bury your face in his chest, breathing a sigh of relief. His heartbeat is close to your ears, like a lullaby.

“Thank you…” you whispered.

. . . Newt . . .

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The teasing, the taunts… The inability of certain individuals to just leave you alone. Ever since you’d rejected him, Allan had made it his life’s mission to make your existence in the Glade all the more difficult.

Most recently, he had purposely bumped into you at lunchtime so that your meal was spilled all over your clothes and onto the ground. Resources were limited in the Glade. It was understood that wastefulness wouldn’t be tolerated. You couldn’t afford to lose food or have clothing ruined. Fortunately, your clothes would be fine after a wash, but the discarded food was a different story.

You dab at your tank top with a washcloth and pause to look at your reflection in the mirror. It was all too easy to recall how quickly you’d reached your limit after Allan’s ridiculous ploy. Your face is still wet from crying, eyes puffy, and lips parted as you took deep breaths.

There’s no use crying over spilled milk, you thought. Or in my case, spilled lunch.

After composing yourself, you decide it’s time to go back out there and face the music. You toss the damp rag aside and march determinedly out of the empty washroom. To your surprise, you smack right into another individual coming in. You instantly recognize the blonde hair and grumbles of complaint as he reels from the collision.

“Oi, shank, watch where you’re going-” Newt quickly realizes it’s you and clamps his mouth shut, extending his hands to each of your shoulders to steady you gently. He takes in the sight of your tear-stained face with his eyes showing clear concern. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?”

“Oh, just… Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Newt looks far from convinced, and you lower your gaze. He’s about to inquire further, but a familiar voice sounds from outside the washroom.

“Hey, _______!” Allan calls tauntingly, making you freeze up. “How’s it going in there?”

Newt’s eyes instantly flash, and his face scrunches up anger. You can hardly believe it when Allan continues.

“Sorry about my clumsiness earlier. Maybe I can make it up to you. Come on out before I go in there!”

Newt can’t contain himself anymore. He turns on his heel and heads out of the washroom, and you follow behind just to see the look on Allan’s face when he realizes he’s been caught.

It is so worth it. Allan’s stupid grin falls hard into a look of horror as the Second-in-Command approaches him furiously. He doesn’t lay a hand on him, but he looks like he’s awfully close when he jabs a pointer finger in his direction.

“If I ever catch you bothering her, or even breathing in her general direction again, you’ll be a permanent Slopper for the rest of your time here in the Glade. Do you understand, shank?”

Allan nods quickly, and doesn’t even wait to be dismissed. He just hurries away, leaving you and Newt both standing there watching him flee.

“Coward,” he mumbles. Then, Newt turns to you, resting a hand on your arm in a comforting gesture. “I mean it, you know. He’ll never bother you again.”

. . . Minho . . .

It’s hard not to panic when you glance up and can no longer see the sun above you. It’s the end of the day, and you’re nearly out of time. The lightning pain that shoots through your ankle suddenly just becomes too much. You lean against one of the ivy-covered walls and exhale.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” you say aloud, and the words weigh heavily on you. You mentally scold yourself. You can’t afford to think that way. A Runner knows better. With a wince, you continue limping on your way. It’s not that the exit from the Maze isn’t close. If memory serves you right (which it did), it wasn’t too far at all… but at your pace, it would take a lot of effort and some good luck to get you back in time.

Just when you are about to give up again, you hear footsteps rapidly approaching. Your first thought is that perhaps your cowardly companion had a change of heart, but the footsteps didn’t match.

“Hello?” you call.

“_________!” Minho’s voice responds, and your heart swells with hope. You aren’t out of the woods just yet, but your chances were much better with help. Minho nearly slides to a stop in front of you, instantly taking your arm and putting it around his broad shoulders to help you up. There is no time to stop and compare notes, so you update him as he begins helping you back along the path.

“I sprained my ankle.” You hold onto Minho like he’s your lifeline as you push through the pain to keep up with his pace. He’s right to go so fast. Time is running out.

“Where’s Derek?” he asks with a grunt.

“He…he left me,” you gasp in pain. “I think he was worried he wouldn’t make it out in time if he helped me.”

Minho goes quiet for a moment, and you can practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves. His eyes are focused straight ahead at the path, and he huffs. Finally, he bites out a sarcastic comment. “I think it’s safe to say that he’s getting demoted from being a Runner.”

You keep talking, trying to distract the both of you from the familiar groan of the Maze walls shifting. “Why did you come out here?”

“Because it was getting late in the day, and no one had seen you,” he pants. “Usually, you check in with me right away. I knew something had to be wrong.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

You continue limping with all your might toward the gate, feeling your heart jump, as the walls on either side begin their agonizingly slow crawl to a close. There’s a small group standing on the other side, ushering you both out anxiously. It was mostly Keepers, a select few who had been informed of the problem by Minho.

The two of you fell onto the green grass, gasping for breath, while the others surrounded you. Alby knelt down beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. You just let yourself breathe, tears welling up in your eyes from relief.

“So it’s true?” Gally questioned, brows raised. “Derek left her in there.” “Yes,” Minho replied, sitting up. “And he will face the consequences.” He looked over at you, finally catching his breath. “You’re safe now.”

. . . Gally . . .

James had been haunting your steps for far too long. He was always there, always hanging around, and sometimes showing up at the most alarming of instances. What could be done about it? It wasn’t as if he’d taken severe enough action to warrant disciplinary measures, you thought. He was only ever seen staring at you, smirking, and just being an all-around jerk at times.

This time, he’d snatched your tools away from your working station while your back was turned. After uncovering a particularly tough old root, you turned around to get a spade to chop it up, only to see that your things were gone.

A few laughs caught your attention, and you glanced over to see James and one of his shadows standing there, staring at you from several feet away. You couldn’t say for certain, but it seemed like they had something to do with your missing tools.

So, now you’re debating with yourself on the best course of action. Do you ignore him and try to rustle up some extra tools from Newt or Zart? Or do you bother to give this shank the attention he’s so desperately seeking to get your stuff back?

You don’t really like the latter option. Frankly, James gives you the creeps. The last thing you want is to play his little game… But every minute that you spend deliberating is wasted time that could be put towards helping the Glade.

As much as you despise indulging him, you find yourself marching right over to his work area. Both James and his minion are laughing in amusement, shoving each other at the sight of you approaching.

“Do you know where my tools went?” you ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I might,” James replies cryptically. “And I might be willing to strike up a bargain for that information.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “What could you possibly want?”

“Ohh, I don’t know…Perhaps a kiss will do.”

You make a face as the disgust hits you. “Seriously?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Yeah, that’s going to be a ‘no’ for me.” You wave off the concept, turning around. You decided that your best bet is to find some spare tools. This just wasn’t worth all the trouble. Just as you start to leave, James comes running around to block you.

“Hey now, I didn’t say you could go.”

“Yeah, you might want to think about his offer,” James’ lackey said from behind you. The two of them close in, and you clench your fists in preparation to fight. If you make enough commotion, you’re sure that someone will notice and come to your aid.

You give him one last chance. “Let me pass.”

“Come on, just one kiss. Unless you want more than one after that-” to your relief, James is cut off by a new voice interjecting.

“What’s going on here?” The three of you turn to see Gally standing there, sweating from whatever project he was working on,with dirt and wood shavings on his clothes. His expression looks expectant as he waits for an explanation, though his tall and bulky form makes him appear positively dangerous as he stares the two guys down with his hands resting on his hips.

