Warnings: Dark-ish!Billy (just the tiniest bit tho), Virgin!Reader, Dub-Con, P in V, Hate Fucking (kinda but not really lol i tried), Fingering, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Mentions of a gun shot graze, Talk of tying up/restraining/bondage, Slight Dirty Talk, Rough Touches (he grabs her face & throat), Use of the word “drawers” instead of panties cause I'm cringey like that lol
Word Count: 3.5K
A/N: Dedicated to my anon who sent in this ask and put the thought of hate fucking in my head. I tried, hun lol. Didn't turn out how I thought it would and it's not my best work, but it did help me get out of my writing slump a bit sooooo i hope you enjoy it.
A/N 2: Please accept this supposed to be drabble that turned into basically a fic length thing as compensation for not having Godless Part 2 out yet. Hoping to finish it up within the next couple of weeks 🤞🏻
Summary: Jesse's younger sister is a pretty problem for Billy.
He’s so pissed at you.
Jesse’s little sister once again trying to prove herself useful, trying to prove that she’s ‘one of the boys’, but doing nothing except getting in the way and causing trouble.
It was supposed to be a quick job. They’ve rustled cattle together enough to have their system down pat, everyone in their gang playing their part perfectly so that they can be in and out of their target’s territory in the shortest amount of time. Very rarely do they get caught in the act now - and if they do, they’re good enough to never suffer losses.
But when there’s a sweet-voiced, overly driven Miss suddenly among their operation when there’s not supposed to be, things can go wrong.
You must have followed them, just far enough behind that they didn’t see you during their final look around before starting their run. One minute, everything was fine. None of the ranch owner’s cowboys were in sight and the cattle were proving to be easy to corral, not a single one of them choosing to go rogue and trying to push out of the herd.
And then the next minute, you were there. You were wearing a dress when they left, a pretty little thing that Billy thought made the color of your eyes pop. It’s not your normal outfit, but you own it now courtesy of Jesse who was tired of hearing you nag about how much you wanted to come with them, how ‘helpful’ you could be if he just gave you a chance, and told you that if you wanted to be helpful you would run down to the local liquor store and make sure he had something to drink when they got back.
You had switched out of the dress and back into your shirt and overalls, the shoes on your feet traded for riding boots instead of those dainty lace up ones. The hat that sat on your head covered your hair and the first thing that Billy notices when you ride up next to him is how tightly your hands are gripping the reins.
The sight of you there catches him off guard and his gallop turns into a canter as he stares at you with wide eyes.
“Hey!” Jesse shouts from a little farther out. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ here?”
“I deserve to be here just as much as any of you,” You reply, head held high as you glare back at your brother.
“Hell no! Get your ass ou–”
The bullet whizzes past his head, cutting through the air with a near deadly precision. Everyone ducks, heads snapping to where the bullet came from as the sound of the gunshot rings in their ears. There’s a couple of the ranch owner’s cowboys standing at the top of the hill, firing shot after shot towards the gang and the compromised cattle. Another bullet just barely avoids digging itself into Billy’s arm, the hot lead grazing against his upper arm and tearing through his shirt. Your eyes are wide when Billy shouts in pain, your own yell echoing his as he instinctively clutches his arm.
He can see in your face that you’re terrified. You don’t know what to do. You’re going to get hurt if he doesn’t do something.
Without thinking, Billy jerks his horse towards yours, forcefully nudging your own horse in the direction of the nearby treeline while he pulls out his gun with his uninjured arm to help return fire. The gang scatters, most of the cattle is already out past the property line and able to be herded during the commotion. The gunshots continue but no one else gets hit, and the group hollers the entire way back to the house, adrenaline pumping from just the taste of a bit of dangerous contact.
You stay silent the entire ride back home. So does Billy. And so does Jesse.
But the second your feet are back on the ground, you’re in trouble.
Jesse lays into you.
“What the hell did you think you were doin’?”
“I just wanted to help!”
“Yeah? Some help you were. You distracted us! You could have gotten us all killed,”
“Them shootin’ at you had nothin’ to do with me! I deserved to be there!”
Billy sits on the top post of the paddock fence as he presses a clean cloth against the graze on his arm, watching you both as you tear at each other's throats. He’s glaring at you too, bright blue eyes piercing into the side of your face as you scream at your brother. He watches as the tears fall from your pretty eyes, twin streams cascading down your cheeks as your hands fly around you in frustration.
A Pretty Problem. That’s what you are.
You’re a problem when you’re shooting. Your aim is always off, missing targets by an inch and somehow never able to fix yourself enough to hit them the next time. It’s a problem how you ask him for help, your back pressing against his chest and he guides you to adjust your position. Those are the only times your bullets hit the standing cans. When he steps back and you try again, you’re back to missing, and Billy just refrains from rolling his eyes even as his body feels like it’s been touched with a live wire just from the smallest bit of contact with you.
You’re a problem when they’re drinking, a bottle in your hand as you try your best to match their intake. The others would leave you on the floor, stepping over you when you inevitably drop from too much alcohol. It’s Billy that picks you up, wrapping his arm around your waist and carrying you to your bed.
You’re a problem when you’re laying there, sprawled out along the sheets somewhere between sleep and forcing yourself to stay awake. The way you look up at him is a problem, eyes glassy and half-lidded as you mumble a soft ‘thanks, Billy,”. He knows he’s not a good person, no matter how hard he tries convince himself he is, but fuck - he deserves some extra points for the self restraint he has to leave you there like that.
You’re a problem when you’re being a brat. The constant butting into conversations, volunteering for jobs and then throwing fits when you’re turned down. You’ve taken to pleading with him for support, asking him to speak on your behalf just to make your brother and the other men see sense.
“You’re the youngest,” You say, and your eyes are wide and nearly watering as you beg. “That’s why they call you The Kid. Doesn’t that bother you? Imagine how I feel!”
And how can you even ask him to do that? You can’t even shoot right on your own. Ain’t no way he’s speaking up for you so you can go on dangerous jobs and get killed.
No.
You fight just as harshly as Jesse does, spewing out insults and arguing your points until you’re both blue in the face. Neither of you notice when Billy jumps off the fence and heads into the house. You make him so angry - so naive and so willing to put yourself in danger just to try to prove yourself. Jesse is right. You could have gotten them all killed today with your little stunt. If you hadn’t been there, then their attention wouldn’t have been divided. Maybe he or Jesse could have seen the cowboys up on the hill a few seconds earlier and gotten out of there without even so much as a graze. In this world, every second is important and being distracted for even a moment can cost you your life.
