RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader | tlou inspired au | read on ao3
The events that transpired in Raccoon City left more than just a mark on Leon Kennedy; it left a mark on the world. The spread of the infection became too overwhelming to stop, leaving small pockets of humanity huddling in safe havens scattered in various locations with little left to hope for than to see the sun rise on another day.
After a coordinated attack lead by an increasingly agitated civilian population lands Leon in the infirmary, he is presented with an opportunity he can't refuse.
You are humanity's last hope; and Leon's only chance at redemption.
a/n: each chapter will have its own content warnings. overall; canon typical violence, medical/body horror, age gap (leon is in his 40's, reader doesn't have an explicit age but is referenced to be younger than him) non-canon compliant
Chapter One: a favor
Chapter Two: a blessing
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john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist
Chapter Nineteen: wanted
The crowd groans in disappointment as the rope binding your hands together is cut.
Still smiling, the deputy loosens the noose around your neck before raising it over your head as if it's nothing but a mere necklace rather than the item that, until moments ago, was supposed to bring about your demise. It doesn't make it any easier to breathe. You're still choking on your terror as the man offers you a gloved hand. You don't have the capacity within your mind to deny him, so you accept his help as he assists you down the stairs on your lubberly legs.
The world spins as you feel the tangible suffocation of the divergence of time—of what should have happened to you. In another universe, you are swinging from that rope with all eyes on your corpse, left to hang and rot as a warning to others to not cross The Law in Blackpeak. Knowing your luck, you wouldn't have died right away. You'd be left strangling, legs kicking helplessly in a pitiful attempt to release the pressure around your throat, blood shunting away from your brain until your life fades just as meaningless as it began. Maybe someone would have taken pity on you. Maybe some brave or stupid person would have pulled on your legs until you stopped squirming.
Instead, you're slicing through the crowd that was so eager to witness your demise. Their gazes haven't changed much. They're more sour now, like dough left to rise for too long. The deputy keeps a sharp hold of your hand like you're his wallet, a valuable he can't afford to lose. You suppose that you are of some importance to this man; a tool turned into a weapon to be aimed and fired at John Price, though you're not sure what the nature of your destruction might be.
As you have learned, lawmen aren't always above the law.
"On behalf of my men, I apologize for their actions," the deputy says once you're out of eavesdropping distance of the crowd. His drawl is thick like honey but there is something about his tone that leaves your tongue dry and not at all interested in the faux sweetness he attempts to sell you. "You must understand that any mention of John Price has everyone up in arms. I'm sure you're aware of what him and his boys did in the mines. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost for such a selfish reason."
It's easy for his words to flow into your skull and directly out again. Every thought that attempts to spark in your brain fizzles out before you have the moment to fully grasp it. Pain throbs in your bones, burrowing deeper than you can cradle in your arms.
You forget that the deputy is holding your hand until he's pulling you to a stop next to a lean horse. Pressure builds behind your eyes as you stare up at him with his flaring nostrils and beady eyes. This horse lacks the quiet stupidity Jester had. A tall, stupid brute that knew how to do nothing other than eat things he shouldn't and make a fool out of you, but he was your fool of a horse.
Was.
"Climb on up, miss," he prompts. "We've got a walk before we reach the sheriff's."
Getting up on the horse feels like second nature to you now, but the deputy refuses to allow you to hold the reins. Wary of your instability, he guides the horse for you, spurs jingling with each step he takes. All you can do is hold onto the saddle horn and keep your head low in what you tell yourself is to keep the sun out of your eyes, but it feels more like shame.
You hold onto the saddle horn as you're paraded through the streets of Blackpeak like an oddity for everyone to behold. You expect to see another mob staring at you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike you, already bloodied and wounded, except there is no one. Insignificant, you're a speck of dirt. Flickering eyes search for someone still, despite the pain. Eyes of blue like a cooling lake for you to dive into, to ease each scrape and swelling mound that plagues your skin and body—John Price is nowhere to be found.
Buildings begin to thin until—much like Penmosa—farm land crosshatches with private town dwellings like a dusty chessboard. Cows moo in verdant pastures while geese honk overhead as they soar through the air in the burning light of the sunset. All beauty is lost on you as the deputy guides you to a dark timbered home with a fat porch and the redolence of cooked meat wafting around it. It's a home that looks like a God-made structure against the backdrop of mountains behind it, blending into the faraway trees and carved stone.
The deputy offers you his hand to help you off of his horse but you refuse to take it in a silent sort of revolution. You climb off without aid, but everything moves beneath you as your feet hit the ground, earth tearing right out from the treads of your shoes.
"Now, now," the man chuckles. When he catches your unsteady frame, he pulls your back against his chest, bracing your body against his. It feels wrong. Not because Daddy would disapprove, but because he's not John. "Take it easy."
"M-My head," you whine, back arching, arms flailing in an attempt to push him away, but your body is broken, and the deputy is having too much fun to let go. "Please."
"What do you think I'm trying to do, sugar? Quit your fussing and I'll take care of that head of yours," he goads.
Though you're released from the confines of his body, the deputy ensures you stay close by with his hand resting on your lower back while a gentle amount of pressure leads you towards the porch and up the steps to the door. He knocks on the door and shushes you when you wince at the sudden sound, noise reverberating in your brain until you're certain more of your skull has cracked.
A woman with pale lips and greying hair answers the door with a huff, and her gaze only grows more severe as she wipes her hands on her apron. "Phillip Graves, what have I told you about badgering my husband while he's at home?"
"Sorry Mrs. Shepherd. You know I try and keep my nose clean, but I think I've managed to wrangle someone who likes to get into trouble more often than I do," the deputy—this Phillip Graves—humors. "This sweet thing here seems to have gotten herself involved with John Price."
The woman's gaze lands on you and something overcomes the frustration that she held for Phillip Graves. If you didn't know any better, you'd confuse it for concern with the way her eyes soften and brows raise at the sight of you, blouse stained with your own blood, skirt tattered from the brawl, body littered with scrapes you can't soothe.
"Well, alright. You might as well stay for dinner, too," she begrudgingly accepts.
Phillip Graves keeps his hand on your back as you're led inside, but he ensures that he takes his hat off at the door and sets it on one of various pegs nailed into the wall for such a purpose. Though the outside of the house is rough-hewn with raw wood and sun bleached material, the inside is neatly polished with smooth walls painted a delicate cream. The brightness only makes the pounding in your head worse and you find your eyes focusing on the floor as you're brought to the dining room.
Mrs. Shepherd instructs you to grab a seat while she fetches the rest of dinner and her husband. The table is intimate with only enough room for four people to sit comfortably along the round perimeter. Various food items already sprawl out. Ham, a bowl of beans and bread rolls. Phillip Graves pulls a chair out for you before taking the seat next to you.
It's as if you've been transported back in time, shrinking inside of yourself until your body has no choice but to follow, leaving you as nothing but a pitiful girl once again trying to make it through the violence of another meal with your father. Tight lips, only speaking when spoken to, eyes never wandering where they shouldn't lest you inadvertently poke the beast waiting to roar within his throat.
The silence doesn't save you here. Phillip Graves leans back in his chair, wood creaking beneath him in time with his spurs ringing as he stretches his legs with a groan. You note the distinct glint of his six shooter resting on his hip and you can't help but think of the one John gave you to protect yourself—the one that's now sitting in the middle of the street, or more likely, in the possession of one of the men who beat you.
"I'll get you cleaned up after supper," he tells you. "I know it's more proper to wash up before a meal, but I think the sheriff will forgive us given the circumstances."
"That's fine." You sound like your mother, voice even and unwavering yet tinged with that underline whisper of pain that you can't quite get rid of.
In an attempt to comfort yourself, you reach for your neck in search for her necklace only to be met with your own feverish skin.
"If you wanted a free meal, you could have just asked, Phillip."
A new voice bleeds into the room. With slow movements, you look up from your lap and into the doorway to find a sickly looking man with white hair cropped so short he nearly looks bald. His leather vest looks freshly polished and his feet hit heavy on the floor as he approaches the table. The aura of authority wafting off of him is enough for you to know exactly who he is. The man of the house, the keeper of the peace—Sheriff Shepherd of Blackpeak.
"You know me, sheriff. Always here to keep things interesting," Phillip shrugs.
"Interesting, and a pain in my rear."
Mrs. Shepherd sneaks out from behind her husband with one hand occupied with plates, cups and cutlery and the other with a pitcher of water. The men dive into quaint conversation while she sets everything up, even going as far as to ask you what you'd like and serving up your plate when you can only offer pitiful nods and thank yous in response.
Once everyone is settled, the conversation dies and you find that there are more eyes on you than you'd care to have ever perceive you. When you meet Sheriff Shepherd's gaze you note the hue of his eyes—pale blue—and how they're sickly like the rest of him. Withered away and moments away from shattering. They lack the youth and vigor of John's. A pale imitation of a man he could only ever hope to be a fraction of.
"And who do we have the pleasure of welcoming to our table tonight?" he asks.
Knowing that there's no use in lying, you give him your true name, though the nickname Lamb is truly growing on you. Or rather, perhaps it's just the man who coined it in the first place.
"Very good," he hums, somehow pleased with himself. "Let's pray."
It's the first time that you have ever neglected to bow your head and fold your hands at the dinner table before a meal, especially after those words have been muttered. You watch as they all lower themselves, make themselves smaller, near cower as they're lead through quiet mutterings of praise and thanks. The sheriff speaks with such reverence you're almost convinced he's a true man of God until he opens his eyes to look at you before the prayer has even finished.
Once done, Mrs. Shepherd and Phillip Graves waste no time diving into their food, and while the sheriff does begin to eat, he seems much more interested in something else. "Not one for praying?"
You swallow the lead weight in your throat. "I don't know."
"She has been spending time with John Price," Phillip Graves reasons. "He's always been something of an atheist."
"Corrupted the poor girl's mind, no doubt," Shepherd agrees. "Is that how you found yourself here, girl?"
You nod. "Yes."
Quiet deliberation clouds the man's mind as he takes a few more bites of his food. You consider doing the same, but the pain that ripples throughout your body forces you to rethink. Instead, you go for a sip of water.
"And what business was he having you conduct here on his behalf?"
Your head spins. Vision swirling like a whirl pool, you dig the pad of your thumb briefly into the apple of your cheek, allowing the pain to ground you. "He needed money from the bank."
Phillip Grave's chuckle is warm but sharp. "Must be hard finding an honest job when you're such a criminal like he is."
You bite your tongue so hard it bleeds, but it tastes no different from the ichor that's already stained your mouth after the abuse you were subjected to today. Instead, you keep your head lowered and mouth sewn shut, just like you always have.
"What did he need this money for?" Shepherd questions.
"I don't know," you say.
He raises a brow. "You don't know?" he asks incredulously.
"He didn't say. I just… I just do what he tells me."
Something of a pained sigh leaves Mrs. Shepherd as she places her palm over her chest as if to quell an aching heart. When you glance at her, you note the pity in her gaze. It's comforting to know you're fooling someone at least. You're in too much pain to put together anything more complex.
He allows silence to settle over the table to give himself the opportunity to at least marginally enjoy his meal. You allow yourself to try a bit of the beans, but there's too much salt and it nearly causes your tongue to shrivel up. The bread is the only thing you can truly get yourself to stomach. Plain enough to not upset the unstable balance of your stomach, yet still filling at the same time, you eat your roll then leave your hands folded in your lap, done with what you think is the most violent meal you've experienced since you left Penmosa.
"Are you not enjoying your food, girl?" Shepherd asks. As you meet his gaze, you wonder why he even bothered to learn your name if he was going to demean you with such a term—verbiage he shares with your father.
"I'm not hungry," you truthfully admit.
He scoffs as he sets his silverware on his emptied plate. "You insult my wife."
"Oh, Herschel, look at her!" Mrs. Shepherd says. "Poor thing, can you blame her for not being hungry? Getting beaten over something John Price coerced her into doing? It's no insult at all. The poor girl needs help and a place to rest."
Washing his dinner down with a healthy gulp of water, Phillip Graves gives a thoughtful hum as his cup hits the table. "There's a few free cells open down at the jail we could keep her in."
Mrs. Shepherd's eyes go wider than the plate she's eaten off of. "You would keep her in the jail?"
Sheriff Shepherd's patience wears thin. You see it in the deepening creases on his forehead and the dusting of pink that begins in his cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears. His ovular head looks as if it's an egg ready to crack open due to heat and pressure alone.
"Dear," he says almost as if it's a warning. "Why don't you tidy up our guest room? She can stay there for the night under Phillip's supervision."
Content with the compromise, she nods before clearing the plates from the table and vanishing back into the kitchen to clean up. You're left alone with the two men and you find yourself scrambling for something else to look at. Anything else. The wallpaper, a knick in the side of the table, the sunset burning up through the window. A part of you wishes you'd see John riding over the hill through the glass, hat set low as he speeds towards the house with a pistol in hand.
You get nothing but the squeak of Shepherd's chair as he stands. "Get her cleaned up once the room is ready," he orders. "I'll get everything at the jail in order for her."
It doesn't take Mrs. Shepherd long to tidy up the bedroom-turned-cell that is to be yours for the foreseeable future. She fetches you immediately once it's finished, bringing both you and Phillip Graves down two short hallways to a room that has a single twin-sized bed with a lily patterned quilt smothering the mattress. You don't realize that the house has electricity until you note the sconces on the inside of the door. They sport the same glass covering as candles would, but they lack the signature flicker of warm flame that you're used to.
She brings your attention to a makeshift vanity. Really, it's an old worn desk with a mirror nailed to the wall, but for all intents and purposes, it works just fine with a freshly filled water bowl, clean rags, and a jar of something that Mrs. Shepherd says is a salve meant to help your cuts and scrapes. She leaves you after telling you that if you need anything else to find her and ask for it. The door is open.
Phillip Graves closes it.
"Alright sugar," he prompts. His head tilts to the side as he sucks on his teeth, chin jutting out towards the bed. "Grab a seat."
His order makes the contents of your stomach curdle but you know you're not in a position to argue or reason. It's as if that noose is around your neck again, pulling tight around your throat, eager to cut into your skin as you march to the bed and sink into the rocky mattress. The jingling of his spurs sound too akin to church bells, or perhaps the toll of a death march.
Rag into water, he turns to you with glistening hands and wordlessly presses it to your skin without prompt or warning. It's frigid, freshly pumped from the well, biting into your skin like the mountain air John kept you warm through. Your bottom lip begins to tremble at the thought of it while Phillip Graves wipes the space above your lip, scratching away the dried blood around your nostrils as if you are a child incapable of cleaning herself.
With each pass he makes, you watch as the rag comes away from your skin tinged pink and brown, body marred with the earth and the demise you were supposed to face. He wipes everywhere, but when he gets to the bridge of your nose you gasp enough to make him recoil. Instead of leaving you be, he pokes and prods the area until you're hissing with tears in your eyes.
"Got some mighty fine swelling, sugar," he tells you, finally no longer subjugating you to his torturous interest. "Wouldn't be surprised if you broke something in there."
Furiously blinking, you wipe at the stray tears but keep your eyes cast towards the floor. "What am I to do with that?"
"Wait and pray it doesn't heal crooked," he chuckles.
Huffing at his response, you keep quiet as he continues. He moves down to your chin and jaw where you feel the stale blood pull at the hair of your skin, pinching like you've got your finger caught in the door again. He doesn't sit next to you as he cleans you, he stands in front of you towering over you like a human does an ant, belittling you until you feel just as small as he wants you to feel.
His hand wanders down to your throat and you wince with anticipatory pain only to realize it doesn't come. The rope never quite snapped around your neck. That lever was never pulled. Though it feels like you died in that moment, you are still very much alive, kept on God's green earth and made to suffer all his terrible creations.