“I, uh.. We…” They break off in stutters and fumbled words.

“I’m fairly certain they have my tools,” you say, and Gally’s famous arched brows raise at the two guys in disbelief.

“Is that so?” As Gally walks forward, he plants his palms harshly on James’ shoulder, shoving him clear out of the way. James stumbles unceremoniously, almost falling straight into the grass. Gally walks over to the bench and pauses. He picks up a bundle of leather and tosses it to you, the tools rattling inside. “Are those yours?”

You recognize it immediately. “Yes, these are the ones.”

“You shanks had better never even speak to her again. Understand?” He stares at each of them pointedly with all the authority of a Keeper, and they both nod. With that, Gally walks up to you and ushers you away with a warm, gentle hand on your back protectively.

“Your timing was impeccable,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

“They won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I think you already have,” you chuckle.

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drgnflyteabox · 24 days

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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harryspet · 1 month

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homestead [5] r.cameron

[warnings] dark!rafe cameron x pregnant!mom!reader, farmer!rafe, pogue!reader, jj maybank x reader, kidnapping, dominant!rafe, dad!rafe, descriptions of birth, NONCON, little editing,READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: Pls reblog and let me know what you think!

word count: 3.1k

In which you settle into a new routine on the farm and your new life takes shape around you.

homestead masterlist

Your ring finally fit again, the swelling in your hands having gone down. It was beautiful, you realized again, and a reminder that you were more than Rafe’s captive. The paperwork didn’t matter to him, and the formalities were meaningless in his eyes.

His connection with you was primal, bound by something more profound than vows. He would love you in sickness and health and vowed to provide for you and your baby, no matter the cost.

Two months have passed since you gave birth to a healthy baby boy. You had longed to meet him, but your pregnancy had been filled with anxiety. Despite your hopes, you couldn’t shake the fear that something would go wrong during your home birth. And in the end, you had no control over the most important day of your life. Rafe had promised to be open-minded, but you soon realized his words were hollow.

He hired a midwife, an older, experienced nurse named Mabel, whom you had met twice before the big day. When your water broke, she was at your home within thirty minutes, a testament to her dedication. Despite the fear and anxiety you felt, Mabel was a steady presence. She guided you through each contraction, her hands firm yet gentle, her voice calm and reassuring.

She held your hand throughout the process and praised you when you felt you were at the end of your rope. Hunched over the edge of the master bathtub, warm water caressing the naked bottom half of your body, you faced a raging storm inside you. The pain was indescribable, but you felt a responsibility to your unborn child. The least you could do for him was try your hardest.

You screamed loud enough you thought you might lose your voice entirely. You expected Rafe to falter, to show signs of fear, but his resolve didn’t falter. He hadn’t lied before about his confidence in you, about how deeply he believed you’d be a good mother. You could see in his eyes that he was the most proud of you that he’d ever been.

“She’s an old lady, but she’s got grandkids. Three boys and two girls. I’m sure they want to see her again. If you say anything out of line, I’ll make sure she doesn’t ever leave here,” He’d warned you earlier, and his threat lingered in the air. You focused on the baby just as you had since you arrived here.

You cried even more after your final push when your son’s cries filled the room. They echoed, the most beautiful sounds you could hear in that moment, and you were happy to be able to hold him immediately.

In that moment, the house you associated with being controlled turned into a home. You’d endured here and brought life into the world despite everything.

You had braced yourself for the sight of JJ, but instead, your baby looked like any other newborn—red-faced, furrowed brow, and already expressing his displeasure at the world. Fragile and tiny, he was a perfect, delicate being. Surprisingly, you managed to walk to the bedroom that night. Mabel and Rafe helped you through your exhaustion beyond anything you’d ever known. The constant cries of your baby kept you alert, preventing you from drifting off.

Kai, your baby boy, was carefully assessed by Mabel. She was the one to cut the umbilical cord, a request you’d made to her during your last meeting. She wrapped a warm towel around his body and checked his heart rate, made sure he was able to breathe correctly by suctioning his airways and placed him back on your chest when she felt he didn’t need any immediate care. You couldn’t remember exactly, but you could’ve sworn she complimented you. You were a natural, and at that moment, you believed her.

Never in your life had you done something so natural, so innate, and now the heart in your chest was open in a way you didn’t realize it was capable of being. Open for Kai. You loved him instantly, in a way you’d never felt towards anyone – not even JJ.

You cried the entire time. Your cheeks were wet with tears, but your body moved the way it needed to.

Throughout it all, you cried. Your cheeks were damp with tears, but you moved as needed. You cradled Kai while Mabel tended to your injuries, checking for hemorrhaging and monitoring your vitals. She continued to guide you, and though you knew the real challenge was just beginning, you were grateful for her support. This wasn’t how you envisioned it, but dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything.

Despite how close you were to falling asleep, this was the time you had to learn because Mabel wouldn’t be here forever. You wished you’d read more books about parenting like Rafe had suggested when learning to breastfeed. You were clumsy with that part of things, unsure of the positioning, and you battled with the fear that you wouldn’t be able to produce enough.

Now, two months later, you worried for the time that Kai wouldn’t need you. He was so tiny, to little to think about at that time, but you hated to admit how much you enjoyed the feeling of being needed. You felt it with Rafe now that he relied on you to keep the house together and the more intimate ways that he needed your attention.

It seemed he’d had the time frame of four to six weeks embedded in his mind. Four to six weeks without sex to allow for proper healing. During that time, he had kept his distance, allowing you to heal. But once your body began to return to normal, and you could swap the adult diapers for regular underwear, you noticed a change in him. There was a raw, almost animalistic instinct in him that recognized when your body was ready again. The shift was subtle but undeniable, and you were drawn back into his orbit.

Rafe had started growing out his facial hair, which you had playfully dubbed a “dad stache.” That nickname once led to a playful tackle and laughter-filled tickle fight that filled you with joy. You had expected to see less of him with the baby as an excuse to keep you apart, but instead, he adapted. He worked from home more often, bringing Kai with him and letting him nap in a bassinet beside his desk.

You thought you’d be weary of them being alone together as you were still getting used to this new Rafe. To you, he was still the guy who did lines of cocaine at high school parties and perfectly drove a yacht when his blood alcohol was way over the legal limit. There were still lots of moments where he needed your help, but he seemed to take pride in being able to handle Kai on his own.

Now and then, you’d get an eerie feeling, realizing you’d settled into a routine. You’d spend weeks happy, not crying or thinking of JJ and Pope. It hit you like a ton of bricks when you remembered, and you’d often go quiet. It was a pit of sadness that was hard to pull yourself out of.

As you looked down at your beautiful ring, you marveled at how normal it felt to wear it. Keeping it in its box seemed like a waste, especially since the ring wasn’t to blame for past wrongs. It could symbolize whatever you choose to make of it. When you glanced up, Rafe was walking through the front door. Molly greeted him with enthusiastic barks until he quieted her with a gentle shush and a pat behind her ears. He correctly assumed Kai was sleeping.

You folded your hands behind your back, watching the smile that pulled at his lips. He flipped his ball cap so the brim was facing behind him, undoubtedly to keep his locks from his face. Your eyes trailed down to his t-shirt and then his arms, seemingly having grown even more prominent when you’d been reunited with him. The way he looked in work clothes certainly wasn’t fair. He looked even more like himself, better than ever than he had in a blazer and tie.