He’s still stewing when you follow him into the house only a few minutes later. Your eyes are rimmed red, lips puffy from where you’ve clearly been biting them. Bad girl, he thinks as he glares at them. It’s a nervous habit you have and he’s constantly telling you to stop. The sight of your teeth biting into your bottom lip always makes him go crazy. It should be his teeth digging into it instead.
“What?” He mumbles gruffly.
“Are you okay?”
“Got grazed by a bullet,” He says, his eyes never leaving yours even as he hooks a thumb under one of his suspenders and pulls it off his shoulder. “You think I’m okay?”
He watches you as you watch him pull the other one off too, your eyes following the fallen straps as they hang around his waist. They follow his hands back up as he undoes the buttons on his shirt, one after the other after the other until the thin material separates in the middle and he can push it off his shoulders.
His skin feels hot under your intense gaze, and the darker more primal part of his brain wishes you would follow his lead. Undo your own suspenders, unbutton your shirt but make it slow - tease him a little bit cause that’s what you are.
A tease and a brat. And he should treat you like one.
Instead, you’re stepping up to him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Your fingers trace just below the thankfully shallow wound of the graze. “You should let me wrap this for you. So it doesn’t get infected,”
“You shouldn’t have been there,” He says in return, and his anger flares as he watches you roll your eyes.
“God, Billy. Come on. Didn’t I get enough of this from Jesse?”
“You could have- hey!” Billy’s hand snaps out to grip your jaw, stopping you in your tracks as you turn to walk away from him. He holds you still, forcing your face to stay turned towards him as he growls. “You could have been killed today with your little stunt. You had no place there,”
Your hands clamp around his wrist trying to pry his hand off of your face and your words are determined despite the small flicker of fear present in your eyes. “I deserve to be there just as much as any of you,”
“Oh yeah? Is that why I had to save you today?”
“You nudged me in a direction I was already goin’ to pull my horse in. I wouldn’t call that savin’,”
He pushes forward, making you shuffle back even as his hand stays firm around your chin. Your back hits the opposite wall, a pretty gasp falling from your lips from the rough movement.
“Brat,” Billy hisses as he presses his body against yours, pinning you to the wall. “You’re a troublemaker. I should tie you to your bed, keep you there - bound and out of harm’s way.”
Your breathing hitches at his words and he can feel the way your fingers clamp tighter around his wrist, those big wide eyes that torment him in his dreams staring up at him.
“Billy,” You whisper, but he just continues his thought.
“I’ll take care of you,” He says, voice low and quiet between the two of you but it somehow sounds deafening in the silence of the house. “Keep you fed and safe. Give you a nice blanket to keep you comfortable while you wait for me to get home.”
Billy’s hand releases your chin, calloused palms sliding down your jaw and wrapping around your throat. He can feel how you swallow thickly under his hold.
“And you can take care of me in return,” He continues, his words almost a growl in your face as his warm breath fans across your skin. “As a reward for keeping you out of trouble.”
Even with only centimeters apart, he can barely hear you as you whisper. “Reward you how?”
And fuck, if you knew all the dirty things that play in his mind at night…
“On your knees,” He says, the hand not currently wrapped around your throat reaches up to flick off the suspender strap around your shoulder. It falls around your waist much like his did just minutes before. “On your back.” The other suspender falls like its twin.
The sound of your heavy breathing echoes in his ears. His eyes drop to your parted lips and he’s sure that his pupils are just as large as yours are. His breathing stops in anticipation despite the fact that it's him who leans in, closing the distance between the two of you as he presses his lips against yours for the first time.
He wants to be embarrassed by the sound he makes when he tastes you, so soft and sweet and somehow so much better than he ever imagined. Your breathing shudders when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, but it cuts off in a soft gasp when he presses in again to kiss you harder. Need curls tightly in his gut, anger burning through his veins at you for making him feel this way.
So on edge all the time, so unhinged. So desperate.
The hand around your throat tightens a bit and the little squeak you let out in response has him swelling in his trousers.
“Troublemakers like you need to be put in their place,” He says, voice raw and gravely with lust. “You wanna be a big girl and ride horses all day on dangerous trips?” His nose bumps against yours, lips just barely brushing against your own as he speaks. “You can ride me instead.”
His hand leaves your throat to pull at the button on your overalls, and your own hands grip onto the tight muscles of his biceps.
“Billy, wait,” You say, hand moving down to cover his as he pops open the buttons, but he grabs your chin in his hold again.
Wait? Wait? You want him to fucking wait? No, you’ve already made him wait long enough.
“Shut up!” He growls. “I’ve heard enough from you.”
His other hand manages to push down your overalls and they fall to the ground, pooling around your ankles. You whimper as his hand slides across your belly, his long fingers tracing over your soft skin as they travel down and down until they slip under the thin material of your drawers.
“Good girls do what they’re told,” He whispers, breathing hot and heavy as he presses his mouth against your cheek, and you can feel the stubble that’s started to grow back already on his jaw scratch at your face. “I’ll have to teach you better.”
You gasp when his fingers first touch you, the gentle caress of his fingertips on your clit that has you jumping against the wall but unable to go anywhere with how he has you pinned. He groans against your cheek when he feels how wet you are already, soaking into the pads of his fingers as he circles the bundle of nerves between your thighs.
“Billy,” You moan, and he kisses you harshly, cutting off the rest of your sentence if there even was more because he can’t bear the thought of you trying to get him to stop again.
No waiting. No stopping. You’re his.
“Just be a good girl for me, okay?”
His fingers slide through your wetness, trailing slowly over your slit as his arm pushes deeper into your drawers. The tip of his finger nudges at your entrance, rubbing and teasing against your dripping hole for a moment before pushing inside you, and fuck - you feel so tight around him already. Your pussy clenches around his finger as he moves it inside of you, sweet cries ripping from your throat when he adds another, stretching you more as he curls his fingers against your slick walls.
He muffles your moans with his lips, and he can’t help but push his hips against you, pressing the thick bulge in his pants against your thigh for some relief.
Damn you, he thinks. Damn you and your driven attitude, bad shooting, sweet demeanor, and pretty face. Jesse could kill him for this. Jesse would, and he would deserve it. But this is your fault. Your. Fault. You tempted him like this. Threw him off his game and destroyed his self control just by being you and he hates you for it.