Philip's hand dips lower and your breath catches in your throat, forcing your chest to cease its movements as you stop breathing. You remember the letter shoved into your blouse hiding in your slip, the only place you could think to stow it away where it wouldn't be knocked free from your pockets or torn with the wind. You feel his hot gaze on your body and the smirk on his lips and you think of what he might do to you. You know this story well. The raping of women before their murder—their final good use all used up before they're disposed of.
Then what of John and the others? You broken and their only piece of evidence ripped to shreds, forever to live the lives of wild men.
When his hand reaches the top of your breast just under your collarbones, you grab his wrist and cover yourself with your free arm. You finally bring yourself to look up at him and though you are infuriated, you aren't surprised to see that wide-eyed joy on his face as if the fish he has on his line is finally decided to make the reel more interesting.
"What kind of man do you take me for, sugar?" he asks.
You bite your tongue for only a moment before you decide to let it free. "A greedy kind."
Leaning away from you, he yanks his wrist free from your grasp before inspecting the bloodied rag he clutches in his fingers. "Is that so? Think a greedy man would've saved you from the gallows? Think a greedy man would dedicate his life to protecting the interests of the people in this town? I serve Blackpeak, little lady. There ain't a greedy bone in my body."
"Blackpeak?" you repeat. For the first time all day, you allow the rage to envelope you. You allow it to raise your chin, to narrow your eyes, to curl your upper lip into a snarl. "Or just Makarov?"
It's the first time you've seen him waiver in his otherwise infuriating ability to seem impermeable. Still, he only leans back, tongue clacking against the back of his teeth as he shakes his head. "I see John Price has poisoned your mind with that, too." When you don't fight back, Phillip huffs and tosses the rag at you, allowing the sodden mess to fall into your lap, adding to the various stains that bleed into your skirt. "Clean yourself up then, if that's what you want, but don't say I never did you any favors, sugar."
With that, he leaves you and you are finally alone. Your sore fingers curl around the damp cloth and you are overwhelmed with a sudden grief that disguises itself as fury. You feel your face contort as you stand from the bed, fist clenching around the rag before you drown it in the water bowl at the desk with a strangled growl. Droplets splatter through the air like rain falling backwards, gathering across the wooden surface of the desk and the now muddled shine of the mirror.
You force yourself to view yourself through the mess and it's the first thing that prompts you to slow down. You look so much like your mother, you realize. Tired eyes, swollen face, angry tears giving your cheeks the kisses your father never would. You bear her resemblance in your quiet anger. It was the last thing she left you with on this earth—the frustrating will to endure where others would refuse.
Wiping your face, you make the quiet decision to not destroy yourself and instead take care to blot the stains of your dress and care for the scrapes on your legs. When you're finished you dip your fingers into your blouse where you feel the comforting scratch of paper against your skin, warmed by your body heat and bending to the curve of your body.
In the morning when your head is clear, you'll come up with a plan. John Price wouldn't abandon you. He's out there somewhere waiting for you.
Phillip Graves returns with a rocking chair that he sets up in the far corner of the room, giving himself a perfect view of the bed, door, and window. He chuckles at your bewildered look before settling into the chair with an old book in hand and a candle lamp to read with. Realizing that you will be getting no privacy tonight, you leave your overdress on before burrowing deep beneath the blankets like you could hide the way rabbits do in their burrows.
He does not speak throughout the night—the rhythmic turning of the pages of his book and the creaking of the chair do enough chatter for the both of you. Even as night falls, you do not sleep. You lay on your side with your back to Phillip as you stare at the wall where the darkness morphs shadowy shapes before your eyes as if you've had too much communion wine.
When your bladder stirs you awake in the middle of the night, he follows you there too, only letting you out of his sight long enough for you to relieve yourself and wash up before leading you back to bed. Not even dawn chases him away. Stirring from your restless slumber, you wake to the smell of hotcakes and the view of him still in the corner of the room, seemingly finished with his book with the way he has it folded in his lap.
"Mornin' sugar."
Mrs. Shepherd serves both you and Phillip for breakfast. Pancakes, sausage and some freshly brewed tea she made for the meal. You are wary of the glaring lack of her husband's presence, but she informs you he wandered in town to the jail earlier in the morning with the order for Phillip Graves to take you there once you were finished with your meal.
Anxiety fills up your stomach too much for you to eat much of anything, but just like the night before she doesn't say much about it as she takes your plate and wishes you luck on your journey into town.
Phillip Graves doesn't offer you his horse this time as the two of you make the walk back towards the main section of town, but he doesn't take the ride for himself either. Each step you take is excruciating. The swelling has overwhelmed your body, rendering each joint achy as you travel beneath the heavy weight of the sun and your shame. Each figure that you pass prompts you to raise your head to look at their face, eager to find familiar blue eyes.
You begin to fear John might not be coming for you at all.
Unlike the other buildings that surround it, the jail is made of brick. Dust settles heavy on the red stone giving it a pink appearance like the rag you stained with your blood last night. On the outside just beyond the porch there is a wooden posting board filled with legal notices like local laws and changes within the town, but most notably there is that drawing of John's wanted poster again.
This time, it's not just him, but the others as well, each earning their own poster and matching bounties, a band of bothers kept together with a long string of hatred. As you walk up the stairs, you note the graffiti scribbled on the parchment in graphite and ink. Some people have scribbled out the word alive on dead or alive while others have drawn nooses around their throats. The violence of this town is so deeply sewn you're not sure how you survived such contempt—the more time you spend with Phillip Graves, the more you feel as if the reason he saved you wasn't purely out of mercy.
He opens the door for you, allowing you inside of the jail where you're met with a wide room that seems like a cell morphed into an office. Two sets of jail bars section off the back corners of the room with nothing inside but a bench, but they both lay empty. The only other door besides the entrance is one on your left, cracked open just enough for you to find a set of stairs that descend down into what you assume must be the basement and the place where they keep a majority of their inmates.
Sheriff Shepherd sits at a desk full of papers and envelopes both torn open and fresh ones waiting to be filled and mailed off. His eyes were on you the moment you stepped foot into his jail, pale and dead as they were last night when he all but interrogated you at his dinner table. Having something more interesting to do than paperwork, he points at the wooden chair across from him.
"Take a seat, girl," he commands as if you are a dog.
You make no fuss in following his orders. As far as you're concerned, the less time you spend with this man, the better. He stares at you in silence for a long moment as if contemplating how he should gut you. His gaze is uncanny. Even when you believed John to be nothing more than a cold blooded murderer he never gave off such an algid aura. This pale, sickly man looks like death—or a creature who enjoys toying with it.
"I've arranged for a ride to bring you back home," he finally admits after a moment. "It would be faster by train, but we don't have any passenger trains that come through here. Just the engines that lug coal to the cities. A few of my lawmen will take you by carriage to the next town over and you can hop on one there. It'll take you over the gorge and right on home."
You blink at him. He must be lying. "That's… That's it?"
"I don't want you in my town. This is better for both of us," he says bluntly.
Gears begin to twist in your brain as ideas sprout; dark, conniving ones you never would have thought before leaving Penmosa. You think of Kate and Lottie, of Grand Hollow and its train station, of the hotel, the place John wanted to keep you because it was safe. You could go back, you realize. Back to them all with the letter hiding safe in your blouse and wait for John to come find you.
It could all be over. This mess. The lies.
"You mean, you'll take me back to Grand Hollow?" you question cautiously, throwing your line into the water to see if anything bites.
The sheriff raises a brow. "Is that where you're from?"
"Yes sir," you nod.
He stares at you for so long you fear he might see through you. "You're not lying to me, are you, girl?"
"No, sir. I'd never," you insist.
Humming, he nods. With a sigh, he begins to sort through some papers on his desk. You note a letter already sealed and stamped with his name and address on it, but you don't get the chance to look at the recipient before it's covered by tickets for a train company you don't recognize. He holds them out for Phillip Graves to take, who shoves it into the pocket of his vest with a chuckle.
"Tell me, girl," Sheriff Shepherd says. He retrieves one last piece of paper before setting it flat on the desk for you to view. "Why do I have this, then?"
Your blood runs cold as you're faced with a drawing of your exact likeness. Every line is correct, all the way from the curve of your nose to the pull of your lips. Your name is stamped in dark, inky letters underneath the photo with a description that reads:
WANTED: MISSING GIRL
TO BE RETURNED BACK TO HER FATHER IN PENMOSA
REWARD: 25$
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RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader | tlou inspired au | masterlist
Chapter One: a favor
cw: canon typical violence, mentions of rape
The citizens of Deer Haven look up at Leon with a disdain he can feel burn through his back.
They're hot coals placed between his shoulder blades, burning through the fabric of his shirt and all the way through the bullet proof vest he pretends protects him from the violence that the world is capable of these days. He reminds himself he's not special. Every soldier on the wall receives the same treatment. This stare. Eyes like hazard lights, blinking slow and steady like predators kneeling for the kill. The discontent can only boil for so long before it splashes over, sprinkling scalding malice on anyone unlucky enough to get in the way.
Leon ignores the heat at his back in favor of the barren landscape sprawling out in front of him. Twenty years or so has given nature more than enough time to reclaim what humanity abandoned to nightmarish creations. What used to be a sprawling Mid-West city now lies in the ruins of overgrown foliage blanketing each building from view. There are several tiny hills Leon is sure are just cars covered by the passage of time, engines rusted shut, doors blocked and doomed to never open again. Most buildings are hardly holding together, crumbling bricks dusting at the base, walls leaning, patched together with nothing but vines and the grace of a higher power Leon has long since stopped believing in.
"Two… About 300 yards down to the South-East."
There are some areas that are clear. Manicure days, he calls them. When the army sends out soldiers to cut away each and every overgrown shrub and soon-to-be tree in a thick perimeter around the wall for better visibility. It makes Leon's job easier as he twists his body, shoulders hunched forward, rifle pressed firmly against him as he spots two infected through his scope. Powerful security lights illuminate their bodies through the darkness of night, washing them out until their skin is paper thin with protruding veins and bloody eyes.
"Do you see them?" His spotter is new. Anxious. His name is either Adam or Adams—Leon isn't sure if the kid introduced himself by his first or last name, and no one really cares to wear name tags in the apocalypse, and he isn't sure if he cares enough to ask for clarification.
Leon's only reply is a hum.
"They're about 300 yards down."
"I heard you the first time."
The infected have changed a lot over the years. They're not as fresh. Half rotten, skin peeling around their eyes, their nails, their mouths, teeth hardly staying in their skulls. Neither of these two would be a threat up close. Waifish, decaying things. A strong wind could blow them over.
All it takes is a deep breath and a gentle squeeze to send one crumbling to the ground, head blown to bits with the round sent barreling through its skull. The one left standing pauses in its aimless wandering to look back at the corpse, almost human in the way it stares at the old blood spilling from a new wound. Leon wastes little time dispatching the other one—two new bodies for the cleanup crew to dispose of in the morning.
"Wow," Adam breathes as he pulls his range finder away from his face. "Those were clean. Really clean. I don't think I've seen someone hit a shot that well besides you."
Leon shrugs. "Years of practice."
Adam leans back in his seat—an old camp chair that has seen better days. The fabric sports no fewer than twelve patches and one very bent leg. "It's like you were born with a gun in your hand."
"Yeah, I came out the womb duel wielding," Leon deadpans.
It's enough to get Adam to chuckle. Leon rolls out the tension in his shoulders as he tries not to think about how he used to be like him—young and naive. Joining the police department in Raccoon City just to watch it all burn and crumble without the power to do anything about it, now banished to watch perimeters and live off scraps. He tells himself he's still doing the right thing. A good thing. Offering sanctuary to people who otherwise would die out in the wild.
The grandeur of it all blinds most people, but not him. It's hard for reality not to settle in; that life in a cage is no different than life outside of it when the predators outnumber you, and he might be a guard dog for these lambs, but he's still in the kennel all the same.
Time passes slow like molasses. Leon isn't sure if it's because of the cold of the dwindling summer or the weight pulling at his eyes that warps everything. He tries to focus on his breathing. The beating of his heart. Slight movements of animals through his scope. The occasional question from Adam when it bleeds from his mouth.
Leon reaps the benefits of the patience he sowed when the distinct tapping of two booted footsteps approach. It hits along the makeshift wall of old cement scraps and half welded vehicles like rain on a metal roof. Loud. Echoing. It prompts Leon to remove his face from the scope for the first time in hours. His relief stares at him oddly—most likely from the indents he's certain he has on his face—but neither of them say anything as they switch spots with him and Adam without so much as a good evening muttered between the four of them.
While the two men climb off the wall using the precarious, half-rotting ladders, Leon thinks about how all he has to look forward to is a closet-sized room and a cold bed without so much as a shower to wash off the grime of his shift. Civilian life isn't much easier. Dilapidating buildings, families shoved into homes and apartments too small to house their children, parents fighting tooth and nail to earn food with reserves that dwindle each day. For over twenty years humanity has lived like this. There are many communities like Deer Haven scattered across the country where people play pretend at government and society. He's heard radio chatter about some communities falling, destroyed from the inside out, humans ripping each other apart as opposed to infected. People can only be satiated for so long before zoochosis settles in.
A few years ago, Leon thought about leaving Deer Haven after an officer was caught raping his daughter. It was the kind of secret everyone knew. He's seen civilians face the firing squad for less, but the officer was acquitted after they deemed the girl was too young to carry an incestuous child. No harm, no foul, they said. He's not sure why he stuck around. Maybe it was the sight of his naked body strung up on the wall with the word traitor carved into his chest that convinced him to stay because it meant that there was at least one sane person left. Or maybe it's because he's still trying to prove to the old version of himself—the young Leon Kennedy—that he can still help people.
Leon tries to shake those thoughts out of his mind as the barracks grow closer, but Adam's presence makes it nearly impossible. He reminds him so much of his younger self it's almost frustrating. Every time he looks at him, it's as if he's been transported back in time. A time that he can't reach anymore. It's why he should be surprised when Adam walks off the beaten path into the frigid grass along the side of the building where the lights grow dim.
"What are you doing?" Leon asks, stopping on the crumbling sidewalk. He could just leave. It's late and he's tired, and Adam is an adult. But it's the same thing that always stops him. That irritating ghost of himself.
Stopping a good distance away, Adam points at the ground. "Someone left their bag. Figured we could bring it back, see if anyone's looking for it."
Leon squints through the darkness and spots a backpack with a broken strap. A pit gnaws on the inside of his stomach like sour milk not playing nice with the acid. When Adam lifts it off the ground, he has to use his free hand to brace himself against the wall.
"Damn, what do they have in here, rocks?" he mutters to himself.
Before he can even think to control his movements, Leon's finger is raising to point at Adam. "Kid, put that down!"
There's just enough time for him to look up at Leon before the explosion ignites the night.
A thick wall of compressed air knocks Leon's lungs flat as he's tossed to the ground several feet back from where he stood just mere moments before. The pressure change in his ears rings throughout his skull. It echoes like broken church bells, fractured and resonating deep in the marrow of his bones. He feels the earth wiggling underneath him despite the sky being stationary above him. For several terrifying moments his diaphragm refuses to work. Back arching, shoulders pressing into the grass; he writhes until the useless muscle decides to contract. He tastes soot on the inhale and blood on the exhale.
It takes time for his limbs to work properly. Rolling onto his side, he paws at the ground as if the dirt will help him stand while his bleary eyes slowly focus on the orange light flickering in front of him. The entrance to the barracks is blown open. A hole resides where the door used to and shattered bricks lay around it like too many teeth shoved into one mouth. Several rooms have been compromised, and he can hear people inside shuffling to get out as dust and sparse smoke rise into the sky, blotting out the faint stars.