“Hey,” His crystal eyes found yours, “How’s it going?”

The whisper in his voice, this new tone the two of you now spoke in because of the baby, was the icing on top. You squeezed your thighs together, grateful for the long smock dress you were wearing, officially signaled to you how out of whack your hormones were.

“Lunch is ready,” you said quickly, pointing to the neat plate of caprese sandwiches you’d made.

“Looks great, Honey. I’m starved.”

He walked by you, towards the the sink to wash his hands, but you were looking away. You grabbed two plates and two glasses, setting them down in front of the kitchen island’s bar stools. You started making your plate before you poured both of your glasses of pink lemonade.

“This a recipe from the book?” He asked before immediately chugging down half of his glass.

“No, I kind of just threw together what we had in the fridge,” You answered, grabbing ahold of your sandwich. Rafe was already taking a massive bite out of his, “How is it?”

“Fucking delicious. Is that pesto?” He responded, his mouth a little too full.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, taking a bite of yours. “Pesto, tomato, mozzarella, and spinach. And that ciabatta bread you get from the market. It’s so good.” You recited the ingredients, deciding that you were quite impressed with your work.

“Reminds me, I need to go down there soon. Make a list of everything you need, will you?”

You nodded, “I will.”

The thought of going with him crossed your mind. Being inside for so long was starting to make you slightly agoraphobic. Now that you have Kai, you understand that you need to protect him and keep him from the dangers of the outside world.

After lunch, Rafe pitched in to help with the kitchen clean up while you prepped ingredients for dinner. Tasks you’d never learned in foster care, like defrosting meat properly or dicing vegetables, were becoming more familiar.

You stole glances at Rafe, of his muscular back that you could see clearly when he bent over the sink and his long fingers splayed out over a cloth as he dried dishes. To gain some space, you took the baby monitor from the counter and quietly moved down the small hallways near the kitchen, deciding to catch up on some laundry. With Kai, there was even less time in the day to get things done, so you’d begin cramming your chores into his nap time.

You were listening to the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the washing machine, folding towels on the counter space near the window. Hands-on your hips jolted you from the escape your mind had reached, completing such a monotonous activity.

There was no point in saying his name; you knew it was him, and you froze, letting the unfolded towel you were holding crumple beneath you. He pressed into you, pinning your front to the counter. The height of the counter, right at your waist, allowed him to wrap his arm around your front and bend you over.

“I’m doing something!” You yelped when he pushed he pushed your front back down after you tried to straighten yourself. He pressed his face into your neck, chuckling, seemingly amused at your defiance.

“You know what you do to me, don’t you?” He grunted, and your eyes widened as you felt him hiking up your dress. He made sure you felt exactly what you did to him, hard and pressing against your bottom, “You feel how hard you make me?”

“I’m serious,” The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine, and deep down, you were grateful for the friction. It had been so long since you’d been touched the way you needed. This isn’t how you wanted it to happen and it certainly was a stark contrast to how he’d treated you when you were further along in your pregnancy. There was no passionate makeout or a gentle massage. It reminded you of what you already knew he was capable of, “Rafe, please–”

He kicked open your legs, pressing into you harder, one hand firmly on your back as he pressed you into the counter, “You don’t need to fight it. You’re mine, remember? I take care of you.”

“Yes, just please–” His palm slammed hard down on your bottom, and you gripped the towels in front of you tightly. Whatever view he was getting of you was pleasing. He brought his hands down several times, surely leaving bruises and making your legs tremble as you tried to escape the pain, “Rafe, stop! That hurts!”

He shushed you, “Stop fucking moving then,” He continued his assault, only stopping when you gained enough strength to still your legs. You kept them still as you could despite how the skin of your bottom burned. He stepped backward. You didn’t dare move again, and you heard the clinking of his belt and the undoing of his zipper, “Atta girl, stay bent over, but reach back and pull your panties down.”

“Rafe, please don’t be so rough,” Your voice was low as you tried to settle down your racing thoughts.

“Honey,” His voice was raw, slightly pleading, “I need you like this. Pull your panties down.”

You felt the same hunger, needed to quench the same thirst, but demons haunted him. He could be gentle when he wanted but this is what he truly desired. You cringed when you heard him spit, assuming it was into his hand because you were scared to look back at him. His hand was now lubricated; you heard him pumping at his length.

Slowly, you reached behind to pull down your panties, revealing more of the bottom he’d just bruised, “Fuck,” He cursed, “Touch yourself, Honey.”

You did as he said, knowing the feeling would be more soothing than him spanking you again. Mostly, you were hesitant, knowing that you were revealing how wet you already were, how just looking at him earlier left stickiness on your thighs.

“You like when I tell you what to do, don’t you?”

“Rafe,” You pleaded, and he knew what that meant.

“You need someone like me. Tell you what to do. No thoughts in your pretty little head,” You felt him come closer as you continued to rub slow circles, “Yeah? Tell me, Honey.”

“I … I like it,” You needed him inside you and for the process to hurry itself up. Your mind was emptying; all you knew was that every word and every inch he came closer made you feel like you were on fire.

“What do you like, Honey?”

“I like … w-when you tell me what to do.”

“You need me, don’t you?”

“Yes, Rafe,” You moaned, “Just … fuck, please Rafe–”

“Tell me,” A hard spank made you yelp. You watched as he placed the same hand against the counter, right by your face. You kept circling.

“Please, can you put it inside?” You begged softly.

“So polite,” He praised, and you felt him at your entrance. You expected him to enter you slowly, to torture you, but Rafe slid inside you in one swift motion. You cried out as his other hand roughly grabbed your waist as he drove into you harshly.

It was painful before it was pleasurable. He grabbed your arm so you were no longer touching yourself before pinning both your wrists behind you. You watched the baby monitor in front of you fall over at the rough motion.

The counter’s edge dug into your hips, his length nudged against your cervix, your ass was throbbing from the spanking, but you hung onto that feeling of finally feeling filled. His grunts filled the small room, along with the steady thrum of the washing machine and the soft static of the monitor.

There was nowhere to go, and his wrists only tightened, “I’m gonna put another baby in you,” Almost against your will, your climax came faster than you realized, and it tore through you hard and fast. Rafe took it as a sign that your body wanted this. This was the first time he could get you pregnant, and you were naive to think he would want to take things slowly.

“Rafe, I can’t.”

“You will; you’re doing so good for me,” He spoke huskily, ignoring you, his pace still relentless. Tears of pleasure and pain filled your eyes and escaped down your cheeks, “I’ll show you … Fuck, I’m so lucky.”

His body tensed as he spilled into you with a final and forceful thrust. As he let go of your wrists, his hands trailed over your hips, his grip starting to soften. You stayed there, frozen, as he kissed the side of your neck and then your temple.

In the aftermath, a softness emerged in his tone, “You okay?”

When you didn’t answer, his arms tightened around you, lifting you off your feet. Numb and strangely satisfied, you wrestled with a creeping regret. Part of you questioned whether you should have fought harder, but another part wondered if this was simply how things were meant to be—if this was what you deserved.