Your moans are a constant now, turning into desperate whines of “Billy, please! Oh, god, please!” as he watches you greedily hump his hand. He’s throbbing in his pants, cock pulsing with need and heavy as he presses harder against your thigh. He’s not going to last long - not with the way you look right now and the way he knows you're going to feel wrapped around his cock just from how you feel clamping around his fingers right now.
You’re not going to last much longer either, and his fingers thrust inside you faster, thumb rolling over your clit as he pushes you closer and closer towards that edge.
Come on, pretty girl. Be good for me.
He’s never touched you this way before, but it’s like he knows your body inside and out already. The look on your face tells him you’re about to cum, and he wants to see it - wants to see it so badly to see if it matches the same look you have when he makes you cum in his dreams - but he wants to make you suffer. Just a little bit more. Like you make him suffer.
The cry of protest you make when he pulls his hand away is beautiful, as is the way your eyes widen when he brings the soaked digits to his mouth, sucking your taste from them and fuuuuckkk you taste so good. Of course, you taste this good.
He kisses you again, sliding his tongue inside your mouth against yours just to make you taste yourself too as he undoes the buttons on his own pants. The restricting material is gone in seconds along with both of your underwear. His hand grips your hip, squeezing the flesh between his fingers before dragging his hand along the curve of your ass and down the back of your thigh.
In one swift movement, he has your leg hooked around his hip and his cock positioned at your entrance.
“Wait,” You whimper, looking up at him with those beautiful big eyes of yours. “I’ve never–”
“I’ll take care of you,” He says, slowly pushing himself forward. The clench of your pussy as he works his cock inside you feels like heaven, slick walls squeezing him tight as he fills you up.
Your arms wrap tightly around his neck as he sinks in, face digging into his neck to muffle your soft cry. A pang of guilt shoots through him at your pain. He doesn’t want you hurt. You’re a brat and a troublemaker, but he’s only ever wanted to keep you safe. But the more primal part of his brain keens at the idea.
It’s your first time. He’s your first. You’re his. Only his.
His good girl.
His pretty problem.
He wants to fuck you hard, wants his hips snapping against yours so hard they leave bruises. Wants you crying against his mouth, moans and whimpers so uncontrollable that your brother and the rest of the gang hears them from outside from how loud you’re being. He’s not going to last long, he was right about that. His hips move slowly against yours, cock dragging against your walls as he pulls out until just the tip is left buried in your cunt.
Your small whines of pain quickly turn into pleasure as he rocks into you, your warmth hugging his cock so tightly he thinks you might be trying to keep him buried inside you forever. He fucks you faster, pressing you harder against the wall as he claims your lips again. His fingers find the sensitive nub between your legs, rough fingertips circling your clit relentlessly until your panting against his mouth. He greedily swallows your squeal when you cum around him, cunt forming a tight and unforgiving blissful prison around his cock as you drench him and his fingers.
He moans with you, hips stuttering and inconsistent as your orgasm triggers his. He holds your face against his, his other hand clutching your hip as he holds you still, not letting you run away from him even if you try as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white.
It’s quiet in the room as you both come down from your high, just the sounds of panting as you both try to catch your breath. He should pull out. Anyone could just walk in at any moment and catch you, but he grits his teeth at the thought of having to move away from you. He’d die happily inside you if he could. So, he takes another moment, letting himself revel in the feel of your still pulsing walls around his length as he lays his forehead against yours.
“You’re goin’ to keep being my good girl, right?” He says softly into the space between you. “Stay out of trouble?”
And despite the exhausted look on your face, when your eyes meet his, all he sees is that strong-willed defiance.
Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal, Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻♀️, Using the word "drawers/undergarments" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate, Fear/Trauma of Failure
**Warnings updated as fic continues.
Word Count: 20.6K
A/N: As always, you should know that I appreciate y'all sticking with me as I release this fic at a snail's pace. I hope the content makes up for the wait 🧡
Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?
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Translations:
De nuevo - Again/Restart/Start New
Grita - Scream
There’s nothing morally wrong with Billy rubbing your back while you sleep.
It’s innocent - a wholesome act that stems from him trying to be helpful and comforting to your pain like any kind person should be. Like a mother’s touch trying to calm her distressed child or a fellow healer trying to soothe an ill patient. He’s a good man like that. So it shouldn’t be a surprise when the first morning after sleeping in the bed, your sleep clouded mind now free from the misery and a little bit more free from guilt, that you realize that it was not God’s healing touch caressing your aching back, but instead Billy’s own calloused hand.
In the moment between sleep and reality when the veil between the two is so thin it's almost impossible to tell what's real and what's not, the hand on your back gave you rest and soothed your tight muscles and aching joints. The energy flowing from the contact seemed almost holy, comforting in a way that you associate with His touch. And while it’s not hard to see Him within Billy, and while it’s not inappropriate for Billy to touch you in that way and offer you this comfort, the idea still makes a part of you uncomfortable.
You’re not quite sure how to explain it. You understand it in a way - the way you felt when you woke up throughout the night with parts of your body pressed up against Billy’s. His warmth against your side or his hand curled gently around your wrist, subconsciously seeking affection from the only other person sharing the bed. There was even a point where you woke to find your cheek resting on his forearm, a few drops of drool evidenced on his skin from how long you had been laying like that. You jerked your head away as fast as you could, one of your hands frantically wiping away the wetness from Billy’s skin before all but shoving his arm back onto his own side of the bed. He woke from the unintentional rough treatment but didn’t say anything - just readjusted and fell back asleep.
You had managed a solid few hours of sleep between that final incident and the morning’s first light. When you woke again, the guilt of what you had just done - innocent and necessary or not - hit you full force. Billy rubbing your back is not sinful. Billy comforting you in a moment of need is not sinful. Even sharing a bed out of necessity can be argued as not sinful (although your brain keeps telling you it is, over and over again like an incessant loop with no end in sight).
But the way you wake up face to face with him, inches apart and so close you can feel his breath on your nose - this… this is not okay. The way he lets out a grunt as he wakes, blue eyes now as dark as a storm in the low light of the morning only made darker by his exploded pupils. The way he looks at you from beneath hooded lids, a small smirk pulling at his mouth as he lets out a sleep-gruff “Mornin’,”.
The way your heart races in that moment as if entranced by the sight itself - that’s not okay. That’s not godly.
It feels sinful.