Leon staggers to his feet just in time to find what remains of Adam. It's not much. A hole spans all the way down his side and eats deep towards the center of his body like a child got too excited with a cookie-cutter. Bubble gum pink intestines smattered with blood, bile, and acid spill into the soil like ink. He must have been hungry. There's no food seeping from his stomach. Completely bifurcated from the blast, Adam's legs lie separate from the rest of him. Not even his face remains unscathed. Shrapnel, bone, blood, soot—the only reason Leon knows who this used to be is because he watched the very destruction of his body.
Another bright-eyed kid—another version of himself—lost to a world that screams it doesn't want saving. Cries out that it doesn't want men like Leon Kennedy.
He doesn't stick around long. Soldiers and civilians alike swarm the area with fingers ready to place blame and pull triggers. The animosity is so sharp he can hear it through the ringing in his ears, slicing through the noise of his pain as if it's nothing but butter. Someone takes one good look at the bleeding cut on Leon's head and the way he clutches his side before he's tossed towards a medic who barely cares enough to tell him to go to the infirmary before abandoning him for someone with higher acuity.
He marches on staggering feet, back turned towards the commotion. It feels wrong. Leon's always refused to run away from danger—first boots on the ground, and last ones to leave—but now it's as if he's unraveling himself. Maybe these edges have been fraying for longer than he's realized.
The moment he stumbles into the building, Leon is whisked away for triage. He's swarmed by a handful of doctors and nurses—cleaner than medics but still just as frigid. His clothes are torn off, he's poked and prodded, and suffocated with gauze on the crown of his head until he's left to lay on a bed with nothing more than a hospital gown to protect his dignity and flimsy curtains to offer privacy.
Leon tries to be a good patient, and for a few hours he manages it. Sitting in a bed that smells of stale breath and expired laundry detergent, he stares at the ceiling, or the floor, or his hands. No matter where his eyes land, he knows it's not clean. He can't stop thinking about how he tried to reach for Adam but wasn't quick enough, just like how he wasn't enough back then—never enough. Raccoon City, swarmed. That infected girl and her mourning father. The spread. They told him he was going to change the world for the better, but as the sun breaks through the infirmary and he finally can bite off his vertigo long enough to stand and peek through the curtains, he knows that claim was nothing but a farce. He's the only patient. The morgue will see more patrons than this place will.
Again, he feels that urge to flee. He couldn't save his friends, he couldn't save Adam; he can't save anyone. It's torture pretending to be something he's not. No one would miss him. Most people either die before his age or drink themselves into prison. He's an enigma of a man. The frustrating zenith of human perseverance.
He ought to vanish in the hills. He could keep a garden and hunt for meat. When the summers get bad he can swim in a lake and he'll build good fires in winter. He won't rely on the fragmented remnants of the government to provide for him, and best of all, no one will depend on him. Just the way it should be.
"Mr. Kennedy."
A voice too warm and chipper for the early morning cuts through the tinnitus in Leon's ears and prompts him to glance to his left where he finds a man leaning back at a desk. He looks familiar, like he's seen him in a dream, or the haze of battle. White hair lays slicked back along his head, though the length isn't long enough to keep it's shape from turning him into a hedgehog. Even the sharp tip of his nose appears rodent-like. The only thing keeping him from looking like a rat is the smile breaking on his lips.
"Doctor," Leon huffs. He's not even sure if the man is a doctor, but the stethoscope around his neck leads him to believe he is.
He must be right as the man chuckles before slowly rising to his feet, a beaten up clipboard in his hand. "You look ready to go home."
"Sure. Could probably find my bed somewhere in the rubble," he deadpans.
There's something embarrassing about standing out in the open like this, hospital gown hardly tied in the back, body aching from hours of sharpshooting just to be tossed around like a ragdoll when he should have been resting. He thinks about how he could've been in bed and how the only thing that stopped him was Adam's curiosity. When he realizes that the kid inadvertently saved him by picking up that bag, it takes everything within him not to puke.
The doctor approaches Leon before gesturing back into the makeshift room with curtained walls. "How about this bed, for now?" he suggests.
Leon obliges, but not without a little sass bleeding through his groan. "That's just a polite way of telling me to sit down."
"It's easier to do exams on someone who isn't towering over me," the doctor quips right back.
Leon stays quiet as the doctor—whose last name he notes as Moor based off of the badge swinging around his neck—performs tests similar to the ones done on him when he first arrived. Eye tracking, pupil measuring, looking in his ears, nose, mouth, all while smiling and humming as if this is the greatest day this man has experienced.
"Your body has been through a lot," Doctor Moor notes as he prods at the healing cut on Leon's forehead. The sting is there, but he doesn't hiss. The nurse told him it was small, hardly noticeable. Blood likes to be dramatic when it comes from the face. "More than most."
"You don't say?" It's hard not to snip. Between the exhaustion and self loathing, Leon's sure he could destroy just about anything on the planet with one dirty look.
Taking the stethoscope off his neck, Doctor Moor walks around the other side of the bed and places the cold metal against Leon's back. "It is very rare to find a man like you. Breathe in."
He follows the requests as many times as he's asked despite the ache in his chest. "There are plenty of men like me," he says once his lungs are done being auscultated.
"Oh?" Doctor Moor asks as if it's a challenge. "I don't know of many people who have survived what you have, Mr. Kennedy."
Groaning, Leon rolls his shoulders out before placing his hands on his knees. "Yeah, well, maybe eating all those Lucky Charms wasn't as bad as they said."
"I think this is more than luck." Doctor Moor's feet tap against the ground; quiet, clawed paws against peeling linoleum, a wolf slowly marching its way into Leon's periphery. "Raccoon City, becoming a cop, exterminating infected, becoming a part of the anti-bioterrorism unit before the world crumbled… That takes something. Not a lot of people have that something."
Leon doesn't move. His eyes peer up through bloody hair and pinched brows as that familiar twitch in his fingers begin to ache in his bones. Doctor Moor is smiling. He's heard of wolves laughing when angry. "Burning the midnight oil for some light reading?"
"Our files show you as a very decorated member of our society," he confirms.
"Right, and do you always show your patients this same hospitality?"
The tension in Leon's back remains even after Doctor Moor faces away from him in favor of rummaging through one of the cabinets on the wall. Leon's already sizing him up. The awkward gait on his right leg, the tenderness that seems to stem from his knee, every weak point this man has, and then he realizes how rabid he must be for planning the death of a man at least fifteen years his senior—of even considering him a threat.
"Only the ones I plan to ask a favor of," Doctor Moor admits as he turns back around to face Leon, spare clothes now in hand.
"Sorry Doc, I don't do personal favors. They usually have something to do with infected, and I think we're all going to be busy with funerals as is," Leon dismisses.
"This isn't a favor for me, but for humanity." Leon is taken aback by the conviction he speaks with. For the first time in this short while, that smile vanishes from his face and instead is replaced with tight lips and shaky hands that hold out clothes as if he's serving up food. "Get dressed. I would greatly appreciate it if you would at least humor me, Mr. Kennedy."
He slides the curtains shut with a sharp snap, leaving Leon what little privacy the infirmary has to offer. Huffing, he looks down at the clothes given to him. Simple sweats with frayed ends and a t-shirt that has seen better days. Deciding that anything has to be better than this gown, he slips them on and curses at the way the shirt suffocates his shoulders and cuts into his armpits. Each movement he makes has him fearing he'll rip the fabric at the seams, but he ignores it as he straps himself back into his boots before exiting.
Doctor Moor waits for him with his hands behind his back and shoulders hunched forward with age. That pained smile returns to his lips as he slowly approaches Leon, nodding towards the exit.
"How long have you been keeping tabs on me?" Leon asks as he allows himself to be led out of the room.
"Just since you were dropped in my lap last night," Doctor Moor responds flippantly. The morning sun beams harshly through the windows, worsening the headache Leon suffers from, prompting him to squint his eyes through the pain. "It was rather convenient. This opportunity presented itself to me only yesterday, and I was wondering how I was going to make use of it. Then that explosion happened, and now here you are, like a gift."
The mere mention of last night's events has Leon's brain filling with images he would rather forget. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees Adam. Dismembered, ripped apart like a chew toy. He wonders exactly what part of all this is supposed to be convenient.
Silence settles over the two of them as they wander through pale halls and past tired medical workers until the population begins to thin out and numbra begins to nip at Leon's heels like a bad omen. Eventually, they make it to the back of the building. There's nothing waiting for them except for a wooden door with a makeshift sign that designates the room as belonging to Doctor Richard Moor. The door opens with a lone, rusty key.
A wave of rubbing alcohol hits Leon's nose strong enough to make his eyes water, and it only worsens as he enters the room behind the doctor, door shutting behind him like it's sealing him in a tomb. Several desk lamps illuminate the otherwise dark interior, casting light on haphazard stacks of papers and folders. He notes old computers, several microscopes, testing tubes, and various unlabeled solutions in varying colors. This place is less like an office and more of a lab—sterile, brutal, and enough to send a bitter tingle through Leon's molars as he exhales.
"I take it you don't get out very often," Leon mumbles.
Doctor Moor ignores him as he continues to lead him through his labyrinth of an office. Eventually they reach the back of the room. It's separated from the rest with thick, plastic curtains similar to what Leon would expect to find in a meat processing factory. When the curtain is pulled back, there is a lone box sitting on a dolly.
There is a strange electrical hum that emanates from it as if the box itself is alive and breathing. He's not sure what it's made of, but the material looks strong, like some sort of metal or plastic alloy meant to take a beating or two. It's large. It comes up to his hips and is equally as wide, reminding him of the storage crates they used to use for ammunition. When Doctor Moor approaches it, he taps on a screen that quickly wakes up and displays the word STABLE against a green background.
"What is this?" Leon asks.
"This?" Doctor Moor pauses. His hand rests on the top of the box as he turns to face Leon. His smile is gone, not only from his lips but his eyes. Now, there is nothing but enervation. "This is the cure to everything."
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RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader | tlou inspired au | read on ao3
The events that transpired in Raccoon City left more than just a mark on Leon Kennedy; it left a mark on the world. The spread of the infection became too overwhelming to stop, leaving small pockets of humanity huddling in safe havens scattered in various locations with little left to hope for than to see the sun rise on another day.
After a coordinated attack lead by an increasingly agitated civilian population lands Leon in the infirmary, he is presented with an opportunity he can't refuse.
You are humanity's last hope; and Leon's only chance at redemption.
a/n: each chapter will have its own content warnings. overall; canon typical violence, medical/body horror, age gap (leon is in his 40's, reader doesn't have an explicit age but is referenced to be younger than him) non-canon compliant
Chapter One: a favor
follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here
Warnings: Oral (f receiving), penetration (P in V), unprotected sex (obviously), smut, creampie, lots of cuteness, Dunk being the ultimate gentleman, reader is Lynoel’s baby sister, no use of y/n, cursing, kissing, size difference (because come on, this man is a giant), Lynoel and reader being little menaces (in a good way), porn with plot, sibling rivalry (in a healthy, funny way), take a shot every time i use the word unbefitting 🙃
Word count: 5.8k (Seven hells.)
Your throat burns as you swallow another goblet of wine, hand moving to wipe at your mouth as the maroon liquid slips down the edges of your lips. It might be seen as an unbefitting action for a noble lady by others, but this was your tent and you would do as you pleased.
Plus, anything you did near your brother would be considered noble, given that he was always acting unbefitting of his title enough for the both of you.
Your eyes scan the crowd, smiling as you watch people enjoy themselves. You’re just about to ask for someone to refill your glass when your eyes find him.
It’s a miracle you’ve only seen him just now, his head peeking a shoulder over everyone else’s. You gape, unable to control your lust-filled gaze at the sheer size of him.
“Seven hells,” you mutter.
You force your hand to move, hitting your brother’s arm without taking your eyes from the man you’d just found. Lyonel is far too busy talking to a handsome squire to feel your hand on his arm the first time. But when you hit him again — harder this time — he lets out a yelp, turning to look at you with a scowling gaze.
“Sister, what in the devil are you doing!”
“Look,” you whisper, your eyes still glued to the mystery man.
Lyonel’s head whips around. “Where?”
You roll your eyes, your hand moving to grasp at your brother’s chin. With his beard in your grip, you force his head to move in the direction you want him to look.
“What exactly am I—oh.”
Somehow the small oh that escapes his lips describes exactly how you feel inside.
“Oh indeed, brother dear.”
You both gape in unison for a moment before turning to face each other. Lyonel gives you a look — one you know the meaning of immediately. You begin shaking your head.
“No.”
“Sister…”
“I saw him first!”
Lyonel gives you another look, different from the first but still immediately recognizable. You let out a groan.
“It’s not fair,” you huff, your voice low but heated. “I’m the one who found him.”
“It’s my tent,” Lionel replies immediately, lifting his chin as if that alone settles the matter.
You open your mouth in shock, staring at him as though he’d just insulted your blood line.
“It’s our tent,” you correct, your tone sharp.
“Oh yeah?” he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair, eyes narrowing in defiance. “Did you set it up?”
You scoff loudly, folding your arms.
“No. But neither did you, you buffoon.”
“I gave the command,” he says smugly, reclining back like a lord passing judgment.
“Yes, of course,” you mutter dryly, rolling your eyes. “Because that counts.”
You both stare each other down for a moment, as if to see which will break. Normally Lyonel wins — not because he’s the last to break, but because you don’t have it in you to fight him for the mere pleasure of sharing a night with the man you’re fighting over.
But this one. This one is different.
Something about him makes you want to let him linger. You want to have him for more than just one night.
You give your best pout. “You’re not being fair.”
Lyonel, being the good big brother that he is, hates to see you pouting, so despite himself he sighs, sinking into his chair.
“Fine…” he mumbles, and you give him a grin, your mouth opening to say thank you when he continues talking. “We can share him.”
The grin he gives you is not befitting for a Baratheon. If anything, the mischief behind his eyes should belong to a Targaryen. You swat at his arm and he feigns pain.
“Lyonel,” you whisper-shout, hitting him one more time.
“Ow, will you stop that?” He finally manages to grab at your wrist, stopping you from swatting him again.
You tug your arm from his grip as you pout. Lyonel lets out an exasperated sigh as he watches you cross your arms against your chest, sinking into your chair. He lets you mope for a while before speaking up.
“How about he chooses?”
Your brows quirk up, moving to look at him.
“How exactly would he do that?” you question
Lyonel gives you his signature grin.
“We dance, and whoever he favors in the dance gets to have their fun with him.”
This was a good proposition. If there was something you and Lyonel shared, other than your taste in men, it was your ability to dance.
You gave him a wicked smile.
“You’re on, brother.”
Dunk had never had so much attention on him. It was kind of… overwhelming. When he’d been called over to talk to the owners of the tent, he’d thought he would be kicked out immediately, but that had not been the case. He had kept his attention on Lyonel Baratheon as he spoke, but it was impossible to ignore your lingering gaze on him.
Dunk’s eyes had fluttered briefly to you at the feeling of your stare on him, and when your eyes had met his, you let out a soft smile. Dunk’s heart hammered in his chest at the sight.
And when Lyonel had asked him if he enjoyed dancing, a wide grin appearing on the lord’s face as he answered yes, he couldn’t help but notice the glance both of you exchanged at the words.
Dunk wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he said yes to dancing, but this was certainly not it. He had never seen people move in the way you and Lyonel did.
Your movements were fluid and strong, like the current of a river, while Lyonel’s were rough and commanding, like the wind on a storming day. Despite the difference between you, they were both beautiful to watch.
Lyonel chased after Dunk, his movements seeming like a challenge, and Dunk responded in kind, mirroring the lord’s intensity. You lingered around them, flowing undisturbed by the exchange between the two men.
Dunk tried to pay attention to the man before him, his feet thundering against the ground as he playfully fled Lyonel’s advance, but as soon as he saw your dress flitting by, your hair a wild mess as you continued to spin to the rhythm of the song, his attention couldn’t help but shift to you.