With panties still loose around your thighs, Rafe brought you upstairs to the shared bedroom. He placed you on your feed inside the bathroom before helping you out. You folded your hands in your lap, looking down at your ring. “Relax,” he said, “Clean yourself up.”

“But Kai-”

“I’ll check on him,” Rafe assured you.

“He’ll need a feeding soon.”

“Clean up first, lay in the bed, and I’ll bring him to you.”

“Okay,” You agreed.

There was no apology from him—only an acceptance of his own nature and an expectation for you to do the same

You showered like he’d instructed, but that didn't take away the feeling of him being deep inside of you. Your bottom stung worse under the warm water, but you accepted the small amount of refreshment it offered. You dressed in a soft, white robe before you climbed into the bed. The rest of the afternoon was quiet.

Rafe sat beside you as you fed Kai, his gaze steady and watchful. Thirty minutes later, the three of you settled into a peaceful mid-afternoon nap: Kai nestled in his bassinet by your side of the bed, and you resting in the secure embrace of Rafe’s arms.

You don’t forget your old life because you choose to, but because your heart needs to make space—space for Kai and the future Rafe is determined to build within you. There was no room left for pain.

I hope you enjoyed it! I'm not sure if I want to add anything else, I feel like this could be considered a good conclusion. Let me know your thoughts!

#rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #dark fic #rafe obx #rafe cameron x black!reader #outer banks smut #black!reader #obx fic

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cravemeintellectually · 8 months

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#day 2 of romanticizing my life #sunrises at my farm #are my favorite #personal #homesteading #sunrise

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derinthescarletpescatarian · 5 months

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Waiting for a painter this morning I started watching one of those home building/renovation shows (on iview because no matter how I try I can't get my smartTV to play actual television channels using the aerial) and as someone whose diet of such shows primarily comes from youtube these days, where I watch people who can't afford rent renovate a van to live in, or on the really glitzy side of things pensioners invest their life savings into a modest homestead and build a permaculture garden out the back, I saw this guy buy a rundown groundskeeper's hut on the edge of a graveyard and be like 'I'm going to restore this place to live in with my ten year old son' and I was like 'hell yeah'.

Only to be immediately cold cocked because the guy was a member of the British aristocracy who grew up in an enormous historic manor, and his plan was to knock down the non-protected parts of the building to dig an enormous basement twice the size of my house, so he could build an underground and aboveground level of his new house that was bland modern trash connected directly to the historic building, for a five bedroom home with its own sauna and a massive wine cellar, to live with alone and with one preteen son part time. And he was fretting because the builders were like 'this will cost four million' and he didn't want to go beyond 2 million. The whole time the construction crews are digging he's like 'there's a risk that this old historic building might just fall into the fucking ground because we're digging a wine cellar underneath it. I hope we don't dig up any unmarked graves this far out from the cemetary, that would cost us so much money." Deeply unrelateable life experience, deeply unrelateable life choices.

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teastainedprose · 4 months

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Too Sweet - Ch. 1 (Cooper Howard x Reader)

A settler selling wares in Filly catches The Ghoul's eye. Inspired by a Tumblr post asking for an angst fic to Hozier's Too Sweet. 1,753 words | [AO3] No warnings yet, only innocent flirting. Banner from @eupheme

The first time he spots you, Cooper thinks nothing of it. Sure, you look a little less worn down compared to the usual rabble roaming Filly. Certainly scrubbed a little cleaner than most but so were the rest of your companions. The lot of you are a curiosity for sure, but he's seen plenty of attractive women over the ages and known a handful carnally. He's not the sort of man to let a pretty face distract him. No, you don't get a second glance from the ghoul as he goes about his business.

It's not until your laughter catches Cooper by the ear that he starts paying attention. Jerks his head right round at the sunny sound, attention diverting from the bounty board as he watches you engage with a customer. You laugh again, a merry delight that lights your face right up while the elderly woman you're chatting with laughs along. She's made brighter for being so close to you while you've suddenly become the sun in Cooper's eyes. A brightness he has to squint at when he looks over again to drink you in. His long-dead heart decides that it's about time to do a little flip.

That's a sensation he's not keen on feeling. Cooper hums under his breath, frown settling on his worn lips. He tugs the brim of his hat lower, turning away as he tries to focus on the task at hand. No good can come of fancying any sort of infatuation on a smoothie like you. You're not the sort of creature deserving of the trouble he could bring.

Yet Cooper finds he can't quite help himself. Wasteland life is full of little pleasures and looking at you sure counts as a bit of pleasure. Why not indulge?

The rest of the day as he sits waiting for a client to show, his eyes flicker over you. Wherever you're from, it's certainly kinder to you than what most folks in the Wasteland see. You almost look as soft as some fresh-faced Vaultie, but he can see that your hands are well-worn as you exchange produce for caps. A farmer of sorts. Homesteader.

He listens with a keener ear to the gossip swirling about you and those in your group. A little settler band situated out east, closer to the mountains and closer to what manages to grow green. He picks up that your lot wanders in every few weeks with produce to sell, or trade to stock up the settlement the collective group runs.

Idly, he wonders what horseshit sort of ideology your commune might be sunk into, but if you're looking to spread a new sort of gospel none of your ilk seem keen on sharing it here. You're a welcome addition to the economy of Filly and it's clear that many enjoy the taste of hope this band of settlers bring in with their harvest. Cooper figures that's indoctrination enough from the harsh reality the Wasteland offers up.

Cooper finds himself wandering over to Ma June's place under the pretense of stocking up on supplies. There's suspicion in her eyes as he drops his intended purchases onto the counter but that's not out of the ordinary. There's always suspicion in the looks Ma June gives him, but she'll take his caps all the same.

"Say, now what's with that group of lil' farmers hauling in their produce like that? Can't imagine those soft-lookin' sorts making their way all the way here unmolested," he drawls out. His smile is crooked as Cooper counts through his caps to pay.

"Settlers, but the well-armed sort. No point in trifling with them. Too well-liked here for their fresh food supply they haul in," Ma June pulls the caps towards her, gaze fixed on the ghoul as she mutters. "They'll trade with ya, but keep out of their business. Ya hear?"

A hum escapes Cooper as he considers this, leaning onto the counter while glancing out the dusty window towards where you stand at the stall. He casually stashes his purchases into his saddlebag while going on conversationally. "Well- Is that so? They a regular sort of fixture here in Filly now?"

"Have been setting up that stall going on half a year now. Surprised you've yet to come across 'em. Best cherry tomatoes you'll find in the Wasteland." Ma June eases back, arms crossing over her chest as a sour look settles in place on her worn face.

Another speculative hum escapes Cooper as he digests this information before he tips his hat to Ma June and goes on his way. Which happens to lead him straight to your stall.

Once there, Cooper casually plucks up potatoes, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and okra. All of it looks as vegetables should, the sort he would have found at the grocery store before everything went to shit.

"How much for this lot?" He sets the small bounty atop the open space on the stall. Cooper gives you his Hollywood smile that would charm the pants off of any woman in bygone days, except now his face is a leathery wreck and his teeth are yellowed with age. Most people instantly flinch away in disgust.

Not you.

You smile like the morning sun towards him as you step closer while dusting your hands off on your pants. The bit of dirt smeared on your face only seems to enhance your features in Cooper's eyes. The look you give him is almost shy once you meet his gaze, smiling warmly up to him.