“Excuse me,” You say quickly. “I need to use the pot.”
Your words were quick, rushed together in a sudden rush of panic, but your escape out of the bed is not as quick. Your spine twinges as you roll, much too fast for the tender pain still clawing at your back.
“Careful,” Billy scolds, fully awake now as he reaches a hand out towards you. You push it away, gently this time even though your instincts are yelling at you to smack it away. You already did that yesterday, you can’t do it again. Someone who is meant to be a voice for the Lord should have better self control than that.
“I’m fine,” You mumble, gritting your teeth as you push yourself to stand. You head over to the pot sitting in the corner of the room and slowly bend to grab it.
You’re fine, you tell yourself as you head out of the bedroom for some privacy.
You’re fine, you will as you hold back tears from how much it hurts to squat over the pot and you’re thankful that you only have to pee this time.
Please let me be fine, you pray as you wipe yourself clean. You’ll have to empty the pot at some point today, but you can’t bring yourself to try to do it now.
But you’re not fine. You’re in pain, back still screaming in agony despite sleeping on the bed last night and you don’t have to pray for God’s wisdom to see the next few days He has in store for you.
When you trudge back to Billy’s side, it's with a dejected spirit.
“Do you need the bedpan?” You ask, quietly.
“No,”
Billy gives you a pointed look and you take it for what it is: a demand.
So you sit back down next to him and will yourself to not wallow in your own self-pity like you want to. God would not want you to waste your energy on such negativity.
You barely get out of bed for anything the whole day. Some instances are inevitable, food and relieving yourselves when the need arises can’t be helped. But the need to be moving around eats at you. The feeling of needing to be busy, of needing to be useful even when there’s truly nothing pressing to be done makes you feel like there are bugs under your skin. You don’t want to be cooped up in bed all day again. Mankind wasn’t meant to be stagnant. Yesterday was hard enough already and now you’re being made to stay put again. You know yourself, know how much you crave to be on the move - on the go, never wanting to stay still for too long. You need to do something, be helpful in some way. Being forced to sit and stay like a dog is the last thing you want to do. But Billy has made his stance clear on what he thinks you should do.
“You stay in bed and heal, and I will too.”
Like yesterday, the ‘if you don’t…’ still remains unspoken, but the message is still received loud and clear.
You make absolutely sure to tell him that threatening and giving a nun an ultimatum is not very godly or very good manners in general, and you swear his eyes almost got stuck in the back of his head with how hard he rolls them.
You make sure to also tell him that rolling his eyes at a nun is not very kind either.
So you both stay in the bed.
The isolation and pure boredom quickly takes its toll. Billy decides to use the time to sleep, head turned to the side on his pillow with his mouth open as he breathes slow, deep breaths of oxygen into his lungs.
He looks so peaceful, thick eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and it once again strikes you how young he truly is. He’s been through so much horror and loss and it hurts to think that, even though it would be horrible for anyone to go through what he’s went through, how much more awful it feels to know that not too long ago he was just a boy himself - innocent and in need of protection and guidance and instead was cast aside like he was worth nothing.
He needs to be on when he’s awake. Guarded and observant, ready for danger at a moment's notice - the trials and tribulations of a wanted man. But here, in sleep, he looks the most at peace as you’ve ever seen him in the short time you’ve known him. And when he looks like this, innocent and soft as his dark hair falls over his forehead, you find it hard to believe that this is the same man who is wanted for the murder of no less than five men. Possibly more if the rumors are to be believed.
It’s fine. This is fine. Let him have his peace and serenity while cooped up in this cabin and all but chained to this bed. At least one of you is finding peace because it’s certainly not you. Your thoughts race, brain screaming at you to get up and do something. Maybe you could - Billy wouldn’t even know if you got up.
No. You can’t. That would be a lie. You promised you would stay in bed and you make sure to keep your promises.
You use the time to pray instead, filling the hours of silence with whispered prayer to steady yourself and clear your racing mind. When Billy wakes, the movement of his body as he shifts to sit up and lean against the headboard distracts you enough to open your eyes, watching carefully as he maneuvers himself and paying special attention to make sure he’s not pulling on his injury. But you don’t stop praying, lips forming the shapes of the holy words as he settles himself beside you.
He doesn’t interrupt. Never utters a word. His hands clasp in his lap as they mirror your own, sitting in silence and not quite acting like he’s trying to pray with you, but giving you the respect and space you deserve while you do.
Your praying doesn’t stop as you offer a hand out to him. It’s not traditional practice to hold another person’s hand during prayer. You’ve even heard it said that doing so can be seen as distracting and should be discouraged if it takes away focus from the Lord’s prayer. But you’ve often found that physical touch can bring people together - a physical bond between God’s children to solidify the spiritual bond that everyone hopes to achieve with He Himself.
Well, perhaps not Billy. Not yet anyway. But he still takes your hand when you offer it to him, his fingers curling around yours as they both lay between you on the bed.
You pray until your stomachs growl and even then you make sure to thank Him for providing your next meal.
The next day gives you more of the same as the day before.
It’s a tiny bit better, although not as noticeable as you would hope. You keep trying to think about it, mulling over what God’s plan could possibly be for rendering you practically helpless when you’re meant to be healing someone else. You can’t figure it out - you’re not meant to. It’s He and He alone who can know what His plan truly is and if you were meant to know, you would. But the lack of stimulation makes you keep on trying to figure it out, thinking and thinking and thinking and hoping that if you can just figure out why, then maybe you’ll heal quicker and be back on your feet like you want to be.
You have to force yourself to stop, the words sinner and doubtful creeping into your mind and curling around your heart with an icy grip when you realize just how much you’ve let yourself fester on it. The Good Lord has a plan and that’s all you need to know. All this thinking and trying to work it out is making it seem like you doubt Him. Doubt Him and the plans He has in store for you.
Shame on you, you scold yourself.
Please forgive my sin, Lord. I trust You.
Sister Catherine wouldn’t have doubted. She wouldn’t have wasted a single second on pitying herself. Sister Ann would have prayed her worries away, talking directly to God instead of trying to think around Him.
What is happening to you? This isn’t like you. It shouldn’t be like you.
You shuffle down the bed as carefully as you can, laying out on your side with your back towards Billy. If he noticed the tears running down your cheeks before you turned away, he doesn’t say anything. But after a few minutes of silence, his large calloused hand comes up to rub soothingly at your back.