You were an absolute sight.
He’d heard of you, of course — the lady of House Baratheon. Everyone in the realms knew of your beauty and fiery tongue. The confidence seemed to be connected to your blood somehow, because Dunk could tell Lyonel had it too, that same sense of unfazed energy that seemed to seep out of you.
Lyonel caught Dunk’s interest in you almost immediately, his own eyes moving to follow your movements as you danced. You hadn’t even noticed Dunk’s eyes on you yet, far too connected to the feeling of the dance to care about much else.
The sight made Lyonel smile.
He wasn’t bitter about losing, because it was clear from the way Dunk’s eyes lingered on you that something about you had clutched at the giant’s heart. And you weren’t even trying so hard. While Lyonel was actively chasing Dunk, you had been lost in your own world, and even so, you’d managed to get Dunk’s attention.
It was a shame he would not have his fun with Dunk, but he was glad to see the reverence for you in the large man’s eyes.
“Don’t just stand there, big man. Go dance with her,” Lyonel shouted softly, trying to be heard over the sound of music mixed with people’s joy-filled noises.
Dunk’s head snapped toward him at the words, wide blue eyes finding his in what Lyonel could only describe as panic.
“What?” the giant questioned, his jerky dance movements faltering for a moment.
“Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite,” Lyonel said, already gripping at Dunk’s shoulders — as best he could, anyway — and guiding him to face where you stood. “Unless you ask, of course.”
And with that, he gave Dunk a push and a pat on the backside, thrusting the giant closer to you.
Your eyes snapped open as you felt something graze you softly, your head lifting to glance at Dunk. His eyes were wide and his expression clearly nervous. You wondered if perhaps the uneasiness in his gaze was a constant in his expression. It certainly seemed to be, given that in the few moments you’d interacted, he was always looking at you with those blue orbs filled with worry.
“Sorry, m’lady, your brother—”
“Never mind that,” you cut him off, your hand moving to grab him. “Dance with me.”
You waited for a moment, smiling at Dunk’s frightened face before he gave you a small nod.
That was all you needed to tug him along with you.
You weren’t sure how long the dancing lasted. Long enough for your lungs to burn and your hair to cling to your temples. Your feet ached inside your shoes.
You let out a breathless laugh as you stumbled toward a nearby chair, nearly collapsing into it. Your hand immediately reached for your goblet, fingers curling around the cool metal before lifting it to your lips. The wine tasted sweeter now.
A heavy thud sounded beside you.
Dunk dropped into the chair next to yours, the wood creaking in protest under his weight. His chest rose and fell quickly, broad shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You turned your head slowly. He was already looking at you.
His cheeks were flushed, curls damp with sweat, blue eyes bright in a way that made something warm curl low in your stomach. There was still that nervousness there — but it had softened. Changed. Replaced with something almost… awed.
You smiled first. He followed a second later, slower, smaller — like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. Your heart skipped.
You glanced around then, suddenly remembering the reason this had begun in the first place. Your eyes searched for Lyonel.
You found him easily.
He was leaning against a table across the tent, already deep in conversation with a pretty lordling, laughing loudly at something that had been said. He did not once look your way.
Not once.
A slow understanding settled over you. He had seen it too.
You turned back to Dunk, studying him openly now. He shifted slightly under your gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“That was… ah…” he started, still catching his breath.
“Exhausting?” you offered lightly.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye, m’lady.”
You leaned closer, lowering your voice just enough that it felt like a secret.
“Would you care to step outside, Ser Duncan?” Your fingers traced idly around the rim of your goblet. “For some air.”
His eyes widened slightly at the use of his name.
For a moment you wondered if he would refuse.
Then he nodded.
“I would like that.”
And the way he said it — soft, sincere — made your chest tighten.
The night air was cooler outside the tent. The noise of the feast dulled behind you, replaced by distant laughter and the rustle of wind through the trees. Dunk walked half a step behind you at first, large hands clasped awkwardly behind his back as though he were escorting a queen instead of simply walking beside you.
You noticed.
“You may walk next to me, Ser Duncan,” you said lightly, not looking at him.
He hesitated — only for a second — before moving to your side.
“Yes, m’lady.”
You hummed softly at that.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You seemed content, breathing in the night air, skirts brushing against the grass. Dunk, however, looked anything but content.
His shoulders were tense. His gaze flickered around as if waiting for someone to shout at him for daring to walk alone with a noblewoman.
“You look as though you are marching to your execution,” you said at last.
His head snapped toward you. “I beg your pardon?”
You smiled.
“You’re frowning.”
He hadn’t realized he was.
“It isn’t proper,” he admitted after a moment, voice low. “Me walking alone with you. I wouldn’t want talk to start.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Let them talk.”
That surprised him. You finally looked at him fully then, brows lifting slightly.
“Do you always care so much about what others think?”
His jaw tightened faintly.
“I care about not overstepping.”
The answer was honest. Painfully so. Something in your expression softened.
“And do you believe walking beside me is overstepping?”
He swallowed.
“You are a lady of House Baratheon.”
“And you are Ser Duncan the Tall,” you replied easily. “I asked you to walk with me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
The silence that followed was lighter now. After a few more steps, curiosity tugged at you.
“So where is it you sleep?” you asked, glancing up at him.
He blinked.
“Sleep, m’lady?”
“Yes. Your lodgings.”
His expression shifted — just slightly — but you caught it. A flicker of embarrassment.
“I’ve no tent of my own,” he said carefully. “There’s an elm not far from the edge of the grounds. I bed down beneath it.”
He kept his eyes forward as he said it, bracing himself. Waiting. For disgust. For polite pity. For distance.
Instead, you stopped walking.
He halted too, confused, looking down at you.
Your eyes were bright.
“You’re a real hedge knight, then?”
It wasn’t really a question, more of a quiet observation. There was no repulsion in it either — if anything, Dunk thought he heard a bit of astonishment in your tone. You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t quite place.
“Would you show me?”
For a moment, he simply stared.
“Show you?” he repeated, as if he’d misheard.
“The elm,” you clarified, stepping closer. “You make it sound… rather nice.”
He felt something shift in his chest.
“Yes,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “Yes, of course, m’lady.”
And when he started leading you toward the tree, he did not walk behind you this time.
The elm wasn’t far.
Dunk slowed as they approached it, suddenly aware of every crooked branch and every patch of worn grass beneath it. What had always seemed perfectly fine to him now felt… small.
He stopped a few steps away.
“This is it,” he said, almost apologetically.
You stepped forward without hesitation.
Dunk remained where he was, large hands clasping and unclasping in front of him as he watched you take in the space. There was little to see — a thick elm with sprawling roots, a worn patch of earth where he laid his cloak, a saddle resting against the trunk.
You walked slowly around the tree, fingertips brushing lightly over the bark. Your skirts whispered against the grass. You tilted your head back to look up through the branches, following the way they stretched wide into the night sky.
Dunk shifted his weight.
He had seen noblewomen wrinkle their noses at far less.
“It is quite large,” you said softly.
He blinked.
You turned then, looking at him over your shoulder. There was no disgust on your face. No thinly veiled pity. Only something thoughtful. Curious.
“Though perhaps not for you,” you said with a soft smile, referring once again to his large stature. Dunk smiled to himself as you turned back to the tree, your head lifting as you continued to glance at the leaves above.
“It must keep the rain off well enough.”
“Aye,” he answered quickly. “It does.”
You moved closer to the trunk, crouching slightly to inspect the ground where he slept. Dunk’s stomach tightened. Your fingers grazed against the dirt before you pressed your palm into the grass, eyes closing for a moment.
“I’ve slept in worse places,” he added, as if needing to defend it.
You glanced up at him again.
“I’m sure you have.”
There was no mockery in your tone. Only fact.
You rose to your feet and walked back toward him, your expression thoughtful rather than disturbed. You stood there for a moment, your head tilting slightly to the side. It was clear you were thinking about something, but Dunk could not tell exactly what.
“Have you ever been with a woman?” you said after a moment.
That caught him off guard. His eyes widened, his head moving slightly to the side as he looked at you. Your face remained forward, eyes never leaving the elm tree. It was almost as if you had not spoken the words, almost as if Dunk had imagined them.
But then you spoke again.
“It’s okay if you have. There is no shame in it.”
His mouth opened and closed, his brain trying to understand what it was he was supposed to do in this situation.
“I have,” you said simply, and Dunk’s brows raised even more. You finally turned your attention to him, catching his comical expression. “Been with men, I mean,” you clarified.
He didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t. Why in the Seven Hells were you telling him this? Where had this conversation come from? One moment you were talking about a tree, and the next you were asking him if he’d ever been with a woman?
“Have I upset you?”
The worry in your voice made Dunk’s attention snap fully back to you. His eyes trailed over your furrowed brows. Your lips parted softly as if realizing something.
“I have, haven’t I?” you whispered before letting out a soft tsk. “Seven hells, what was I…” You began to turn around, muttering something about being far too direct and perhaps a sort of apology for your outspoken nature.
But Dunk heard none of it.
The only thing he could think of was the sight of your grinning face as you danced with him. The feeling of your hand on his arm as you guided him along. Your soft panting as you struggled to catch your breath after. And your question — Have you been with a woman? — echoed in his head.
You were beginning to move away from him, no doubt embarrassed due to his lack of response. The thought that he might have shamed you — and the realization that you were slipping away from him — finally pushed him to act.
His hand reached out, gripping your arm with ease. You were farther from him, but his large size allowed him to reach you without difficulty.
Your head snapped toward him at the feeling of his hand on your wrist. Your eyes moved from where he held you to his face. You blinked at him, the moonlight casting a soft glow onto your features.
Your mouth parted as if to say something, but before you could, Dunk spoke.
“I have.”
He watched your lips part even more.
“Been with women, m’lady.”
The sigh that slipped from your lips sounded more like a gasp, and Dunk couldn’t help but flush at the sound.
You stepped forward, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You stared into his eyes for a moment before your gaze flitted down to his lips.
Gods, you wanted to kiss him so badly.
You stepped closer, close enough now that he could smell the faint trace of wine lingering on your breath.
For a moment, Dunk could not speak. His heart thundered against his chest. The hand he held onto you with was damp with sweat — he was sure you could feel it — but you didn’t seem to mind.
You had never hesitated before. Not like this. You had never needed permission. Never needed reassurance.
And yet…you suddenly felt unsure.
Not because you didn’t want him, but because you dreaded the possibility that he would not want you.
“Would you…” Your voice almost caught, and that alone startled you. “Would you want to be with me?”
Of all the things he had expected you to say, it had not been that. Not with that small, uncertain note in your voice. Not when you were a Baratheon. Not when you had carried yourself all night like a storm no man could stand against.
And here you were, looking up at him as though he held the power.
It felt absurd.
His hand lifted before he could think better of it. Large and warm, it came to rest against your cheek, rough thumb brushing just slightly along your skin.
Your eyes closed at the touch.
He exhaled shakily.
“It would be an honor,” he said, and he meant it. Every word.
Your eyes opened slowly.
And then you grinned.
“Good.”
You surged up on your toes and kissed him.
It was not tentative. It was heat and wine and breath and hands fisting into fabric. His other arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you closer, as though afraid you might disappear if he did not anchor you there.
You kissed him like you had decided something. Like you had chosen him.
And for a moment, Dunk forgot every rule he had ever tried to live by.
When you pulled back, breathless, you did not give him time to recover. Your hand slid into his, fingers lacing tightly.
“Come,” you murmured.
He followed.
Of course he followed.
You led him back toward the elm, toward the worn patch of earth and the cloak laid carefully against the roots. Your heart was pounding now, not from dancing but from anticipation.
Dunk slowed.
“Here?” he asked, voice rough.
You turned to him, brows lifting slightly.
“Yes. Why not?”
He glanced at the ground, then back at you.
“It isn’t… befitting,” he managed.
You laughed softly — not cruelly, but genuinely amused.
“I don’t care.”
And the way you said it — so certain, so unbothered — made something inside him finally loosen.
You stepped closer again, hands finding his chest.
“Do you?”
His answer came in the way he kissed you this time.
Your fingers gripped his tunic at the intensity of the kiss. The soft hiss you let out as your back struck the elm’s bark was swallowed by Dunk’s eager mouth. You didn’t know where his sudden confidence had come from, but you were enjoying this new side of him.
One of his hands moved to brace against the tree as he crowded you, his other hand gripping your chin, guiding your mouth to stay fused with his. He stepped closer, and the movement made you feel him against you.
Gods. He was already hard.
You were about to slide your hand down when he suddenly pulled away.
You stared at him, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. And before you could utter so much as a word, he had dropped to his knees before you.
His hands found your waist, caressing you through the fabric of your skirts as he looked up at you — not hesitant, but intent.
“May I?”
“Yes…” you breathed, your head falling back against the tree as Dunk’s hands began to gather your skirts in his grasp.
His movements were swift, the worry and hesitation you’d seen him display all evening now completely gone. You barely had time to adjust to the cold air against your skin before Dunk was leaning in, his tongue moving to lick at you. You gasped, a hand gripping at his hair immediately.
One of his hands pressed against your stomach, keeping your skirts lifted as he continued his ministrations. Your hips bucked against him unconsciously, chasing the pleasure and causing his nose to brush against your most sensitive spot. You let out a moan, your head twisting to the side at the sensation, the rough bark digging into your cheek as you did.
“Ser Duncan,” you whined, the use of his title causing him to twitch beneath his clothes. Even so, he forced himself to pull away enough to speak.
“Just Dunk, m’lady,” he whispered against your skin, his face still partially concealed by your skirts.
“What?” you whispered, prompting him to lift his head so he could look at you. His mouth was slick, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip to keep quiet.
“It’s just Dunk, m’lady,” he said simply. “For you, I’m just Dunk.”
The way he said it — so completely devoid of pride, so ready to lay himself bare for you — made your brows furrow. Your hand rose to his cheek, a soft smile touching your lips.
“My Dunk,” you sighed.
Dunk let out a low groan at your words, his eyes locked on yours as his hand inched higher along your leg. He watched your mouth fall open in a quiet cry as his fingers slid into you.
Your walls fluttered around him, your body unaccustomed to the sudden intrusion. But as soon as he began to move his fingers, the initial flicker of discomfort on your face melted into pleasure. He continued to watch you as he quickened the pace, soft grunts leaving him while you moaned his name.
Your hand moved to grip his hair, gently guiding his face back to where it had been before. Dunk didn’t hesitate, his tongue joining his fingers as he continued to draw you closer to your high. It didn’t take long — not with the steady rhythm of his touch and the heat of his mouth against you.
When his free hand left your stomach to lift your leg over his broad shoulder, shifting you to a deeper angle, you were undone. You cried out his name, nails digging into the bark behind you and into Dunk’s scalp as pleasure crashed over you, juices covering his face as it did.
You sagged softly against the elm, your breath coming in short bursts. Dunk remained beneath your skirts for a moment longer, his hand moving slowly up and down your thigh in a gentle caress.
Once you had managed to steady your racing heart, your hand drifted to Dunk’s shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze meant to signal for him to rise.
Dunk understood your request, his hand moving to set your foot gently back on the ground before pulling your skirts down from over his head. He rose with ease, one hand coming up to brace against the tree beside your head as he looked down at you.
You offered him a satisfied smile, one of your hands lifting to his face. Your finger brushed at the wetness smeared along his chin before you brought it slowly to your mouth. Dunk watched the motion, his body visibly shaking at the sight.
You grinned up at him then, your gaze dropping pointedly to the unmistakable tent in his trousers.
“Your turn.”
You had barely moved an inch before Dunk’s hand gripped you. You looked up at him, face wide with confusion.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he began, desperately trying to keep his thoughts in order. “It’s just that… well… I don’t think I’ll last much if you do.”