Cooper finds that curious. He's familiar with a scowl or grimace of disgust when anyone looks him in the face, but here you are gracing him with an easy smile. A customer is a customer, he figures, and he'll do well enough. Yet, your friendliness doesn't feel like an act. Even after all these years, Cooper Howard still can clock other actors.

"Fifteen caps for the whole lot, but I'll throw in an extra sweet potato for the smile." You wink. Wink right at him as your smile grows. "They're good for ya, handsome." You add casually, the smile tugging up further into a cheeky grin. Your expression shifts. Playful. Coy. Interested.

Ain't that something? Cooper doesn't falter at the full force of your attention. He's too old and worn for that, but he sure does grin right back with a twinkle in his eye. Even an old ghoul like him can enjoy a pretty thing like you openly flirting with him.

Now that he’s heard it, Cooper decides your voice is sweet as a silver bell. The sort of soothing tone that reminds him of rain softly pelting a windowpane. It's the sort of sound that makes him wish to stay and listen for a while, tucked into the warmth that he suddenly wants you to offer up. He wants to get you talking to hear more. Wonders how he can coax you into a conversation.

That’s a fucking stupid idea. Cooper mentally shakes himself free of the passing fancy, head tilting ever so slightly as he peers down at you from the shadow of his hat. "Mhm. Ain't trying to get me hooked now are you, sweetheart?

"Something like that."

“Well now, reckon vegetables ain’t the worst sort of vice a man can get lost in.” Cooper still can’t help himself. He lets his eyes wander right down your body before flicking back up to your face, what sort of vice he’s pondering made clear.

That flush on your cheeks blooms all the hotter as you laugh for him, the sound an utter delight when directed his way. You smile, sweet and shy now as you pluck up a hefty sweet potato to set beside the rest of his purchases.

“Oh, well-” You start, stop with a small shake of your head as you smile all the wider. Utterly disarmed.

Cooper counts out the requested coin with a speculative hum, mirth sparking in his eyes as it seems he’s rendered you speechless. It’s down-right adorable if he’s being honest with himself. You’re a right little temptation he’d like to play with further. A dangerous thought.

Setting the coins onto the counter, he's swift in sweeping up his new bounty and stowing it all away into a pouch within his saddle bag. This close you're too bright and Cooper knows he's in trouble. Best to break away before you pull him into your orbit in full.

“You take care of yourself now, sweetheart,” Cooper drawls. He tips his hat towards you and turns away with spurs clicking. You watch him go, cheeks still flaming.

You know who he is. The Ghoul, the most famous Bounty Hunter the radiated Wastelands has to offer. You've heard all the rumors and truer tales about him all your life but nothing could prepare you for seeing him in the flesh. A dangerous sort of creature. A man who always brings his bounty in.

You'd been watching him all day, stealing glances as you work. Now that you've seen him up close and personal? You're down-right fascinated. He’s nothing like the monster the stories painted him out to be. At least, he certainly wasn’t monstrous to you. There’s something captivating about him. Charming, even.

You’ve seen ghouls before, of course. You know their kind as some live on the settlement with you. The majority end up shambling and ungainly, limbs no longer listening as the radiation rot wars with their regeneration abilities. A confusion that makes most of them uncoordinated and awkward in their transformed bodies, but The Ghoul? He’s got a swagger to his step that reminds you of those cowboys you’ve seen on ancient holotapes.

He’s been lurking at the edge of your awareness all day, your head cocking in his direction to listen to the cadence of his voice as he bartered for bullets and talked business outside of the bar over yonder.

A thrill had jolted through you the moment he started to move towards your stall. The nervous energy thrumming through you had been made all the worse when you met The Ghoul’s gaze for the first time. A woman could find herself lost in such eyes and you’d certainly tripped right into them. Boldly meeting this stranger’s gaze and enjoying every second his attention was on you.

Shame he left so quickly. You sigh, turning back to count out bottlecaps he’d left as you turn your attention back to work. Best not to think about it. You’re unlikely to see that legend ever again.

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout fanfic #fallout writing #cooper howard #the ghoul #x reader #x you #I got 6 pages of writing and outlinings #wew #one day I'll finish a fucking fic #I'll just keep bouncing between this and Play With Fire #and finish..eventually #🍵 Too Sweet #there will be ACTION and SEX and ANGST #yeyeye #go big or go home I guess

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ceilidho · 1 year

Text

in the cauldron boil and bake

prompt: pretty little witch who lives in a cottage in the forest who sometimes eats wayward travellers but Ghost has some kind of magic repulsion aura that doesn’t allow her to use her powers on him. (ON AO3) tags: very nsfw, implied/lightly described violence, dubcon/noncon, noncon spanking, implied cannibalism (just in general, not with the pairing lol); 5.5k

He moves at a pace too slow for you to make out with the naked eye, but you feel it creeping through you.

The vision of him appears in a dream first, a premonition. A hulking figure trekking through the woods. You snuggle deeper under the covers and scrunch up your nose in your sleep. In the morning, you go outside to harvest the holly leaves and buttercup and return home dreaming of tender, slow cooked meat. It’s been awhile since you last had a proper meal. When you hang up the laundry to dry, you chew on peppermint cuttings and try not to salivate.

In the centuries you’ve lived in these woods, travellers have come and gone. You don’t eat every single one that happens to pass by—that would be a surefire way to get your forest branded as bedevilled and a longer route established circumnavigating your grove. You might be hungry, but you’re prudent, careful. Not like some other witches these days, greedy for any morsel that happens to pass in front of them.

No; you take care of your woods. You have to, if you plan on remaining here for the centuries to come. If a few travellers happen to disappear here and there, that’s simply life. Not everyone can make treacherous journeys.

You always have a sense of when a traveller is nearby. It’s as though your being is embedded within the forest itself, privy to those who dwell within it. You feel him along the outer regions of the forest, a lone traveller hauling not more than himself and a rucksack filled with the bare essentials. He appears to you in flashes in your dreams, not the full image of him but piecemeal, a shadow obscuring his full face from you. You see only tendons and meat on his bones, a rough hewn strength to his limbs, touch muscle and fat wrapped around his middle.

It makes you giddy to think of him circling ever closer to your spider’s web at the centre of the forest. After him, you won’t be hungry for years.

Your restless leg acts up the day you know that he’s close enough to approach. All morning, you sit at the little table in your kitchen and rip lavender buds from the stems, black shoes tap-tapping away at the floor. The broom sweeps by itself in the corner, sweeping the dust into a neat pile. When you snap your fingers, it’s brusque, impatient. The broom halts in midair and then clatters against the floorboards. The chair scrapes against the floor as you rise to your feet.

“Come, come, Asphodel,” you whisper to the black cat curled up on the windowsill, which barely lifts her head enough to blink at you. “No more dallying. Mommy’s hungry.”

In a show of great defiance and disrespect, Asphodel merely meows at you and lays her head back down. Insipid little familiar.

You go off on your own then, keen to see the travellers with your own eyes. Jowls growing tighter. Robe cinched tight around you and hair pinned back by a thin strand of velvet. The days have just begun to shorten, just begun to exhale frost and rot. The leaves however, by agreement, do not crunch under your feet and give you away. You are a phantom amidst the trees as you flank the lone traveller, following the breadth of him as he traverses past your homestead.

It’s fortunate that you are not beholden to physics because he is formidable. Broad as a man might be, no less sizable than in your dreams, but much more menacing in the flesh. He too moves quietly in the brush, with a care and precision that you have not seen many humans employ.