It feels good, calming and healing like it did that first night. So, despite the part of your brain that’s still telling you this is wrong, you allow it anyway in the hopes that it truly is God’s loving and forgiving touch coming through Billy’s capable hands.
Billy’s wound is healing surprisingly fast. From your experience, wounds like his would take months to heal properly enough for him to move around with little worry, and even then one would still have to watch the injury site for a little while longer just to be sure. But Billy’s is mending much quicker than you would have anticipated, especially considering the significant amount of trauma the bullet caused to his side.
“The Lord is good, Billy. He’s looking out for you,” You tell him as you redress his wound. You’ve checked it already, double and then triple checking that he hadn’t torn anything in his noble yet incredibly stupid attempts at being a helpful gentleman while you yourself were in duress. He hadn’t, thank the Lord. God’s protection may be mighty, but it doesn’t frequently cover carelessness. You dress it carefully, making sure to keep it clean as you recover the trauma site with a fresh cloth. “I’d say only a few more weeks and you’ll be well enough to ride again.”
Billy scoffs at your words, irritation evident in the sour twist of his face. “There ain’t no god up there lookin’ out for me. S’all me.”
You ignore his jab and focus on taping the cloth securely to his skin.
“Well, you’re healing up mighty quick. Surely this is a blessing.” You toss the leftover material back in your bag. There’s still enough left to change it again for one last time. Perhaps Sister Ann will think to send some along with Sam for his next delivery in a few days, so you can have it just in case. ”Maybe He is with you after all, hm?”
“If you say so, Sister,”
He’s upset again, a lethal combination of the frustration that’s aimed at your insistence that God is with him despite him wanting nothing to do Him, and the fact that you are once again on your feet despite his insistence that you stay put. You can also tell that he’s starting to get antsy from being restrained to bed rest for so long. He hasn’t vocalized this particular frustration yet, but you can sympathize with the way he stretches his long limbs a little more than necessary, clearly fighting the urge to throw his legs over the side of the bed and move around like he really wants to.
A part of you wishes to console him. You don’t like to see him upset. He’s getting better, recovering fast and you can easily see him healing up and ready to be on the move much quicker than he ever should be. He should be happy about that - not frowning with his dark brows furrowed in barely concealed agitation.
But you don’t say anything. Just finish up the bandage refresh, taping it to his skin to keep it secure and letting Billy rebutton his shirt while you return your bag to the main room before dutifully returning to your place at his side as promised.
Billy stays in the bed as long as you stay in the bed. He’s calmed down a bit now, frown smoothing out as he watches you work on the blanket for the clinic. He makes himself useful and continues to hold your yarn for you as you work. The yarn balls you’ve brought are almost all completely used up and you’re not quite sure what you’re going to do when they’re gone.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” You say suddenly, half just to distract yourself and half out of pure uncontained curiosity. “About that night.”
“Which night?” Billy asks, but you don’t have to look at him to know that he knows exactly what you’re talking about.
“The night you came to the clinic,” You say anyway. “But… before it.”
Your hands have stopped their movements, knitting needles and the rest of your project resting between your fingers in your lap. Now you do look at him, eyes boring curiously into the side of his face. His stubble is getting a little long, maybe Joe has a razor here that Billy can borrow.
He doesn’t look back at you though, instead keeping his gaze down to wear he’s playing with the tail end of the yarn that he’s purposefully kept out when rerolling the yarn ball. “What about it?”
“What happened? How did-” Your question trails off as your eyes drop to where his wound is as if you could see it through the covering of both his shirt and the bandage. “How did it happen?”
To your shock, Billy smirks. “Well, I didn’t know nuns liked to gossip. I reckon that wouldn’t be considered too god-like,”
You scoff at his playful words and lightly push his shoulder. “You hush. It’s not gossip if it's your own story.”
“Sure it’s not,” He chuckles.
You hum, one eyebrow raised as you quietly hold your stance in the face of his smugness, but the smile pulling at your lips surely ruins the look and maybe it’s a good thing he still hasn’t looked at you yet.
“Alright,” You relent. “Then as one of the Lord’s faithful servants, I am giving us the permission to… gossip.”
“I don’t think it can work like that,”
Suddenly, another understanding springs at the forefront of your mind. “Oh. Do you not wanna tell me?”
Foolish woman! Practically forcing him to tell you something he’s clearly not comfortable with telling. You are no priest and you have no right to demand to hear his sins or confession.
“No, it’s not–”
“You don’t have to tell me,” You rush to say. Guilt claws at you at the thought of you making him feel obligated to tell you about his trauma just because you want to know. Because you're curious. Because you want to gossip. “I’m sorry I asked. It’s not my place–”
“Hey,” He says, and now he is looking at you, clear blue eyes haloed with intensity as he grips your shoulder. “S’okay. I want to tell you.” There’s a beat, and then a thankfully sincere, “I trust you.”
You nod. “You can, Billy. You can trust me, I promise,”
Billy’s quiet for a moment but his eyes never leave yours. Eyes that look a little wetter now than usual as they stare back at you, and you feel like those eyes are trying to tell you more in this moment than any of his words ever could.
Finally, he speaks. “I want to tell you. But it wasn’t my finest moment,”
You think maybe it's better if you stay silent, so you do.
“I had a friend by the name of Pete Maxwell. You know him?”
You nod, adding in a brief, “Of him. A rancher. Decently wealthy.”
Apparently not wealthy enough to ever donate to the clinic, you think bitterly, and then immediately berate yourself for thinking something so judgemental of someone you’ve never met before.
“Yeah,” Billy says. “That night, I was at his ranch. He said I could stay for a few days until I figure out where to go next. I can’t stay in New Mexico anymore, they’re huntin’ me and they’re not gonna stop until they hang me.”
The thought of seeing Billy hanging from the end of a rope feels like there’s a hand squeezing uncomfortably around your heart. You’ve seen swinging bodies before - poor souls who, despite their transgressions, didn’t deserve the harsh judgment of ending their time here on Earth before the Lord called them home Himself. It makes you sick, thinking of all the people whose time had been cut short solely because someone else believes that just because they are powerful enough to end someone’s life also means they should.
“I never wanted to kill anyone,” Billy insists, and you wonder if he can read your thoughts in your eyes. “You know that. I never want to hurt anyone. Anythin’ I did was to protect myself from the people that wanted to hurt me or someone I cared about. Please, Sister, I swear.”