You couldn’t help but smile at his confession.
He gave you a shy look. “And I’d… uh… well, I’d much rather be inside you.”
Your brows raised in surprise. Dunk caught the reaction immediately, already beginning to stammer.
“If—I mean—if you’d let me, of course.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped from your mouth. The sound made Dunk’s brows shoot up. But you were quick to reassure him.
“Yes, Dunk. Of course I’d let you,” you smiled, hand caressing his cheek. “Actually, I was hoping you’d ask.”
“You were?” he questioned, clearly surprised.
Instead of answering him, you pushed yourself up and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dunk groaned against your mouth, large hands moving to hold your waist. Once you broke the kiss, your foreheads rested against each other for a moment before Dunk pulled back. His hand moved to grasp yours, slowly inching toward where his bed lay.
“Where are you going?” you asked softly.
Dunk looked at you, then at his cloak.
“I thought you ought to lay down.”
You followed his gaze, a look of amusement flashing over your face before you looked back at him.
“No need. Here is fine.”
Dunk glanced at the ground beneath your feet, scattered with roots and broken branches.
“Here, m’lady?”
“No, Dunk,” you answered with a laugh, your hand lifting his head so he was looking at you. You let go of his hand and leaned back against the elm’s trunk. “Here.”
Dunk began to shake his head.
“But, m’lady, it’s—”
“Unbefitting?” you interrupted. “And your tongue inside me wasn’t?”
Dunk’s mind froze for a moment, the bluntness of your words catching him off guard.
“But… you—”
“Yes?”
“You’re a lady. You should be treated as—”
“No, I’m not,” you cut in, making Dunk’s brows furrow even more. You stepped closer to him.
“If, to me, you are just Dunk and not Ser Duncan the Tall, then to you I am just me, not a lady of House Baratheon.”
Dunk continued to gaze at you, uncertain.
“Lust knows not the bounds of titles, Dunk,” you said simply. “Nor does love, for that matter.”
Dunk took in your words. He wasn’t certain he fully understood, but now was not the time to dwell on meaning — for him or for you. There would be time later.
For the first time that night, Dunk’s resolve steeled. He stepped forward, the movement lacking any hesitation. Once he was close enough, his hands moved to your waist, pressing you gently against the bark so he could lean down and give you a searing kiss. When he lifted you with ease, your legs wound instinctively around his waist.
Dunk shifted, one of his hands moving to wrap around your body as the other worked on untying his breeches. You continued to kiss him as he did, your arms wrapping around his neck, your tongues brushing together.
Dunk pulled back just enough to free his mouth from yours, his forehead resting against yours as your breaths mingled.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” you sighed back.
That was all he needed. With one swift movement Dunk lined himself up and began pushing himself inside you. Your brows furrowed, nails clawing at his shoulder at the intrusion. He was thicker than the men you had been with before so the pressure was overwhelming. Even so the pain didn't last.
Dunk moved slowly, trying his best not to hurt you. Every gasp you let out made him want to pull away, but the way you clawed at him stopped him from doing so. With one last shove he settled completely in you, his head moving to rest on your shoulder as he willed himself to not cum too soon.
“Gods you… fuck you’re so warm,” Dunk muttered, more to himself than anything.
All you could do was whine softly, your fingers threading into his hair as you adjusted to the size of him. Your walls fluttered around him, making his job of staying still a lot harder.
“Dunk,” you sighed, voice barely audible over your beating heart “Move.”
So he did. He tugged back slightly, pulling back as much as he could without leaving you fully, before plunging back in. You back hit against the bark as he began to thirst into you. He started off slow at first, perhaps afraid of hurting you but it did not last. Soon enough Dunk was practically pistoling into you.
You had lost the ability to talk, the only sounds that left your mouth were gasps and moans. Dunk wasn’t much better, with each powerful thrust a grunt escaped his throat. But that didn't mean he couldn’t talk too. If anything the longer he was inside of you the more he talked.
“Gods… you feel incredible.”
“That’s it… let it out. Sound so lovely for me.”
“Gods, what have I done to deserve this?”
The praise seemed endless, and all you could do was bask in it. Dunk was barely holding on, you could tell by the way he twitched against you. Despite your own scattered thoughts, you forced yourself to lean closer, pressing your mouth near his ear.
“Cum Dunk,” you whispered.
“I shouldn't," he reasoned. “Not inside.”
“Please. I want it,” you murmured against his ear, nose nudging softly on his cheek "It's okay I promise."
He knew he should not do it. It was unwise. Dangerous even. But you had asked him, and he would give you the moon if you asked.
“Okay,” he sighed. “I need you to cum first though, are…are you close?”
“Just cum Dunk.”
“But you’ll-”
“If you do, I swear I will too…just…please” you groaned.
Dunk nodded, his hands shifting so he could better hold onto you before he sped up his movements. His mouth dropped open in a silent groan as he came. You followed after him, the feeling of his seed spilling into you triggered your own orgasm. A shout of his name slipped from your lips before you sagged against his body, locked limbs finally relaxing.
Dunk's seed seemed never ending, it kept flowing out until it started to spill down your thighs. It didn't surprise you though, not with his stature. Once it seemed to have finished, Dunk’s dick softening inside you, he pulled out. You whined softly as your feet hit the ground, thighs aching from having been locked against his large waist for so long.
Before you could even think about what had just happened, Dunk pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You accepted it, hand splaying across his chest as you kissed him back.
“Can I stay with you?” you asked once he pulled away.
“I… I don’t think that would be wise, m’lady,” he whispered shyly. “People will come looking for you, and I’m not so sure they’d be kind if they found you—”
“Tangled in the arms of a hedge knight?”
Dunk smiled at your tone, his nose brushing against yours as your foreheads stayed pressed together. You let out a sigh, hand moving to tangle your fingers with his.
“Then come back with me,” you said softly. “Sleep in my tent with me.”
Dunk pulled back at the words, looking at you with unfiltered surprise.
“What?” you asked. “It’s not like my brother would care.”
Dunk opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.
“And don’t dare say it’s unbefitting. I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”
The laugh that escaped Dunk was unexpected. It caused a large grin to spread across your face. He moved his free hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over it as he continued to stare at you.
“Alright.”
He could not deny you anything. If you’d asked him to walk to the ends of the earth, he would follow without hesitation — if only to see the beautiful smile plastered across your face.
“Good,” you said, moving toward where you had come from, your hand still clasped in his. “Come on, then.”
And with that, you both walked back to your tent, hands tightly entwined. For the first time that night, Dunk couldn’t be bothered with what others thought. All that mattered was your hand in his, and the promise of something more lingering in the air.
Dunk (Ser Duncan the Tall) X Fem!TravelCompanion!Reader
Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, no y/n, mutual pining, accidental voyeurism, fingering, unprotected sex, size difference, praise kink ( i think?), one use of “good girl” (I had to guys), knight/lady dynamic, porn with little plot, not proofread
Word count: 5.7K (*does debby ryan hair tuck*)
You lay in bed, your body scarcely covered by the itchy sheets. You were exhausted. This was the first real bed you’d gotten to sleep in for a few days now. It wasn’t the best quality — you were at an inn, so you hadn’t expected fine sheets or anything of the sort — but it sure beat sleeping on the rough ground.
Unfortunately, exhaustion wasn’t the only thing you were feeling. Your hand traveled down your body, tracing over your stomach before slipping between your thighs. Your legs widened softly as you began to toy with yourself, your eyes closing slightly.
You hadn’t had the luxury of privacy as of late — not with Dunk and Egg sleeping right beside you every night — but now, in a room all to yourself, you found yourself ready to scratch an itch you’d been harboring for what felt like ages.
Your eyelids fluttered as your movements grew more certain, your fingers slipping inside you with ease. Your breathing became labored, your eyes squeezing shut as you allowed images to fill your mind — his hands, his large thighs, the way his blue eyes gazed at you whenever you spoke.
Your free hand moved over the sheets, gripping the rough fabric as your mouth parted softly. The chill nipped at your bare nipples, but you paid it no mind, far too consumed by thoughts of him and the sensation of your own touch to care.
Maybe if you had been paying attention to your surroundings, you would have heard his feet thundering down the hall. He never tried to be loud, but his large size did not make stealth easy. Perhaps if you had been paying attention, you would’ve been able to tug your hand out from inside you before your door came crashing open.
But you hadn’t.
When you heard the door slam against the wall, followed by Dunk’s voice, you startled, your body jerking upright into a sitting position as you quickly yanked the sheets up over your bare frame.
“You hungry? Dinner’s—” Dunk paused, his eyes landing on you on the bed. They widened more than usual.
For a moment, you thought perhaps he could see the flushed state of your face, could notice the way your chest heaved behind the sheets you’d tried to hide yourself with. He stood there in the doorway, practically blocking it with his large frame, his mouth unmoving, his eyes fixed on you.
Then something clicked. He wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring… lower.
Your head snapped down before you could stop yourself, eyes widening as you realized your left breast was completely exposed. In your haste to pull the sheets up, you hadn’t done a very good job.
Your gaze shot back to his just as he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. If the embarrassment on your face wasn’t obvious, the deep red flushing Dunk’s certainly was. You tugged the sheets up quickly, covering yourself completely this time, your arms crossing tightly over your chest.
Dunk opened his mouth as if to say something — perhaps an apology for staring so long — but before he could get the words out, Egg slipped beneath his arm and into the room.
“Did the Ser tell you, my lady? The food’s ready, aren’t you—” The young boy paused, the excited tone he’d carried into the room fading as he looked at you. “Oh. Did we wake you?”
The innocent way he asked, as though he were genuinely sorry for disturbing you, made your heart ache. You forced yourself to give him as soft a smile as you could manage despite your embarrassment. But then your eyes flicked back to Dunk’s, and your expression shifted again into mortified horror.
“I’ll be right down,” you managed to squeak out.
Dunk grabbed Egg by the shoulder, guiding the boy back out ahead of him.
“Yes, of course, m’lady, we’ll see you—” His head smacked against the doorframe in his haste to leave, earning a soft ow from him and making you grimace.
He shook his head as if to clear it, then muttered without looking back at you, “See you downstairs.”
You watched him close the door behind him, your eyes lingering on the spot where he had stood before finally turning back to the bed and burying your face in the pillow to muffle an exasperated groan.
Nothing had been said about that exchange — not at dinner, when you three sat together chewing your food in silence, nor in the morning when you mounted your horses and continued on your journey.
You and Dunk didn’t avoid each other exactly, but the ease you’d always felt while interacting seemed to have vanished. You only exchanged words when necessary, and whenever your eyes met, you were both quick to look away, faces flushing as you searched for anything else to focus on.
Luckily for both of you, Egg never seemed to tire of talking. When he wasn’t telling you about his family and sharing facts about the kingdoms — according to him, there were nine, not seven — he was singing songs that were pleasant enough, though some carried meanings you weren’t sure he fully understood.
The journey went well enough despite the lingering awkwardness, and by the time you stopped beneath a tree to make camp that night, you had almost forgotten the ordeal of the evening before.
You nudged at the fire with a stick, trying to keep it alive. Dunk was off with Egg somewhere, presumably gathering more wood. Leaning back, you watched the flames dance while you waited for them to return.
The patter of feet against leaves sounded to your left, and you turned just as Egg came racing toward you.
“Look at what I found!” he exclaimed, finally reaching you.
He opened the piece of fabric he’d been using as a sack so you could see the contents. Your eyes widened at the variety of berries he’d managed to gather.
“Well, look at that,” you said softly. “Well done, Egg.”
You smiled at him, and he beamed in return.
“He wanted to eat them straight away,” Dunk’s voice rumbled from behind him.
You lifted your gaze through the dim light and found him easily in the darkness. Your eyes drifted down to his forearms, catching the way they flexed beneath his sleeves as he shifted the weight of the logs he was carrying. You quickly dragged your gaze back up before your thoughts could wander too far.
“But I thought it best to have you look at them first.” Dunk grunted softly as he dropped the logs beside the fire and dusted off his hands. “Don’t want him poisoning himself by accident.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“Or us, for that matter,” he added with a faint smile.
Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of it. Shaking yourself from your distraction, you turned your attention back to the berries in Egg’s lap.
“Yes, that was wise, Ser Duncan.” You examined the fruit carefully, searching for any telltale signs of danger. “It seems your squire has been paying attention to my lessons. All of these are safe to eat.” You grinned and gently ruffled Egg’s hair.
The boy settled beside you, legs crossed, the bundle of berries resting in his lap. You plucked one from the cloth and popped it into your mouth just as Dunk lowered himself onto your other side. His arm brushed yours as he reached past to grab one as well.
The brief contact made you glance at him. Your eyes met for a heartbeat, and though neither of you spoke, the shared awareness lingered in the air.
Gods, how were you meant to survive this?
After you’d eaten your fill, Egg let out a soft yawn, the day’s excitement finally catching up to him. He settled onto his bedroll with a quiet goodnight and was asleep moments later.
You remained by the fire, watching the flames. Your body was tired, but your mind felt far too awake. Sleep seemed distant.
Beside you, Dunk shifted and pushed himself to his feet. You looked up at him.
“Off to sleep as well?” you asked.
“Oh — uh, not yet,” Dunk muttered. “I’ve got to, uh… take care of something.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion for only a moment before you understood. He needed to go to the bathroom. Dunk always seemed oddly shy about such matters around you.
“Alright,” you said lightly. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and disappeared into the trees.
It was unusual for Dunk to take so long to relieve himself. Even on the rare occasions he lingered, it was never for this long. You were beginning to worry.
Then the rain started, sudden and heavy, dousing the fire you had been carefully tending so Dunk could find his way back with ease. Without the guiding light, you were certain he would struggle to locate the camp in the darkness.
You stood beneath the tree, trying to shield yourself from the downpour, your hands twisting together anxiously as you searched for Dunk’s large frame in the shadows. You couldn’t just stand there and wait. Dunk was a good knight and knew his way around the wilderness well enough, but your skills were sharper when it came to tracking and foraging.
What if he had gotten turned around? With the rain falling this hard, it would be nearly impossible for him to retrace his steps before daybreak — and dawn was still a long way off.
“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself.
You cast one last glance at Egg, making certain the boy was still fast asleep and sheltered from the rain, before stepping into the trees in search of Dunk.
It didn’t take you long to find him. He wasn’t far from camp at all. Your eyes caught his frame against a tree almost immediately. He was leaning against the trunk, no doubt trying to shield himself from the rain as he waited for it to pass.
You thought about calling out his name, but with the thunder rumbling overhead, you were sure he wouldn’t hear you. Squinting against the rain, you began moving toward him.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world around you for a heartbeat. You froze, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it — if the light had played tricks on your eyes. But when another flash followed, you realized you had seen correctly.
Dunk wasn’t simply hiding from the rain. He wasn’t lost.
He was touching himself, his hand wrapped around his length as his head rested back against the tree. His mouth was slightly parted, his movements slow and deliberate despite the downpour soaking him through.
Your breathing quickened. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
Another crack of lightning struck, closer this time, jolting you back to your senses. You turned and ran, racing toward camp as fast as your feet could carry you.
You dropped down beneath the tree, casting a quick glance at Egg to ensure he was still asleep before squeezing your eyes shut, your head falling back against the trunk. The image of Dunk seemed burned into your mind.
“You’re wet.”
Your eyes flew open, a startled gasp leaving you as your hand flew to your chest. Dunk stood beside you, rainwater dripping from his hair and clothes, strands plastered to his forehead. You forced yourself not to let your gaze wander anywhere but his face. He was looking at you with mild confusion.
“Oh — yes,” you managed. “The rain caught me off guard.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “Wasn’t expecting it either. Sorry I took so long. I was waiting to see if it would ease up.”