He conceals the lower half of his face with a black piece of fabric, which you had mistaken for shadows. Not so. It is a deliberate concealment, meant to unnerve. Without magic, you might not have approached.

His size alone isn’t enough to frighten you though. You are two hundred years old and you have eaten men twice his size when you were naught but a babe.

You step out into the clearing just a few paces from him, halting the man in his tracks.

“Hello,” you call out tentatively, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “C-can you help me? I think I’ve lost my way.”

At this point in your career, it takes a bit to hide the smile that threatens to break. You are like the spider posing as a fly. The show is half the fun though.

The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem shocked at your presence, arms loose by his sides. It makes your stomach clench, the script flipped a bit. It should be you, loose and limber, and the wayward traveller tense and nonplussed, then eager to help the lost girl. You wait a moment longer for him to respond, but he remains silent, blue eyes unblinking.

“Can you help me?” you repeat, taking a step closer. The tendrils of your magic slither out of you, snaking across the forest floor towards him. “I’m lost. Can you help me find my way out?”

Your magic finds his boots in the dirt like mycelium threads, the pulse of him rich and earthen. It makes the saliva pool in your mouth, hunger gnawing at your guts. He will taste so good. Meaty and huge, enough to last you the winter. You take another step closer despite his continued silence, a tad too eager. You only need a moment though, long enough for your magic to take root, to render him febrile and inert. When he collapses to the ground, you will float his body back and rend him limb from limb by your hearth.

Another step brings you closer to him when your magic suddenly recoils, unwinds from him. You frown. You try sending it back, but your magic shrinks away, an atavistic fear blooming up in you. It does not want near this man.

A cold sweat breaks out on your neck. The hairs on your neck and arms stand on end.

The masked man staring back at you tilts his head, the skin under his eyes crinkling with a smile that you cannot see. Suddenly eldritch, blood-curdling.

“Now, what are you?” he asks with a rumbling voice, rough from disuse, and takes a step towards you.

You trip over your feet scrambling back. Branches from a nearby tree scoop towards you, catching you before you tumble down into the soft dirt. He advances quickly on you, big hand finding now the hatchet strapped to his side and pulling it out, the thing dwarfed in his massive paw.

“Stay back—stay back—” you hiss, the branches listening to your fear and dragging you away from the man. “Leave—I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do what?” he asks, taunting. Just a twinge of it, as if he can’t help that he has a predilection to mock.

He catches up to you fast enough, the strides of his long legs enough to eat up the distance. When you whip the branches towards him, they stop mere inches from him, giving him ample time to bat them away. The ones that get close enough meet his hatchet, a single cleave enough to sever them from the tree. You don’t feel the tree’s pain, but where his blade meets your magic—a thin coating along the branches, like extended, ghost limbs of your own—it stings.

“Stay back!” you shriek, heart pumping away ferociously. Your voice comes out like a caterwaul. He’s too close now though, towering over you, the bitter smell of old sweat and musk. Up close, he does not smell like anything you know. He smells sun bleached, the rust of old blood like the blades in your shed after a long season’s hunt.

“What sort of girl—” he starts, hand fisting in your hair and wrenching your head back, “—ambushes strange men in forests? Do you have a death wish?”

To have him touch you is singularly terrifying. You haven’t been touched in a hundred years, certainly not by a human. His touch sends you skittering back, but he has you trapped in place. Your shoes dig into the dirt when you try to push yourself away, hands pressed against his chest much to your distress.

“Men can’t kill me,” you hiss, fingers clawing at the hand holding you in place, scratching at him with the little nails that you never bothered to grow out.

You can’t see the whole of his face, but his expression is undoubtedly unimpressed. “I could kill you easily, girl.”

“I’m not a girl—I’m a witch.”

“A witch is a girl.”

“I eat girls,” you snap, so angry now that spittle drips from your mouth. You shrink back when he wipes it away with a gloved hand. “I eat men like you too. If you are a man.”

You say that because the way your magic curls away from him has you on edge. Humans may not scare you, but eldritch, ancient monsters do and they hunt little witches like you. Usually not in your own woods, but stranger things have happened.

“‘Course I’m a man. Look at me.”

He presses the whole length of his body against yours, dragging you so close to him by your hair that you almost rise up onto your toes. He’s solid all the way through, only a bit of give around his middle. There’s something distinctly hard pressing against your low belly. It leaves you flustered, hot under your collar. An unfamiliar heat in your core, legs clenching on nothing. You give in to the instinctive urge to look down, but pressed so close to him, there’s little to see beyond the wideness of his chest, covered by a brown tunic laced up the front.

“Means nothing. Plenty of things look like other things. I look like a girl but I am not,” you stutter.

“Were you trying to eat me then, witch girl?” he breathes, amused. You yelp when he gives you a little shake by the hair.

You flash your teeth at that, hoping he takes that as a threat. You have chewed off flesh far tougher than his. “Still might, human. If you don’t let me go.”

He stares down at you, eyes giving nothing away. “It’s not every day that a little girl threatens to eat me. Not very nice, you know. I’ve cut down men twice your size for less.”

“You like bloodshed?”

“I trade in bounties; it’s part of the job. But, yes, girl. I like bloodshed.”

It’s not reassuring to hear that when his hands are fast on you. You wish now you hadn’t dreamed of this strange man immune to your magic and left him to his wandering. There are bears in these woods that could have dealt with him for you.

“I’m—I’m not going to anymore,” you say, quieter now, hands falling back to his chest, trying to shove yourself just the slightest bit away. You don’t move an inch. “I’ll…I can find something else to eat. Just let me go.”

The man widens his stance, feet bracketing yours. In two hundred years, you haven’t felt small. You’ve felt tremendous, expansive, big as the whole forest; monstrous some days even. The most ferocious predator in the woods, the haunting lurching her way through the trees, belly hungry for iron blood and the ripe taste of fear.

You feel that fear now in your mouth for the first time, sour.

He smiles behind the mask again. “Maybe later. Need to teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson?” Maybe the fear hasn’t sunk in all the way because you ask that when he lets go of his hold on your hair and drops his hands to your waist, getting a tight hold there. Twisting you around while he walks you back.

“You all alone in the forest?” he asks instead of answering you. “Is there a house that I missed? Been here for months and haven’t seen one.”

“Of course, I—I live here.” You don’t want to say more than though, lest you reveal too much about yourself. You’re still wondering whether surviving this ordeal will be as simple as getting away. There’s something savage in his gaze now, the mealy taste in your mouth translating that look like the hunter looking upon the hunted.

There’s a tree stump that he guides you to, shaded under the canopy. When he tips you over the stump, the breath rushes out of you. The edge is rough against your stomach. You don’t even notice him pulling up the back of your dress until a few seconds later.

“Wait, hold on—that’s my indoor dress!” you cry out, the front of your dress scraping against the stump and sure to tear. “Let me go—stop it!”

Your drawers are next, slid down your hips while you squirm and wail, feet kicking out behind you.

“Behave.” It’s punctuated by the sudden sting on your cheek, bottom flaming red by his hand. Pain is such a foreign concept to you that it initially leaves you speechless.