Your hand finds the curve of Billy’s cheek. “I know, Billy. I know,”
He lets out a shaky breath, but you can tell how relieved he is at your reassurance.
“I heard voices that night. Quiet talkin’. Not quite whispering but more hushed. I still recognized Pete’s voice just fine, but the other,” He trails off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “How could I not have recognized him? From all the nights we all used to spend crammed in that small hideaway talkin’ about everythin’ and nothin’, how could I not have recognized Pat’s voice?”
You can hear the pain in his voice, and you think that this was one of those pivotal moments. Something that seems so insignificant but turned out to have such important consequences. You know all too well how those moments stick with you.
“But I thought I was safe with friends. I should’ve known better. I’m never safe. Not really. I walked down the hall and looked in Pete’s room. It was dark and I didn’t recognize who he was talkin’ to. They didn’t know I was there until I spoke and asked who it was.”
His hand twitches towards his hip and you know he’s reflexively feeling for where his gun should be.
“I’m the fastest gunslinger in the territory,” He tells you. “I made sure I am so that no one can ever get the upper hand on me ever again. I should’ve had my hand on my gun that day. I should’ve been ready. But I hesitated. Garrett knows me, he didn’t hesitate. I’ve fought my whole life just tryin’ to do the right thing and live a normal peaceful life, and I let my guard down for one minute - one minute of hesitation thinkin’ that I should’ve been safe - and it almost got me killed.” His hand moves from his hip to cover the healing wound on his side. “He’s usually a better shot than that. He must have been caught off guard too.”
“And then what happened?” You press. Pete Maxwell’s ranch is close to the clinic, but it's still a ways away if you're traveling on foot. The idea of BIlly walking the entire way to the clinic with an injury as substantial as his and making it is nothing short of a miracle.
“I ran. There’s an alcove in one of the spare rooms on the first floor. I ran down the stairs, stumbled down the stairs, and hid in there until Garrett passed and then I snuck out the back. My horse was tied in the barn and they chased me to the river just outside of town. So I sent my horse on her way and hid behind a big rock as they chased after her.”
“You rode a horse with a gunshot wound and then walked yourself the rest of the way to the clinic?” You asked, stunned.
“Yes, ma’am,”
Incredible. “My word! The Lord hath blessed you that day, Billy, for surely you should have died on that journey! You were knocking on death’s door when you stumbled in and I had no idea if it was even possible to save you. The fact that you made it to the clinic at all is a miracle.”
“You can listen to that and still say that’s a ‘blessin’’?”
His tone has soured a bit again, face twisted in irritation, but you lean forward and take both of his hands in yours.
“Your instincts saved you, Billy,” You say. “Despite all that you may not believe, believe that. Sheriff Garrett would have killed you if anything happened any differently than it did. He could have shot you in the head or in the chest, and if he had, you and I would not be sitting here having this conversation. I wouldn’t have met you.”
Thankfully, his expression softens. “And I wouldn’t have met you,”
The corner of your mouth curls up in a soft smile. “See? Small blessings.”
“Does it scare you?” Billy asks suddenly. “To be here. With me.”
The smile dissipates. “No. No, of course not. Why would I be scared?”
“I’ve killed people. A lot of people. I’m dangerous,”
“No,” You say, fingers squeezing tightly around his hands in reassurance. “You never wanted to kill anyone. You said it yourself. What you were forced to do to survive doesn’t define you. It’s what you do in moments of peace that do, and despite what the law says, God’s law is stronger. Give to the poor, help those in need, love each other and treat one another as you would want to be treated, and you’ve done all that, Billy. I’ve heard it. Your brother and sisters see it. They see how you’ve protected them, they see your kindness,” His blue eyes bore into yours as you speak. “God sees it, and I do too.”
The look in his eyes as he stares at you tells you that he wants to believe your words, but his words come out bitter. “Everyone sees it, but I’m still being hunted,”
“I know it's hard. I know it's unfair. But please, Billy, please, have faith that God has a plan for you. He has brought us together for a reason,” You say, ardently. “I believe that.”
He considers you for a long while, the doubt still clear as day in his vivid stare, but it feels like progress that he doesn’t say anything against your words. Maybe he’s finally starting to believe, just a little.
“I have your gun and hat, by the way,” You tell him, pulling your hands from his. They run down the front of your tunic to smooth it down before returning to your knitting needles. “They’re with my bag.”
You don’t know why you felt the need to tell him that right now. He won’t be needing them for at least another few weeks. At least you hope he won’t. The odds of Sheriff Garrett and his men finding you out here and surprising you both on your brother’s doorstep are slim, but nothing is ever completely certain. Maybe it's the thought of him losing everything - friends he thought he could trust, his horse, all his belongings. He almost lost his life. If you can comfort him for a moment and show that he hasn’t truly lost everything, even if it's just his gun and hat, you will.
“Thanks,” He replies, quietly.
You think he’s happy to hear it, but he suddenly seems much more interested in continuing to play with the loose end of your yarn.
Four nights of sleeping on the bed are doing wonders for your back, and although it's not as immediate as you had originally hoped, the improvement is clear. It’s not 100% yet, certain movements or even too much movement in general still makes some pain rear its ugly head, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was before. You think you should be in the clear in the next day or so. Which is nice to think about because this feeling and the physical limitations that come with it are getting old.
Like you, a particularly nasty part of your brain supplies, but you quickly tramp it down because first of all - how rude. And second of all, how dare you think of something so natural and beautiful in such a negative and self-degrading way? The Lord granted us mortality, the blessing of being able to experience life in all forms and watch as the world around you grows with you. Death is a consequence of original sin, but in it the Lord granted us salvation despite the punishment. Life is not forever on Earth, but our souls will live forever in His kingdom, and despite the actions that brought us here, we are blessed with the ability to watch the world and its people grow and change around us while our bodies, too, grow and change.
The aches in your muscles are signs of well use as well as general aging. The cracking joints you experience from time to time are just the body’s normal wear and tear of being well loved. Self-degradation comes from the Devil - his temptation to be ungrateful for the things God has granted us rearing up in the form of nasty words and thoughts leading to insecurity. We are all made in His perfect image, aging aches and pains included.