The lie slipped from his lips so naturally that it made your stomach twist.
“No problem,” you replied quietly.
“Is Egg alright?”
Grateful for the change in subject, you looked toward the boy.
“Yes, he’s fine. The princeling’s tougher than he looks.”
Dunk grunted in agreement as he lowered himself to the ground beside you.
“We’ll sleep at an inn tomorrow,” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
“Whatever you think is best,” you whispered.
He shifted, turning his back to you as he settled in. “Well… goodnight, m’lady.”
“Goodnight, Ser.”
Sleep would not be finding you anytime soon.
This inn was a bit better than the last one. The sheets were certainly softer. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, dressed in your sleeping gown. You’d learned from last time. A soft knock pulled your attention to the door.
It seemed you weren’t the only one.
You pushed yourself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come in,” you called.
There was a brief silence. You wondered if you hadn’t been heard, but before you could repeat yourself, the door creaked open. Dunk’s head peeked inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. You caught the flicker of relief that crossed his face. He stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.
“Is everything alright?” you asked quickly. “Is something wrong with Egg?”
“Oh no,” Dunk replied at once. “Nothing’s wrong, m’lady. I just wanted to… well, I wanted to— uh— I…”
You rose from the bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you approached him.
“What is it, Ser?” You placed a hand gently against his chest. “You’re worrying me.”
“I don’t mean to,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just— well— I wanted to—”
“Your heart’s pounding, Dunk,” you murmured, concern lacing your voice.
The sound of his name seemed to steady him. He exhaled and lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his chest.
“I apologize.”
Your brows knit together. “Whatever for?”
Now it was his turn to frown. “Well… for the other night. In the inn.”
“Oh. Right.” You blinked. “That.”
“I should not have entered without knocking. I know that now. And I apologize for staring. That was not the right thing to do. I should have left as soon as I—”
“I saw you last night.”
The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.
“I— you what?” Dunk asked, confusion clouding his face.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze.
“I. Saw. You. Last. Night.” You spoke slowly, not to mock him, but to be absolutely clear.
From the way his eyes widened and his brows shot upward, you knew he understood exactly what you meant. The color drained from Dunk’s face before rushing back twice as fierce. His hand slackened slightly around yours.
“You—” he swallowed. “You did?”
You nodded once. There was no point pretending otherwise now.
“I meant no dishonor,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I would never— I wasn’t thinking. I just—”
His jaw tightened. He looked away first this time, staring somewhere over your shoulder as if he could will himself out of the room.
“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” he admitted quietly. “With… the wanting.”
Your breath caught, startled by his confession — by how deeply he seemed to be affected by you.
“Dunk…” you whispered, your fingers twitching slightly beneath his hand.
Your heart was beating so loudly you were certain he could feel it beneath his palm.
“If I’ve offended you—”
“You haven’t.”
The answer came too quickly to be anything but true.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up again, as though even that fleeting glance felt like too much.
“I am not a man practiced in this,” he said softly. “I don’t know what the right way is. I only know that when I think of you, it feels…” He hesitated.
Your lips parted, your body drifting closer to his without you even realizing it.
“Tell me,” you breathed.
His eyes locked onto yours.
“It feels as if I am burning from within.”
You gasped, your fingers tightening slightly against his chest.
“Dunk…” you whispered again.
He searched your face as though bracing himself for rejection. For command. For dismissal.
“I do not wish you to burn alone,” you said quietly.
His hand flexed around yours.
“You would not ask that of me if you knew what I think when I look at you,” he murmured.
Your pulse fluttered. “Then tell me.”
His jaw worked for a moment, restraint warring with honesty. Then honesty won.
“I think about touching you,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Not in passing. Not by accident. I think about it the way a starving man thinks of bread.”
You slid your hand slowly higher along his chest, feeling the tension there, the strength beneath your fingertips. His eyes darkened at that. At the way you stared at him, eyes full of something not at all innocent.
“Tell me to leave,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “If I stay, I do not know that I will remain a gentleman.”
“I do not want you to leave,” you answered.
His hand rose — slowly, giving you every chance to pull away — and hovered near your cheek before finally, gently, cupping it. The touch was careful, as though you were something precious rather than something he had confessed wanting.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He leaned down then, hesitating only a breath away from your lips — waiting. When you closed the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his, the last of his restraint broke. His hand wound around your waist keeping you pressed to him.
He kissed you like a man who had held himself back for far too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as though you needed something solid to anchor yourself. He made a low sound in his throat when you did, the hand at your waist tightening just slightly. You parted only because you both needed to breathe.
“I thought wanting you from a distance was difficult.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, almost unconsciously. “This is far more dangerous.”
You felt it too — that edge. The way the air seemed charged. The way every small shift of his hand sent a ripple through you.
Your hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. Solid. Steady. Real. He shuddered faintly at the contact, as though your touch affected him more than he had expected.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said quietly. “If we go further—”
“You will not frighten me,” you interrupted softly.
You lifted one hand to the back of his neck, guiding him down into another kiss. It was rougher this time, filled with the quiet hunger you both seemed to harbor for one another.
Dunk’s hands slipped lower, his broad frame bending slightly as he grasped your thighs. You gave a small gasp at the sudden movement, but you didn’t resist. Instead, you let him lift you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
His boots thudded softly against the floor as he carried you toward the bed, your lips still fused together. He placed his knee against the mattress, lowering you slowly onto the bed, his large frame remaining above you. Your legs unwound from his hips, moving to rest your feet flat on the bed instead. Dunk's hands moved over your leg, pushing the fabric of your nightgown up as he went. His forehead rested against yours as his hands inched between your legs. You gasped as his fingers grazed your pussy.
“You’re wet,” he murmured.
A faint, breathless laugh escaped you. “Second time you’ve said that.”
His lips brushed yours as he exhaled. “It wasn’t what I meant last time.”
“I know,” you whispered, nipping gently at his lower lip. “But I was wet then too.”
He let out a groan at that, his head moving down to place kisses on your neck. Your body arched off the bed as his tongue lapped at your skin and his hand continued to move against you, not teasing exactly but not touching you entirely either. His head trailed down until he got to your chest. He raised himself enough so he could use his free hand to tug your nightgown down enough to reveal your breast. As soon as your skin was free from the cloth Dunk leaned down, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking. Your hand moved to his head, fingers tugging at his hair as you moaned.
The hand that lay on your thigh tensed at the movement, squeezing your skin between his fingers without him even noticing. The action only heightened the sensation, your back arching softly against the bed. A low rumble escaped Dunk as your body pressed into his. He pulled off your breast with a soft pop.
“Gods…” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, your body still warm and responsive beneath him. You could feel the hesitation settling back into him—the part of Dunk that always tried to do the right thing, even now.
“Dunk,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and even though they were blown wide with desire, you could still see the restraint in his gaze. You could tell he was searching for a reason to stop this before it was too late.
Your hand moved from his curls to his face, a finger trailing over his lips for a moment before your eyes lifted back to his.
“Touch me,” you breathed.
“I am,” he whispered, his voice tinged with confusion.
You shook your head softly, your hair dragging against the sheets beneath you.
“No, I mean—” You grabbed the hand resting on your thigh, lifting it from your skin. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you guided it slowly between your legs. “Here. Touch me here.”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile ghosted across his lips.
“Here,” you repeated softly, your voice gentler now.
His breath caught, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to your face, searching—always searching—for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might stop him.
He didn’t find it.
Slowly, carefully, his hand moved where you had guided it, his movements tentative at first, as though he feared misreading you. The moment your breath hitched, his eyes snapped back to yours.
“Is that—” he started, unsure.
“Yes,” you whispered, your grip tightening slightly around his wrist. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
Not for him to lose control—not entirely—but for something to settle. His touch steadied, growing more certain, though never careless. Every small reaction from you seemed to anchor him further, to teach him.
Your head tipped back against the bed, a soft breath escaping you before you could stop it. His name followed without thought, quieter this time, but it made his jaw tighten all the same.
“Gods,” he murmured again, almost under his breath.
Your free hand found his shoulder, then his neck, pulling him closer—not just for the contact, but for the closeness, the shared heat of it. He leaned in without resistance, his forehead brushing yours, his breathing uneven.
“You’ll tell me,” he said, voice low, almost strained. “If it’s too much.”
“I will,” you answered, though your body was already answering for you, leaning into him, urging him on.
Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck as he slipped his finger deeper, your mouth opening in a silent moan. Your hot breath mingled with his as he continued his movements.
“More,” you groaned.
“You sure? I don’t want to—”
“Dunk. More.”
The way you said it—like a command rather than a question—made Dunk twitch against his breeches.
“As you wish, m’lady.”
As his second finger slipped inside you, you couldn’t help the groan that left your lips. You buried your head in his shoulder, teeth grazing the strong muscle there as he quickened his movements slightly. Your thighs trembled despite yourself, hands clawing at Dunk in desperation.
“Is it good?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “So good, Dunk. Please don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, m’lady.”
You weren’t sure if he’d meant to say it so confidently, but it did things to you. You’d grown so used to seeing him shrink back—not in fear exactly, but in a way that showed he knew his place. But now, alone with you, his muscles flexing as he continued to pleasure you, that shyness you’d become accustomed to seemed to have disappeared.
He’d said he didn’t know how to do this, but the way he was working you with such ease told you that perhaps he was underselling himself.
And when he found that spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his skin as you came undone against his hand, you were certain he had lied about just how much he knew.
His breath stuttered when you cried out, your grip on him tightening as if you might come apart without something to hold onto.You sagged slightly against him, your forehead pressing into his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath. Your fingers loosened their hold, though they didn’t leave him entirely, as if you still needed the reassurance that he was there.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t expect…”
Before he could finish whatever he was thinking, your lips were on his. He groaned against your mouth as you clung to him, your tongue brushing at his lips in search of entrance. He granted it, of course.
The kiss was messy. It was unclear whether it was due to inexperience or overwhelming desire, but you didn’t care.
Dunk shifted, his muscles flexing as he moved. A soft gasp left his lips as his hardness brushed against your thigh. You didn’t pull away, your mouth still pressed to his as your hand slipped between your bodies to caress him through his breeches.
Dunk let out a strained breath against your mouth, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and something deeper. His body reacted before his mind seemed to catch up, hips shifting slightly before he stilled himself again, as though fighting the instinct.
His hand found your wrist—not to pull it away, but to still it, just for a moment. His grip wasn’t firm, just enough to make you pause, to make you look at him.
“We should slow down,” he said again, quieter now, though his gaze hadn’t softened. If anything, it had deepened.
“Is that what you want?” you asked earnestly.
“Gods, no,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I’ll—”
“Then don’t,” you cut in.
Something flickered in his eyes at that—something close to surrender.
“I want you,” you stated simply, the words making Dunk swallow a groan of need. “And you want me. Well, I assume you do, unless I—”
“Of course I want you,” Dunk cut in, his voice more certain than you’d ever heard it.
You couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face. You placed your hand on his cheek.
“Then why should we not?”
Dunk closed his eyes, biting into his cheek for a moment before opening them again.
“I don’t—” He stopped himself, the red on his cheeks deepening before he forced himself to continue. “I don’t want to hurt you, m’lady.”
Your heart tugged at the words, and before you could even think about it, you placed a reassuring kiss on his lips.
“You won’t,” you whispered.
Perhaps you should have expected it. He was a big man—it was only natural to assume that all of him was big—but you were still taken by surprise.
When Dunk finally pulled down his breeches, your eyes widened immediately. But before he could see the expression on your face and call the whole thing off, you schooled your features into calm.
Still, the only thing running through your mind as he made his way back to you was: How in the seven hells is that going to fit?
It wasn’t a simple task, but with some patience, you managed. You tried to keep your eyes from rolling back with every one of his thrusts, but he wasn’t making it easy on you. Not only did he hit the right spot every time—how could he not, when it felt like he was reaching so deep—but he was also incredibly vocal.
His head barely left your shoulder as his hips continued to move against you, so every sound that escaped him was heard clearly in your ear. And the praise—gods, it was driving you insane.
“Feels so good, m’lady… taking me so well,” Dunk groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly enough that you were sure they would leave bruises.
The sound of his voice sent a shiver through you, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you tried to steady your breathing. Every word he spoke seemed to go straight through you, leaving you more unsteady than before.
“Dunk…” you breathed, his name slipping out without thought.
He answered with a low, strained sound, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he needed the contact to ground himself. His hands were still firm at your hips, but there was something careful in the way he held you—like he was always just a breath away from pulling back if you needed him to.
“Fuck… could live inside you,” he groaned.
You moaned at that, surprised by the dirtiness of the words slipping from his mouth. Who would have known that beneath Ser Duncan the Tall there was this whole other man?
“Dunk, please,” you moaned.
“What is it, m’lady? What do you want?”
“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”
“Greedy thing, eh?” Dunk murmured, amusement clear in his voice. “You sure, m’lady? I’m not going to hold back.”
“Ah—ugh—more, Dunk, please.”
“Alright… as you wish.”
You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. As soon as the words left his mouth, Dunk lifted himself off you. You looked at him as he straightened up, brows furrowing in confusion.
Dunk just gave you an easy smile, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs before dragging you closer to the edge of the bed without fully pulling away from you. Once he seemed satisfied with the position, he looked down at you.
“Ready?”
You nodded. Dunk raised a silent brow at you. You flushed immediately, understanding what he wanted.
“Yes, Ser.”
The smirk that graced his face dripped with sin, and before you even had time to process it, he moved again with sudden, overwhelming intensity.
The shift in him stole the breath from your lungs.
Your hands clutched at him instinctively, your head tipping back as the sudden change drew a sharp sound from you. Dunk’s jaw tightened at the reaction, his control visibly fraying at the edges.
“Careful,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a reminder to himself than to you.
You shook your head faintly, your grip on him tightening. “Don’t be.”
That did it.
Not recklessness—but permission.
His movements grew firmer, more certain, no longer testing but knowing. Each shift of him was met with your response, your body answering in ways that made his breath hitch, his composure slipping further with every passing moment.
“Gods…” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “You feel—”
He cut himself off, like even saying it might push him too far.
“Dunk, I’m—I—”
A moan tore through you before you could finish.
“You close?”
You nodded quickly, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as the sensation became almost overwhelming.
“Yeah? You gonna come all over my cock, huh?” Dunk asked, his movements speeding up. “Gonna make a big ol’ mess, aren’t you?”
“Yes—gods, please, Dunk, don’t—”
“Not going to, m’lady,” Dunk muttered, a groan escaping him before he could stop it. “Go on… be a good girl and come for me.”
That was the tipping point. You cried out his name as you came, your body spasming as you clenched around him. Dunk wasn’t far behind, with one more rough thrust and a groan of your name, he came.
Dunk stilled, a rough breath leaving him as your body relaxed around him, your name still echoing in his ears. Your grip on him slowly loosened, though your hands didn’t fall away entirely, still clinging to him as you tried to steady your breathing.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Dunk finally pulled out of you, a soft hiss leaving your lips as he did. You were still trying to catch your breath when Dunk’s hands slipped beneath you, lifting you with ease before repositioning you in the bed. Once he had you settled, he lowered himself beside you with a soft grunt.
You waited only a second before inching closer, resting your head against his chest. Dunk’s arm wrapped around you in a way that felt natural, almost instinctive.
“Gods…” he murmured again, though this time it was quieter—almost awed.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound muffled slightly against him. “You say that a lot.”
A faint huff of amusement left him, though it was still threaded with something heavier. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more.”
That made something warm bloom in your chest, softer than what had come before, but no less intense.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice still rough, but steadier now.
You met his gaze, your lips curving faintly despite the lingering heat in your body. “I am.”
Relief flickered across his face so openly it almost made you smile wider.
“Good,” he said, quieter now.