He props you against the stump with little care for how your knees drag in the dirt and whether your underwear gets dirt on them. He keeps you pinned there with a big hand on the centre of your back. Your shimmying gets you nowhere, only planted farther into the dirt; it only scuffs up your knees and pulls wretched little noises from your throat.

The terror comes when you’re bare to him and he draws his hand back. You gasp at the first smack, shocked; it’s a broken, stupid sound. At the next smack, you react properly, going into a frenzy, twisting left and right to get away, but helpless under just a fraction of his strength. Your magic does no good for once in your long life either. You feel it sit on the periphery, unsure of what to do because it cannot come close to this strange man for some reason.

You yelp every time his hand comes down on your bottom. Red fills your vision. Tears do as well.

“I am going to—” you break off on a yowl, back arching, “—I am going to eat the flesh off your bones for this! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

His chuckle is bone-chilling, ices you right over. “You oughta at least know the name of the man you’re going to eat. They call me Ghost.”

“I’ll call you—” The caustic name you were about to call him is ripped from your lips by another well-placed smack on your ass.

You shriek so loud that the birds flee from their perches within the trees.

The worst part is the way your thighs flex together with every smack. Belly clenching. You can feel slick gathering where it shouldn’t, a high blush splotched across your cheeks as you pray that he doesn’t notice. It doesn’t happen often, only in the week following your cycle when you feel ravenous and flushed, skin prickly and raw until you go outdoors and roll around in the dirt under the moonlight. Always by yourself, of course, naturally.

Little panting breaths hiccup out of you, your cheeks overflowing with frustrated tears. After the first minute, you simply go limp. There’s nothing else you can do. Even trying to levitate does you no good, it only props your butt up higher into the air since Ghost’s hand on your upper back keeps your chest pressed to the stump. It only seems to amuse him, judging by the hoarse chuckle he lets out.

Without your broom, the little bit of levitation is more of a party trick than anything—and you haven’t even been to a party in fifty years, not since your coven’s last autumnal gathering. Not that it matters at a time like this. His hand comes down on your butt again and you wail, shoes digging into the ground and kicking up dirt. Your mind goes blank again, thoughts replaced by the looping ow, ow, ow that also falls from your lips.

“Does it hurt, lovie?” Ghost asks, hand coming to rest on your livid cheek. It makes you hiss, turning your head until your cheek is pressed to the stump’s inner rings. His voice is gentle, but mocking, like the voice you use when hacking into a screaming man, asking him if he’d like his hand back while you dangle it in front of him.

“It’s going to hurt so much worse when I dice you into little pieces,” you hiss. He gives a mocking pat to your butt, making you flinch.

“Learned your lesson yet?”

You keep your gaze stubbornly off to the side. Somehow, it would be worse to look over your shoulder and make eye contact with the strange beast at your back. “If you leave now, I won't sever your limbs from your body and roast your organs from the inside.”

“I take it you haven’t,” he says, another chuckle rumbling out of him.

His hand comes off your naked rear. Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of fabric over fabric, wondering if maybe he’s pulling your underwear back up, but you don’t feel anything. What you feel instead is the sudden heaviness pushed between your thighs, nestled right up against your wet core, so unfamiliar that it makes you jump. You stay put though, held down still by his hand.

“Put that back,” you say severely.

He holds it against your sex with his free hand and presses forward, coating himself with your slick. “You’re not in a position to make demands, girl.”

“I’m going to slice every bit of skin off your bones.” Your mouth salivates at the thought, thinking of all the thick, iron-rich blood from someone Ghost’s size.

Those thoughts disperse again like smoke when he ruts forward, the thick length between his legs gliding through your wetness. It makes you break out into a sweat, keen catching between your teeth, just narrowly bitten back. Ghost makes no effort to suppress his groans. They’re loud, a lustful, masculine pleasure that you’ve heard far off in your woods before—unfortunate couples come to copulate before meeting their end at your hands—but never so close. Never right up in your ear.

“It’s not fair,” you sob, emotional suddenly. “You’re just going to—to do that and then kill me.”

He leans his full weight over you, the rough texture of his shirt catching on the back of your dress. You’re sweating so hard now that the lace embroidery around your collar is thoroughly soaked, clinging to your skin.

“‘M not gonna kill you. What would I do something like that for?”

You sniff. “It’s what I would do.”

He chuckles again, the sound reverberating through you with him all pressed up against you. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for the cock pumping between your thighs. That brings you right back down to earth, mind torn away from the ravens perched in the branches of the tree looming over you, watching you from above. If you were able to pay them any close attention, you’d probably hear them chattering about the position their little witch has found herself in.

“C’mon now,” Ghost grunts in your ear, hips shifting back. “Be a good little witch and say a little spell—don’t wanna knock you up on the first try.”

You open your mouth to reply and squeal when he rocks back forward, the bulbous tip pressing into you this time. Your toes flex in your shoes, thighs spreading without any prompting from him. You don’t even notice the hand on your upper back travelling to your waist, both of his big hands gripping you there now to hold you in place. There’s no thought of trying to get away, just breathing around the immense stretch from his shaft driving up into you.

“Ooh, no, no—it’s too much,” you squeak, fingers digging into the sides of the stump, the wood cutting into your soft skin.

It is too much. It doesn’t even feel entirely possible. Even with the wetness leaking from you, his cock only manages to fit a couple inches in you before you’re too tight.

“You’re doing fine, lovie,” he rasps into your ear, drawing his hips back and then plunging back into you, deeper than before. “See? Not so bad, is it? Gonna take a little more for me, a’right?”

“No—no more,” you slur, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Can you just—just keep it right there?”

“Yeah? That enough for you?”

Your fingers unlatch from the bark of the tree, trembling when you reach down to wipe them off on your dress before dragging the palm of your hand over your clit. It makes you jump and whine. The skin of your palm is a bit textured from gripping onto the stump, but the friction makes your brain leak right out of your ear. Especially when you push your hips back just a little bit, nervously fucking yourself on his cock.

Ghost laughs and lets go of your hip to bat your hand away, then reaches back around to fit a big hand around your jaw.

He holds your jaw in a single hand, palm supporting your chin. “You ever going to do this again, girl? Go up to strange men in the woods?”

You almost don’t hear him over the blood in your ears. A thick cock spears into you for the first time in your life and the man rutting into you expects coherence? Maybe you babble something into the palm of his hand, but it’s lost to the world when he pulls your knee out to make more room for himself and tips your ass up.

He gives your cheek a solid pat. “C’mon, focus on me, lovie. Tell me what you’re gonna do from now on.”

Your breathing picks up, heavier. When you don’t respond again, he abruptly pulls out and stands up, hauling you up to your feet with him. All of the blood rushes from your head, pooling around your pretty black shoes. Leaves crunch under your feet when he turns the two of you around and sits down on the stump where you’d just been spread over. The hands on your waist turn you to face him and that’s when an inkling of struggle works its way back into your veins.

You hiss and snarl when he lifts you to straddle his thighs, particularly when you see the brutish, ruddy cock jutting out from his trousers. Ghost seems more amused than anything at your little attempts to escape, clutching you closer to him until your chests are pressed tight together, making it all the more intimate. All the more real.

“Quit fussing.” You jump at the sharp slap he delivers to your ass.

“Going to curse your whole lineage—” you grit out, wincing when he draws you back down over his length, cunt fluttering at the stretch. You can’t help dropping your forehead to his chest, shoulder hitched with a frustrated cry.