You haven’t slept through the night since before you got here, the stress of the situation having you waking up during the night from dreams of Sheriff Garrett breaking down your brother’s front door and putting a bullet through Billy’s forehead instead of just his side this time, and then the pain from your back taking its toll on any restful sleep you could have hoped to have. But when you wake up on the fourth morning in the bed, it's to the pleasant shock of finally sleeping through the night once again. The sun’s already shining through the bedroom window, your skin greedily soaking up the warm rays as you stretch out more along the sheets. You hadn’t woken up once during the night from any pain or discomfort, sleeping deeply enough that you know that you dreamt, but whatever it was is long forgotten.
You stretch again, using the additional space to sprawl all the way out as you bask in the rare moment of stillness. The content moment crashes around you when you realize you have a bit too much space for you to take up and your eyes fly open to see that Billy’s side of the bed is empty. Your hand automatically darts out to touch the empty space beside you as if they don’t actually believe what your eyes are seeing. He is supposed to be bedridden. Unmoving. Still. Recovering. And instead he’s gone - the sheets warm to your touch from the sun but still cooler without any remnants of his body heat left.
Noise comes from the kitchen, a small clatter of metal on metal that sounds like someone scraping down a pot and you jerk up, instantly awake and intent on running in the kitchen and finding out just what Billy thinks he’s doing out of bed. A sharp pain in your back halts your movements and your rare moment of serenity is gone in an instant. Words of blasphemy have never been a regular part of your vocabulary, just the rare ones slipping out in small bouts of rebellion in your youth and even those were few and far between. Your mother used to wash your mouth out with soap if she ever heard it, less for the sake of discipline and more for the sake of teaching you to never say them on the chance your father were to hear it. His discipline would have been far more unpleasant than a mouthful of soap. You haven’t spoken a single blasphemous word since taking your vows.
The pain in your back brings you mighty close though.
“Billy!” You call through the pain, teeth gritted together as your hands come to cradle your back.
“Gimme a minute, Sister,” He calls back, and this time you hear the more gentle and higher pitched clink of silverware.
“Billy, what are you doing?” You will not give him a minute. Your second attempt at sitting up is more successful this time and you’ve just gotten on your feet when he enters the room.
He’s carrying two bowls in his hands, piled generously with what looks like still steaming hot oatmeal. He clicks his tongue at you when he sees you, brows furrowing in concern and disappointment as if you are the one currently being unreasonable right now by being out of bed.
“I made us breakfast,” He says.
He places one of the bowls on the bedside table and uses his free hand to pull your pillow up so it leans against the headboard. You slap his hand away when he tries to nudge you back down against it, jaw dropped in shock at his audacity.
“You are in no position to be making breakfast,” You say, scandalized. “You are in no position to be standing on your feet. You should be in bed. Healing. Not cooking and lifting potentially heavy pots and possibly injuring yourself more.”
“S’okay,” He says, gently, voice soft as if trying to calm a wild animal. “M’fine. You’re hurt and were sleepin’ so good and I’m able, so I did.”
“If you pulled your stitches–”
He lifts the hem of his shirt up to reveal the bandage on his side, thankfully still clean and not a drop of blood seeping through the white.
“I didn’t. I was careful. I lifted you and nothin’ happened. If I could do that without them tearin’ then I can cook us up a meal,” He drops his shirt back down and tries to nudge you back down on the bed again, and this time you fall back willingly. He places the bowl of oatmeal into your hands and the heat from the bowl warms your fingers. “M’strong, I promise. Now can you please try the oatmeal? It’s real good, my Ma taught me how to make it.”
“Come sit on the bed where you should be and I’ll try it,” You tell him with a stern raise of your eyebrow. He concedes with a small smirk, clearly satisfied with himself.
When he’s settled next to you, his own bowl placed between his hands on his lap, he levels you with an expectant stare and it's only then that you take your first bite. You hum approvingly at the taste, the subtle flavor of cinnamon and something a little sweeter undercoating the oats.
“Your Ma had good taste,” You compliment, and Billy beams at you in happiness.
The good news of his recovery comes at a cost, and however much you try to urge him to stay in the bed to recover, he makes it incredibly clear that he is becoming much too restless to stay in it all day.
And suddenly, it feels like you’re looking in a mirror.
Billy’s push back sounds familiar to you, your own words of protest from the past few days being spat back in your face as he argues that he is well enough to stand and walk around for a little bit each day. Perhaps this is your punishment for how difficult you were during your own need for recovery.
“I can’t just sit around all day,”
You said it to him when he tried to urge you to rest and now he’s throwing those same words back at you, daring you to be a hypocrite in the face of your own words.
“Billy, you are recovering from a gunshot wound. Do you have any idea how serious this could become if you put too much stress on it too soon and it becomes infected?”
“It’s not gonna get infected. You care for it good enough and you said that I was healin’ up fast.”
“The possibility of tearing–”
“What about if you hurt your back again, huh? What then? You ain’t gonna do me any good if you keep hurtin’ yourself.”
“Oh, you are stubborn! The Bible says ‘a stubborn fool considers his own way the right one, but a person who listens to advice is wise’. Why can’t you listen to my professional advice?”
“Never said I was wise. I’ll be stubborn if it's gonna keep you safe. But really, who’s being the stubborn one here?”
Ouch.
You know the Lord is testing you.
That’s what this whole thing is - a test of your loyalty and strength in the face of hardships you never thought you would have to deal with.
Just like you, it seems that Billy is an active man - a doer who would rather be productive and helpful than sitting on his behind all day long and accept being cared for.
You appreciate this type of man. The type of man who makes himself useful in all aspects of life and doesn't expect to be doted on by his women just because he ‘worked hard’ all day and ‘deserves to relax’ when he gets home. You’ve seen first hand how a woman’s role in life doesn’t have set business hours. From the moment she wakes up in the morning, she’s doing her duties, caring for her husband or father and doing whatever she has to do to make his life easier.
Clean the home.
Make the meals.
Care for the children.
Tend to all his needs.
And when he gets home after work, from doing what he thinks is the most important job of all of ‘providing’ for his family, he kicks his feet up as she places a glass of whiskey in his hand. The woman handles the rest as she always does and receives no thanks in return for her efforts.
The sting of the past rears its ugly head whenever you think about it. You remember how the second your father walked through the door, whether he had been at work or already out in a saloon plying himself full of drink, your mother would be ready with a glass of the finest liquor your family could afford in hand for him. You remember how he never did anything to help with the household - never any heavy lifting, never any cleaning, never any cooking. He never even hugged his children.
Your mother did it all.
The tax of being a woman is often much higher than you think you’re willing to pay, and you often wonder if this is what the Lord truly meant when he said “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord.”