For a moment, the world seemed to settle around you—no urgency, no rush. Just the quiet aftermath of something neither of you had quite expected, but neither of you seemed to regret.
Your hand found his cheek again, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.
“We should probably be quiet,” you murmured, a hint of teasing returning. “Unless you want Egg knocking on the door next.”
Dunk let out a low groan at that, his head dipping briefly. “Don’t even joke about that.”
john price x fem!reader | outlaw/cowboy and preachers daughter | read on ao3 | pinterest board
All your life, you have known nothing but the Word of God and your father's short temper. Every day, you are forced to turn the other cheek for each minor mistake you make within your father's gaze; the old wounds hardly have time to heal before he gives you new ones. Yet, as a devout follower to God and your father, you have no one else to turn to.
When the owner of the saloon tells you about some strangers lurking around town, you decide to take your chances with these wayward men in the hopes that they'll save you. But they are dangerous, conniving bandits; a fact you learn a little too late. You should have known that sheep who stray too far from the flock are at the mercy of the wolves.
Better sharpen those teeth of yours, little lamb.
a/n: please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall; religious trauma; domestic abuse; reader is christian; western!au;
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
extras:
moodboard made by @syoddeye
john and lamb by @daostar
follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here
john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist
Chapter Nineteen: wanted
The crowd groans in disappointment as the rope binding your hands together is cut.
Still smiling, the deputy loosens the noose around your neck before raising it over your head as if it's nothing but a mere necklace rather than the item that, until moments ago, was supposed to bring about your demise. It doesn't make it any easier to breathe. You're still choking on your terror as the man offers you a gloved hand. You don't have the capacity within your mind to deny him, so you accept his help as he assists you down the stairs on your lubberly legs.
The world spins as you feel the tangible suffocation of the divergence of time—of what should have happened to you. In another universe, you are swinging from that rope with all eyes on your corpse, left to hang and rot as a warning to others to not cross The Law in Blackpeak. Knowing your luck, you wouldn't have died right away. You'd be left strangling, legs kicking helplessly in a pitiful attempt to release the pressure around your throat, blood shunting away from your brain until your life fades just as meaningless as it began. Maybe someone would have taken pity on you. Maybe some brave or stupid person would have pulled on your legs until you stopped squirming.
Instead, you're slicing through the crowd that was so eager to witness your demise. Their gazes haven't changed much. They're more sour now, like dough left to rise for too long. The deputy keeps a sharp hold of your hand like you're his wallet, a valuable he can't afford to lose. You suppose that you are of some importance to this man; a tool turned into a weapon to be aimed and fired at John Price, though you're not sure what the nature of your destruction might be.
As you have learned, lawmen aren't always above the law.
"On behalf of my men, I apologize for their actions," the deputy says once you're out of eavesdropping distance of the crowd. His drawl is thick like honey but there is something about his tone that leaves your tongue dry and not at all interested in the faux sweetness he attempts to sell you. "You must understand that any mention of John Price has everyone up in arms. I'm sure you're aware of what him and his boys did in the mines. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost for such a selfish reason."
It's easy for his words to flow into your skull and directly out again. Every thought that attempts to spark in your brain fizzles out before you have the moment to fully grasp it. Pain throbs in your bones, burrowing deeper than you can cradle in your arms.
You forget that the deputy is holding your hand until he's pulling you to a stop next to a lean horse. Pressure builds behind your eyes as you stare up at him with his flaring nostrils and beady eyes. This horse lacks the quiet stupidity Jester had. A tall, stupid brute that knew how to do nothing other than eat things he shouldn't and make a fool out of you, but he was your fool of a horse.
Was.
"Climb on up, miss," he prompts. "We've got a walk before we reach the sheriff's."
Getting up on the horse feels like second nature to you now, but the deputy refuses to allow you to hold the reins. Wary of your instability, he guides the horse for you, spurs jingling with each step he takes. All you can do is hold onto the saddle horn and keep your head low in what you tell yourself is to keep the sun out of your eyes, but it feels more like shame.
You hold onto the saddle horn as you're paraded through the streets of Blackpeak like an oddity for everyone to behold. You expect to see another mob staring at you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike you, already bloodied and wounded, except there is no one. Insignificant, you're a speck of dirt. Flickering eyes search for someone still, despite the pain. Eyes of blue like a cooling lake for you to dive into, to ease each scrape and swelling mound that plagues your skin and body—John Price is nowhere to be found.
Buildings begin to thin until—much like Penmosa—farm land crosshatches with private town dwellings like a dusty chessboard. Cows moo in verdant pastures while geese honk overhead as they soar through the air in the burning light of the sunset. All beauty is lost on you as the deputy guides you to a dark timbered home with a fat porch and the redolence of cooked meat wafting around it. It's a home that looks like a God-made structure against the backdrop of mountains behind it, blending into the faraway trees and carved stone.
The deputy offers you his hand to help you off of his horse but you refuse to take it in a silent sort of revolution. You climb off without aid, but everything moves beneath you as your feet hit the ground, earth tearing right out from the treads of your shoes.
"Now, now," the man chuckles. When he catches your unsteady frame, he pulls your back against his chest, bracing your body against his. It feels wrong. Not because Daddy would disapprove, but because he's not John. "Take it easy."
"M-My head," you whine, back arching, arms flailing in an attempt to push him away, but your body is broken, and the deputy is having too much fun to let go. "Please."
"What do you think I'm trying to do, sugar? Quit your fussing and I'll take care of that head of yours," he goads.
Though you're released from the confines of his body, the deputy ensures you stay close by with his hand resting on your lower back while a gentle amount of pressure leads you towards the porch and up the steps to the door. He knocks on the door and shushes you when you wince at the sudden sound, noise reverberating in your brain until you're certain more of your skull has cracked.
A woman with pale lips and greying hair answers the door with a huff, and her gaze only grows more severe as she wipes her hands on her apron. "Phillip Graves, what have I told you about badgering my husband while he's at home?"
"Sorry Mrs. Shepherd. You know I try and keep my nose clean, but I think I've managed to wrangle someone who likes to get into trouble more often than I do," the deputy—this Phillip Graves—humors. "This sweet thing here seems to have gotten herself involved with John Price."
The woman's gaze lands on you and something overcomes the frustration that she held for Phillip Graves. If you didn't know any better, you'd confuse it for concern with the way her eyes soften and brows raise at the sight of you, blouse stained with your own blood, skirt tattered from the brawl, body littered with scrapes you can't soothe.
"Well, alright. You might as well stay for dinner, too," she begrudgingly accepts.
Phillip Graves keeps his hand on your back as you're led inside, but he ensures that he takes his hat off at the door and sets it on one of various pegs nailed into the wall for such a purpose. Though the outside of the house is rough-hewn with raw wood and sun bleached material, the inside is neatly polished with smooth walls painted a delicate cream. The brightness only makes the pounding in your head worse and you find your eyes focusing on the floor as you're brought to the dining room.
Mrs. Shepherd instructs you to grab a seat while she fetches the rest of dinner and her husband. The table is intimate with only enough room for four people to sit comfortably along the round perimeter. Various food items already sprawl out. Ham, a bowl of beans and bread rolls. Phillip Graves pulls a chair out for you before taking the seat next to you.
It's as if you've been transported back in time, shrinking inside of yourself until your body has no choice but to follow, leaving you as nothing but a pitiful girl once again trying to make it through the violence of another meal with your father. Tight lips, only speaking when spoken to, eyes never wandering where they shouldn't lest you inadvertently poke the beast waiting to roar within his throat.
The silence doesn't save you here. Phillip Graves leans back in his chair, wood creaking beneath him in time with his spurs ringing as he stretches his legs with a groan. You note the distinct glint of his six shooter resting on his hip and you can't help but think of the one John gave you to protect yourself—the one that's now sitting in the middle of the street, or more likely, in the possession of one of the men who beat you.
"I'll get you cleaned up after supper," he tells you. "I know it's more proper to wash up before a meal, but I think the sheriff will forgive us given the circumstances."
"That's fine." You sound like your mother, voice even and unwavering yet tinged with that underline whisper of pain that you can't quite get rid of.
In an attempt to comfort yourself, you reach for your neck in search for her necklace only to be met with your own feverish skin.
"If you wanted a free meal, you could have just asked, Phillip."
A new voice bleeds into the room. With slow movements, you look up from your lap and into the doorway to find a sickly looking man with white hair cropped so short he nearly looks bald. His leather vest looks freshly polished and his feet hit heavy on the floor as he approaches the table. The aura of authority wafting off of him is enough for you to know exactly who he is. The man of the house, the keeper of the peace—Sheriff Shepherd of Blackpeak.
"You know me, sheriff. Always here to keep things interesting," Phillip shrugs.
"Interesting, and a pain in my rear."
Mrs. Shepherd sneaks out from behind her husband with one hand occupied with plates, cups and cutlery and the other with a pitcher of water. The men dive into quaint conversation while she sets everything up, even going as far as to ask you what you'd like and serving up your plate when you can only offer pitiful nods and thank yous in response.
Once everyone is settled, the conversation dies and you find that there are more eyes on you than you'd care to have ever perceive you. When you meet Sheriff Shepherd's gaze you note the hue of his eyes—pale blue—and how they're sickly like the rest of him. Withered away and moments away from shattering. They lack the youth and vigor of John's. A pale imitation of a man he could only ever hope to be a fraction of.
"And who do we have the pleasure of welcoming to our table tonight?" he asks.
Knowing that there's no use in lying, you give him your true name, though the nickname Lamb is truly growing on you. Or rather, perhaps it's just the man who coined it in the first place.
"Very good," he hums, somehow pleased with himself. "Let's pray."
It's the first time that you have ever neglected to bow your head and fold your hands at the dinner table before a meal, especially after those words have been muttered. You watch as they all lower themselves, make themselves smaller, near cower as they're lead through quiet mutterings of praise and thanks. The sheriff speaks with such reverence you're almost convinced he's a true man of God until he opens his eyes to look at you before the prayer has even finished.
Once done, Mrs. Shepherd and Phillip Graves waste no time diving into their food, and while the sheriff does begin to eat, he seems much more interested in something else. "Not one for praying?"
You swallow the lead weight in your throat. "I don't know."
"She has been spending time with John Price," Phillip Graves reasons. "He's always been something of an atheist."
"Corrupted the poor girl's mind, no doubt," Shepherd agrees. "Is that how you found yourself here, girl?"
You nod. "Yes."
Quiet deliberation clouds the man's mind as he takes a few more bites of his food. You consider doing the same, but the pain that ripples throughout your body forces you to rethink. Instead, you go for a sip of water.
"And what business was he having you conduct here on his behalf?"
Your head spins. Vision swirling like a whirl pool, you dig the pad of your thumb briefly into the apple of your cheek, allowing the pain to ground you. "He needed money from the bank."
Phillip Grave's chuckle is warm but sharp. "Must be hard finding an honest job when you're such a criminal like he is."
You bite your tongue so hard it bleeds, but it tastes no different from the ichor that's already stained your mouth after the abuse you were subjected to today. Instead, you keep your head lowered and mouth sewn shut, just like you always have.
"What did he need this money for?" Shepherd questions.
"I don't know," you say.
He raises a brow. "You don't know?" he asks incredulously.
"He didn't say. I just… I just do what he tells me."
Something of a pained sigh leaves Mrs. Shepherd as she places her palm over her chest as if to quell an aching heart. When you glance at her, you note the pity in her gaze. It's comforting to know you're fooling someone at least. You're in too much pain to put together anything more complex.
He allows silence to settle over the table to give himself the opportunity to at least marginally enjoy his meal. You allow yourself to try a bit of the beans, but there's too much salt and it nearly causes your tongue to shrivel up. The bread is the only thing you can truly get yourself to stomach. Plain enough to not upset the unstable balance of your stomach, yet still filling at the same time, you eat your roll then leave your hands folded in your lap, done with what you think is the most violent meal you've experienced since you left Penmosa.
"Are you not enjoying your food, girl?" Shepherd asks. As you meet his gaze, you wonder why he even bothered to learn your name if he was going to demean you with such a term—verbiage he shares with your father.
"I'm not hungry," you truthfully admit.
He scoffs as he sets his silverware on his emptied plate. "You insult my wife."
"Oh, Herschel, look at her!" Mrs. Shepherd says. "Poor thing, can you blame her for not being hungry? Getting beaten over something John Price coerced her into doing? It's no insult at all. The poor girl needs help and a place to rest."
Washing his dinner down with a healthy gulp of water, Phillip Graves gives a thoughtful hum as his cup hits the table. "There's a few free cells open down at the jail we could keep her in."
Mrs. Shepherd's eyes go wider than the plate she's eaten off of. "You would keep her in the jail?"
Sheriff Shepherd's patience wears thin. You see it in the deepening creases on his forehead and the dusting of pink that begins in his cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears. His ovular head looks as if it's an egg ready to crack open due to heat and pressure alone.
"Dear," he says almost as if it's a warning. "Why don't you tidy up our guest room? She can stay there for the night under Phillip's supervision."
Content with the compromise, she nods before clearing the plates from the table and vanishing back into the kitchen to clean up. You're left alone with the two men and you find yourself scrambling for something else to look at. Anything else. The wallpaper, a knick in the side of the table, the sunset burning up through the window. A part of you wishes you'd see John riding over the hill through the glass, hat set low as he speeds towards the house with a pistol in hand.
You get nothing but the squeak of Shepherd's chair as he stands. "Get her cleaned up once the room is ready," he orders. "I'll get everything at the jail in order for her."
It doesn't take Mrs. Shepherd long to tidy up the bedroom-turned-cell that is to be yours for the foreseeable future. She fetches you immediately once it's finished, bringing both you and Phillip Graves down two short hallways to a room that has a single twin-sized bed with a lily patterned quilt smothering the mattress. You don't realize that the house has electricity until you note the sconces on the inside of the door. They sport the same glass covering as candles would, but they lack the signature flicker of warm flame that you're used to.
She brings your attention to a makeshift vanity. Really, it's an old worn desk with a mirror nailed to the wall, but for all intents and purposes, it works just fine with a freshly filled water bowl, clean rags, and a jar of something that Mrs. Shepherd says is a salve meant to help your cuts and scrapes. She leaves you after telling you that if you need anything else to find her and ask for it. The door is open.
Phillip Graves closes it.
"Alright sugar," he prompts. His head tilts to the side as he sucks on his teeth, chin jutting out towards the bed. "Grab a seat."
His order makes the contents of your stomach curdle but you know you're not in a position to argue or reason. It's as if that noose is around your neck again, pulling tight around your throat, eager to cut into your skin as you march to the bed and sink into the rocky mattress. The jingling of his spurs sound too akin to church bells, or perhaps the toll of a death march.
Rag into water, he turns to you with glistening hands and wordlessly presses it to your skin without prompt or warning. It's frigid, freshly pumped from the well, biting into your skin like the mountain air John kept you warm through. Your bottom lip begins to tremble at the thought of it while Phillip Graves wipes the space above your lip, scratching away the dried blood around your nostrils as if you are a child incapable of cleaning herself.
With each pass he makes, you watch as the rag comes away from your skin tinged pink and brown, body marred with the earth and the demise you were supposed to face. He wipes everywhere, but when he gets to the bridge of your nose you gasp enough to make him recoil. Instead of leaving you be, he pokes and prods the area until you're hissing with tears in your eyes.
"Got some mighty fine swelling, sugar," he tells you, finally no longer subjugating you to his torturous interest. "Wouldn't be surprised if you broke something in there."
Furiously blinking, you wipe at the stray tears but keep your eyes cast towards the floor. "What am I to do with that?"
"Wait and pray it doesn't heal crooked," he chuckles.