His groan makes you seize up, a hot flash darting through you. “Don’t be like that, lovie. Might be yours too.”

A haze passes over you when firm hands lift you up off his cock and plop you back down, emptying you of any thoughts like you’d tipped your head and all the water had poured out.

The worst is the way your body betrays you. Each time he shoves his fat cock into your cunt, a whine rattles out of you, snatched from your chest. Robbed from you. The nearby leaves rustle and swirl up into the air with an artificial wind, magic singing their edges. He reaches so much deeper inside of you like this, splayed on his lap, hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life because it takes every bit of energy in your body to merely take his cock into you.

Your knees scrape against the uneven wood every time he drags you back down. They’ll probably be scraped raw by the end of it; you’ll need to tearfully smooth on ointment and wrap thick bandages around them when you get back to the cottage.

“There we go. Fuckin’ take it—come on,” Ghost grunts, dragging you down onto his length, just using your body how he likes.

The thick head grinds up against a spot deep inside of you, spongy and sensitive. You feel it all the way up in your throat. Every time his cock rubs against that spot, your nails dig into his shoulders. A violent shudder rips through you because this position also lets him grind your clit down against the root of his cock.

“Ghost—”

He ducks his covered mouth into the side of your neck. Even through the fabric, you can feel his lips press a firm, closed-mouth kiss there. “Bit more, bit more, love. Better than you thought it’d be, huh? Fuck. Only thing magic about you is this wet pussy. Fuck hiding this from me—gonna ride it twice a day from now on.”

“Never doing this ever again, you beast—”

Ghost bites you through the mask, the pressure dull but real. It says, try keeping it from me.

When you come, it’s sudden and sharp, painful like a cramp in your belly and then a wave of bone-deep pleasure. Ghost wrangles it from you with a thumb on your clit, pumping up into your pussy at the same time. He wrenches it from you like it’s his, like you have no choice but to come for him because he wants it. You press your whole body against him when you come, arms wrapping around his neck like you need him close. Heat unfolding and leaving you limp. No cauldron has ever boiled as hot as your flesh does now.

He pulls out of you before coming. You watch helplessly as he settles you close enough to keep the heat of your pussy on him and then wraps a firm hand around himself, giving it a few good tugs before a white rope of come spurts from his cock. Right onto your exposed pussy, spilling across your folds. Your mouth drops open on a soft whine as it stripes across your inner thighs and the front of your dress, painting it white.

His harsh pants ebb into something softer as his cock goes flacid against his thigh. You feel boneless, drained of all your energy. Even your magic only gives a pathetic twitch, the tendrils of it curling back up inside of you where it’s nice and warm.

Your cunt feels tender, puffy when you reach down and touch it. You flinch when his fingers graze against yours, also feeling around your swollen lips. Ghost knuckles your fingers out of the way and scoops up the mess he left between your thighs, pushing two fingers just past your entrance. You don’t even have the energy to yelp, only wince and mewl.

He shushes you. “Didn’t even come inside. Quit whining.”

His words are belied by the way he scoops more of his come up into you.

You really don’t like that he follows you home. The march back to your cozy cottage nestled in the middle of the forest feels like a death march, one you might have witnessed in the hundreds of years that you’ve lived here. Worse still because your legs are still wobbly, your sex achy and raw. Still, whenever you pause for a moment or lean against a tree, he nudges you forward with a hand on your back.

“This is unfair,” you snivel, eyes tearing up. “You can’t—this is my forest.”

“The woods don’t belong to anyone, girl,” Ghost counters.

“Yes, they do. I’ve been…it’s been mine for two hundred years.”

“Of course, lovie.” You can almost hear the roll of his eyes. It makes you grit your teeth. You can’t wait to bury him in the backyard with all the bone mandalas.

It doesn’t take long for him to settle in, making himself nice and comfortable on your plush couch with the intricate doilies knitted by your grandmother draped along the back. Your poor couch almost collapses under his weight.

Your cottage is far too small for someone of his size; you built it to accommodate someone of your size, not the behemoth that’s taken up residence in your house. You know that Ghost is more of a man of action than words, but he’s plenty happy to grumble about needing to redo the door to make it big enough for him to come inside without having to duck his head.

“You aren’t going to touch a single brick of my house.”

“I’ll take apart the whole damned thing if I want.”

You keep trying to lift him up with your magic but it does nothing to him and only tires you out because using magic is exhausting. You’re sweating and panting at the end of your efforts while Ghost just stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest and a single eyebrow raised. It’s humiliating. You used to be a powerful witch. You still are.

He lets you yell at him until you’re red in the face and then drags you down for a rough fuck. Arguments with Ghost often end that way—you, sore and satiated in your bed, the window opened to let some fresh air in. Him, spread out next to you and dragging you close, playing absentmindedly with a nipple until you pinch his side. That always gets you a meaner pinch, one that leaves you teary-eyed and hot all over again.

Magic might not work on him, but he’s still mortal, so you try to work with that. Bear traps by the windows and doors. Hemlock in the soap. Poison in his stew. He’s stealthier than you anticipate though and seems to have a sixth sense for death.

It’s demeaning and humiliating to be punished for your ‘bad behaviour’ but that’s what he calls it when he passes by the kitchen and catches the stew burping out the telltale skull shaped steam. You’re taken off kitchen duty after that, but the worst part is being trapped under him on the bed with your hands pinned over your head, bottom exposed to him yet again. He laughs a little later on when you squirm around on your hard kitchen chairs because you refuse to sit on his lap.

Sometimes when he has you trapped under him when you’re sleeping—because, of course, he commandeers your bed like it was built for someone his size when truthfully he should be in a bed twice as large—he wakes up to you gnawing at his shoulder and he has to hold you jaw in his hand and rumble out “No biting” before going back to sleep. You stare over his shoulder petulantly, not even bothering to fight the pout. The kettle whispers in the kitchen, fueled by your frustration.

Ghost only lets out a dry, husky laugh. It sends a shiver down your spine.

Asphodel takes to him like a new favourite thing, winding around his legs while you glare from the other room. Damned familiar.

You only start to lighten up when your senses tingle one day when you’re out picking berries in the woods and you come back to find him ruthlessly butchering a band of raiders that had been trampling through your woods. He slaughters them methodically, almost bored. Almost like he does this every day.

You can’t help the way it makes your pussy ache.

He catches the look in your eye. You’ve been alone for far too long in the woods; everything you feel is laid bare, open for anyone to see. Ghost is just always looking.

He grins under the mask, blood splattered across the front of his shirt. “Go on, lovie. I’ll be inside in just a few.”

Molten slickness drips from between your thighs. You bite your lip before you slip away, blood growing feverish when you glance back down at the mangled bodies bleeding out in the red-orange leaves. There’s a severed eye that’s rolled off to the side and your stomach gurgles.

You lick your lip and look up at him from under your eyelashes. “Save me some for supper?”

Ghost’s eyes soften, a sharp contrast from the gore and viscera piled around him. “‘Course, lovie.”

The world seems different with the arrival of him. Cranberries beneath the sycamore, the russet moon on harvest's day, the scent of soldering iron, the laughter woven between your many faces. With him, you feel like the cynosure of all eyes.

In the twilight hours, he presses a hand to your forehead and laves your belly with his tongue like he might push something back in there. The curtains draw shut and the lights flicker off.

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