Huffing at his response, you keep quiet as he continues. He moves down to your chin and jaw where you feel the stale blood pull at the hair of your skin, pinching like you've got your finger caught in the door again. He doesn't sit next to you as he cleans you, he stands in front of you towering over you like a human does an ant, belittling you until you feel just as small as he wants you to feel.
His hand wanders down to your throat and you wince with anticipatory pain only to realize it doesn't come. The rope never quite snapped around your neck. That lever was never pulled. Though it feels like you died in that moment, you are still very much alive, kept on God's green earth and made to suffer all his terrible creations.
Philip's hand dips lower and your breath catches in your throat, forcing your chest to cease its movements as you stop breathing. You remember the letter shoved into your blouse hiding in your slip, the only place you could think to stow it away where it wouldn't be knocked free from your pockets or torn with the wind. You feel his hot gaze on your body and the smirk on his lips and you think of what he might do to you. You know this story well. The raping of women before their murder—their final good use all used up before they're disposed of.
Then what of John and the others? You broken and their only piece of evidence ripped to shreds, forever to live the lives of wild men.
When his hand reaches the top of your breast just under your collarbones, you grab his wrist and cover yourself with your free arm. You finally bring yourself to look up at him and though you are infuriated, you aren't surprised to see that wide-eyed joy on his face as if the fish he has on his line is finally decided to make the reel more interesting.
"What kind of man do you take me for, sugar?" he asks.
You bite your tongue for only a moment before you decide to let it free. "A greedy kind."
Leaning away from you, he yanks his wrist free from your grasp before inspecting the bloodied rag he clutches in his fingers. "Is that so? Think a greedy man would've saved you from the gallows? Think a greedy man would dedicate his life to protecting the interests of the people in this town? I serve Blackpeak, little lady. There ain't a greedy bone in my body."
"Blackpeak?" you repeat. For the first time all day, you allow the rage to envelope you. You allow it to raise your chin, to narrow your eyes, to curl your upper lip into a snarl. "Or just Makarov?"
It's the first time you've seen him waiver in his otherwise infuriating ability to seem impermeable. Still, he only leans back, tongue clacking against the back of his teeth as he shakes his head. "I see John Price has poisoned your mind with that, too." When you don't fight back, Phillip huffs and tosses the rag at you, allowing the sodden mess to fall into your lap, adding to the various stains that bleed into your skirt. "Clean yourself up then, if that's what you want, but don't say I never did you any favors, sugar."
With that, he leaves you and you are finally alone. Your sore fingers curl around the damp cloth and you are overwhelmed with a sudden grief that disguises itself as fury. You feel your face contort as you stand from the bed, fist clenching around the rag before you drown it in the water bowl at the desk with a strangled growl. Droplets splatter through the air like rain falling backwards, gathering across the wooden surface of the desk and the now muddled shine of the mirror.
You force yourself to view yourself through the mess and it's the first thing that prompts you to slow down. You look so much like your mother, you realize. Tired eyes, swollen face, angry tears giving your cheeks the kisses your father never would. You bear her resemblance in your quiet anger. It was the last thing she left you with on this earth—the frustrating will to endure where others would refuse.
Wiping your face, you make the quiet decision to not destroy yourself and instead take care to blot the stains of your dress and care for the scrapes on your legs. When you're finished you dip your fingers into your blouse where you feel the comforting scratch of paper against your skin, warmed by your body heat and bending to the curve of your body.
In the morning when your head is clear, you'll come up with a plan. John Price wouldn't abandon you. He's out there somewhere waiting for you.
Phillip Graves returns with a rocking chair that he sets up in the far corner of the room, giving himself a perfect view of the bed, door, and window. He chuckles at your bewildered look before settling into the chair with an old book in hand and a candle lamp to read with. Realizing that you will be getting no privacy tonight, you leave your overdress on before burrowing deep beneath the blankets like you could hide the way rabbits do in their burrows.
He does not speak throughout the night—the rhythmic turning of the pages of his book and the creaking of the chair do enough chatter for the both of you. Even as night falls, you do not sleep. You lay on your side with your back to Phillip as you stare at the wall where the darkness morphs shadowy shapes before your eyes as if you've had too much communion wine.
When your bladder stirs you awake in the middle of the night, he follows you there too, only letting you out of his sight long enough for you to relieve yourself and wash up before leading you back to bed. Not even dawn chases him away. Stirring from your restless slumber, you wake to the smell of hotcakes and the view of him still in the corner of the room, seemingly finished with his book with the way he has it folded in his lap.
"Mornin' sugar."
Mrs. Shepherd serves both you and Phillip for breakfast. Pancakes, sausage and some freshly brewed tea she made for the meal. You are wary of the glaring lack of her husband's presence, but she informs you he wandered in town to the jail earlier in the morning with the order for Phillip Graves to take you there once you were finished with your meal.
Anxiety fills up your stomach too much for you to eat much of anything, but just like the night before she doesn't say much about it as she takes your plate and wishes you luck on your journey into town.
Phillip Graves doesn't offer you his horse this time as the two of you make the walk back towards the main section of town, but he doesn't take the ride for himself either. Each step you take is excruciating. The swelling has overwhelmed your body, rendering each joint achy as you travel beneath the heavy weight of the sun and your shame. Each figure that you pass prompts you to raise your head to look at their face, eager to find familiar blue eyes.
You begin to fear John might not be coming for you at all.
Unlike the other buildings that surround it, the jail is made of brick. Dust settles heavy on the red stone giving it a pink appearance like the rag you stained with your blood last night. On the outside just beyond the porch there is a wooden posting board filled with legal notices like local laws and changes within the town, but most notably there is that drawing of John's wanted poster again.
This time, it's not just him, but the others as well, each earning their own poster and matching bounties, a band of bothers kept together with a long string of hatred. As you walk up the stairs, you note the graffiti scribbled on the parchment in graphite and ink. Some people have scribbled out the word alive on dead or alive while others have drawn nooses around their throats. The violence of this town is so deeply sewn you're not sure how you survived such contempt—the more time you spend with Phillip Graves, the more you feel as if the reason he saved you wasn't purely out of mercy.
He opens the door for you, allowing you inside of the jail where you're met with a wide room that seems like a cell morphed into an office. Two sets of jail bars section off the back corners of the room with nothing inside but a bench, but they both lay empty. The only other door besides the entrance is one on your left, cracked open just enough for you to find a set of stairs that descend down into what you assume must be the basement and the place where they keep a majority of their inmates.
Sheriff Shepherd sits at a desk full of papers and envelopes both torn open and fresh ones waiting to be filled and mailed off. His eyes were on you the moment you stepped foot into his jail, pale and dead as they were last night when he all but interrogated you at his dinner table. Having something more interesting to do than paperwork, he points at the wooden chair across from him.
"Take a seat, girl," he commands as if you are a dog.
You make no fuss in following his orders. As far as you're concerned, the less time you spend with this man, the better. He stares at you in silence for a long moment as if contemplating how he should gut you. His gaze is uncanny. Even when you believed John to be nothing more than a cold blooded murderer he never gave off such an algid aura. This pale, sickly man looks like death—or a creature who enjoys toying with it.
"I've arranged for a ride to bring you back home," he finally admits after a moment. "It would be faster by train, but we don't have any passenger trains that come through here. Just the engines that lug coal to the cities. A few of my lawmen will take you by carriage to the next town over and you can hop on one there. It'll take you over the gorge and right on home."
You blink at him. He must be lying. "That's… That's it?"
"I don't want you in my town. This is better for both of us," he says bluntly.
Gears begin to twist in your brain as ideas sprout; dark, conniving ones you never would have thought before leaving Penmosa. You think of Kate and Lottie, of Grand Hollow and its train station, of the hotel, the place John wanted to keep you because it was safe. You could go back, you realize. Back to them all with the letter hiding safe in your blouse and wait for John to come find you.
It could all be over. This mess. The lies.
"You mean, you'll take me back to Grand Hollow?" you question cautiously, throwing your line into the water to see if anything bites.
The sheriff raises a brow. "Is that where you're from?"
"Yes sir," you nod.
He stares at you for so long you fear he might see through you. "You're not lying to me, are you, girl?"
"No, sir. I'd never," you insist.
Humming, he nods. With a sigh, he begins to sort through some papers on his desk. You note a letter already sealed and stamped with his name and address on it, but you don't get the chance to look at the recipient before it's covered by tickets for a train company you don't recognize. He holds them out for Phillip Graves to take, who shoves it into the pocket of his vest with a chuckle.
"Tell me, girl," Sheriff Shepherd says. He retrieves one last piece of paper before setting it flat on the desk for you to view. "Why do I have this, then?"
Your blood runs cold as you're faced with a drawing of your exact likeness. Every line is correct, all the way from the curve of your nose to the pull of your lips. Your name is stamped in dark, inky letters underneath the photo with a description that reads:
WANTED: MISSING GIRL
TO BE RETURNED BACK TO HER FATHER IN PENMOSA
REWARD: 25$
follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here
all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
⭐︎⋆˚࿔ more ryland grace x art teacher!reader thoughts bc I’m obsessed🤭this time they’re on field trip duty!!
Excited chatter echoes off the walls of the natural science museum. The kids filter in to its planetarium, their last stop here before they head to the art museum down the street.
Ryland sits down on a bench outside the room for lunch — and, much to his excitement, his favorite chaperone does, too. Slumping against the wall next to him, you sigh. “Gosh, I love these.”
“Field trips or breaks?”
“Right now, I’ll say both.”
He laughs. “You’re not too tired for the art museum, are you?”
“Oh, never! I used to work at one, you know.”
Ryland did know that. Because you have an MFA and a PhD in Visual Arts. Which he found out after going down an online rabbit hole about you so deep that he ended up on your LinkedIn. What is his problem?
“What! No way!” is all he says instead.
“Mhm. I will admit I miss it sometimes, but these kids…they make it worth it.”
“Oh, I get that. They grow on you.” On his lap is a glittery galaxy lunchbox that looks like it’s from a children’s brand. He chuckles. “One of my sixth graders gave me this for Teacher Appreciation Week. Needless to say it’s my new favorite item.”
“Awww, I love it!” You beam. “Your kids really like you. You’re such a great teacher, Ry.”
“Hello, look who’s talking! Those kids adore you. You’re always so enthusiastic and sweet, and you’re always smiling, and, like — come on, what’s not to love?”
Your eyebrows quirk up at that.
He shifts in his spot. “Just…speaking from a…professional perspective, of course.”
“Uh huh. Thanks.” You barely stifle a giggle. “Unrelated, but you know LinkedIn notifies you when someone views your profile, right?”
That he did not know.
Suddenly, Ryland wishes someone would launch him into space.
⭐︎⋆˚࿔ ryland grace has a crush on the art teacher next door…and his students know it.
“Good morning,” you muse, leaning against the door frame during transition. Your hands are still stained with clay from helping students make figurines — he can see when your doors are both propped open. Not that he’s looking.
“Oh! It’s you! Hi there!”
“Your prep is next period, right? Can you do me a huge favor and watch my kids for a bit at the beginning of class?”
“No.” He blinks rapidly. “I mean, yes! No as in it’s no problem. I, uh — I’ve got you covered.” He gives a thumbs up. Smooth.
You laugh, a twinkling sound. “You’re the best. Thanks, Ry.”
You’re only supposed to address each other by your last names in front of the kids. That must have been on accident. But, either way, surely nobody noticed that, or the way he could barely muster a response as you left.
So he thought.
When everyone’s passing around the lava bean bag, the first student who tosses it to him wastes no time. “Are you and Miss Y/L/N dating?”
The whole class oohs. Middle schoolers.
“I — woah.” He immediately clears his throat. “No questions about your teacher’s personal life, guys. Come on.”
“So…are you dating or not?”
Before he can even get a word in, another declares, “I ship you!”
“Shh, don’t tell him that!” someone adds.
“Not going to ask what that means,” Ryland murmurs, almost to himself. When the class starts to get more out of control, he puts his hands up. “Alright, alright, guys, settle down. No, we are not dating. Now back to the lesson.”
Although, when he looks up what a ship is in between classes later, he feels so stupidly giddy that his face is on fire. He’s seeing stars, and not just from the models hanging from his ceiling.
Ryland couldn’t stop staring at your lipstick, you decide to have some fun.
Ryland Grace x fem!reader
Warnings: slightly suggestive, lots of kissing, so much kissing, Ryland Grace loveesssss youuuuu, kiss marks left all over, not proofread (English is not my first language I apologize)
note: Heavily inspired by This post ! Saw it and wanted to make a longer Drabble about it. I know he doesn’t have a tie in the gif but just imagine, we’re all good at that aren’t we?
Sweet sweet Ryland wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You were still getting ready, and in his nerves for the middle school award ceremony this evening, he had gotten ready far earlier and quicker than you.
He paced around the living room, reciting his speech by memory at this point, dusting off nonexistent dust from his suit, and pulling the tie slightly tighter on his neck. Today was going to be amazing for his kids, and he couldn’t wait to see them all get awarded for their hard from the semester.
“Ok! Im done” You yell out from the bedroom, your heels in your hand as you grab your purse from the bed. You look in the mirror one last time, fixing a stray hair before quickly rushing out of the room.
You knew how important today was for Ryland and his students, and even it there was still an hour until the ceremony, he wanted to be early. And you obviously weren’t going to make him late.
Something you both bonded over when you started dating was how you both liked to be on time for things. In his own, messy way, he was never late.
He turned around to look at you with a smile, and. Oh my god.
Oh fuck.
You looked stunning. That dress hugged you just the right way, without looking even slightly inappropriate. Your curls fell down just the right way, and that red lipstick stood out and made your lips look extra kissable. He swallowed hard.
They couldn’t be late.
You caught him staring, making you smile, and innocently tilt your head.
“What’s wrong Dr. Grace?” You took a step closer, watching his face slowly turn a crimson red. He was always so easy to fluster.
Your hand delicately wrapped around his tie, nails scrapping the fabric gently, tugging him closer with a short pull. And he obviously followed with no hesitation, hands settling on your hips.
“You look beautiful” Ryland admires, still staring so hard at your lips.
“And we’re going to be late if you keep staring” you smile, kissing his lips. It was a simple peck, but he followed your lips when you pulled away. Wanting more. More that you couldn’t give because-
“We’re gonna be late” you repeated, putting your hands on his cheek to push him away, seeing how your lipstick stuck to his lips in a messy way.
He looked so cute, and obviously you wish you could continue.
“Cmon, 10 minutes? We don’t gotta do anything.” He muttered, giving you those puppy eyes that were so hard to say no to.
You sighed, giving him a smile before kissing his cheek, one. Two. Three pecks. Before slowly going down to his jaw, leaving open mouthed kisses and lipstick marks down his throat.
You kept walking until the back of his knees hit the couch, and you pushed him so he fell with a small oomph. He stared up at you in awe, his glasses sliding down his nose for dramatic flare.
You fix the skirt of your dress enough to be able to sit on his lap, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, drawing circles into the fabric of your skirt. Your lips continued their assault on his neck, hands fiddling with his tie, loosening it enough to unbutton the first 3 buttons of his shirt. You wasted no time in attacking his chest, kissing every inch of bare skin you could reach.
His skin rose and fell with every breath, becoming harder to think straight with every kiss you gave him. You could hear the straggled whimpers and cries that escaped his lips when you left a bruising mark on his collar bone.
His hips rutted up against you, which made you giggle and pull away from his chest, deciding the you should stop now before things escalate. You admire your work, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, his dazed eyes fallen and completely smitten by you.
You pecked his lips slowly, pulling your phone out with one hand to take a picture of your work. And he was too out of it to even complain as you snapped it, taking a mental note to print it out on your Polaroid later.
“Ok big guy, let’s get you cleaned up for the ceremony”
“Nooo im going like this”
Not completely awful for the first thing on this account! Lmk what you think please, have a good night!