So while you are mostly grateful that Billy is not like a grand majority of the men you’ve met, you think it’s inconvenient for this particular moment.
“Fine,” You begrudgingly allow, crossing your arms over your chest. “But if I think you’re overdoing it and tell you to sit down, I expect you to listen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” He says with a pleased smirk as he tips an invisible hat at you.
Oh, Lord. Give me strength.
You allow him to stay out of bed for portions of the day under the condition that the tasks he does are light work and in no way any kind of danger to his still healing wound. He helps you in the kitchen, observing while you chop vegetables and put together hearty meals for the two of you with the supplies that Sam was gracious enough to provide for you both in his crate. He’s attentive to your needs - taking the dirty dishes from you and cleaning them right away in the heated water basin next to the stove while you cook, shaking his head stubbornly when you try to tell him to leave it. He’s offered to go out and collect more water for you from the stream out front when you need it, but you draw the line there, not wanting him to risk injuring himself more by picking up a heavy pot. He hands you things before you have to ask; already handing you a clean knife when you reach for the potatoes or using the spare kitchen rag to wipe the splattered mess clean that erupts from the pot as you stir. He’s a handy helper, an asset in the kitchen and around the rest of the cabin too when you let him.
It feels nice to have a helper - domestic in a way you haven’t had in a long time. Your fellow Sisters help you out every day, but it's different. They have their own jobs to tend to and you have yours. Help is expected but only when it's truly needed, otherwise you are on your own as you fulfill your given duties.
But when you were still living at home, before your world came crashing down on you, you and your mother would cook meals together. She would do a majority of the cooking but you would stand beside her and help her with whatever she needed. And in the spaces where she didn’t need anything, you would listen to her sing as she cooked, singing along with her and dancing in the small kitchen space. You were never quite as happy anywhere else as you were when in that small bubble of calm domesticity with her.
You want to ask Billy if he had those moments with his Ma in the kitchen too when he was growing up, but you’re too scared of breaking the calm that you can’t bring yourself to ask.
You thought your childhood might have been the end of it. The constant struggle and all-consuming fear you suffered day in and day out at the hands of your alcoholic father is something you would never wish on anyone. You’ve tried to justify it before - or not justify it but rather reason that you should consider yourself lucky, in a way. There’s always someone that has it worse off than you. Always someone who suffers more, is more fearful, has it harder and with more obstacles to overcome with not even a steep staircase in sight to help them over it.
You think Billy is one of those people. A poor soul lost amongst a battering sea of hurdles and tragedy that crash into him without mercy like waves during a storm. Orphaned at the age of fifteen, not even his brother alive anymore to keep him company in a cruel world that favors money over human life and dignity.
But, the truth is, you can’t compare them. Two very different circumstances each with their own obstacles and lessons to learn, and you think it’s doing the Lord an injustice to try to push off your own tests as ‘not as bad’ in the face of another’s. Yours are for you and you alone.
You should know that the Lord is never done with His teachings.
When growing up in that house, you used to watch your father with careful eyes. It was important to keep tabs on him - the state he was in (drunk or absolutely under-the-table drunk), his current mood based on how much drink he had consumed thus far into the day, and who he was looking at through those drink clouded eyes. You would go back and forth with your prayers, subconsciously or consciously asking God to keep his gaze from looking back into yours only to take it back and pray that it does. Because if his eyes weren’t on you, that means they were either on your mother or brother, and hearing their cries and screams for mercy always hurt more than the pain your father’s attention brought.
But moreso, you would watch him so you could know what you didn’t want.
Before taking your vows, you would pray every night for God to send you someone wonderful. Someone kind and caring with a strong and protective disposition but that would never ever ever lay a hand on you in anything other than pure love and adoration. Maybe he would be handsome - tall or short, green eyes or brown, fair-headed or with hair as black as the night, it didn’t matter. As long as he loved you and cared for you like a good husband should, you would take the blessing.
You hadn’t thought about that in a long time. That path for you is no longer an option and you thought you had made peace with that, knowing that you had been blessed with a better path than you could have ever hoped for when you were younger. But it hits you hard when you realize that you may not be as at peace with it as you thought.
It feels like an empty pit in your stomach when you watch him move around next to you in your brother’s small kitchen, looking up at Billy’s stretching arm as he reaches for one of the extra bowls Joe keeps up high on the top shelf above the stove that you are too short to reach yourself. The realization that, in another life, maybe this could have been your life. The thought makes your heart ache, the wanting of what could have been despite the contentedness of your life now is creeping in unexpectedly and you’re not sure how to feel. But it's there, frozen and immovable in your brain as you look up at him. He grabs the bowl and brings it down for you, looking down at you with a small upward turn of his lips as he hands it to you, and you think - wow, maybe in another life, one in which you hadn’t devoted your life to God and His will, maybe Billy could have been someone you could have shared your life with.
If there was ever the embodiment of someone you would have hoped and prayed for yourself, Billy would have made a good option. Someone handsome, strong both physically and morally, equally helpful as you are to him and actually wants to be.
You take the offered bowl from his hands, sadness encompassing your heart as you mourn for the little girl who prayed so hard for God to send her someone wonderful like him. The Lord works in mysterious ways, that is no secret. Billy is in your life for a reason and everything that you’re feeling now is carefully orchestrated by the Lord. There’s a lesson to be learned in this. Perhaps some justice and freedom for your younger self that never got her prayers answered the way she expected to, but instead was blessed with a life path that was so much better.
It takes some time to coddle the little girl still left inside you. But even so, eventually it's time to lift her sadness and stress and desperation up to the Lord so He can finally heal her and replace her suffering with His pure love.
New Mexico can be hot, but thankfully not very humid. Heat you can tolerate, but humidity? Forget about it.
When your travels had taken you into Louisiana, you considered for a moment that it might be where the Devil himself lived for as hot and humid as it was. The difference between New Mexico and Louisiana was stark - the comfortable heat of New Mexico, even when wearing the multiple coverings of a habit, is nothing compared to the absolute stifling and hard-to-breathe heat of that long week in Louisiana. Some residents there had assured you that it wasn’t always as horrific as it was when you asked during the long, long week of your stay. Just a heatwave, they said - and for their sake, you certainly hope so.
You haven’t had to worry too much about that here. Since you’ve moved to New Mexico, there’s only been one drastic heatwave. And while you had sat in the clinic, sweating profusely under the dark clothes of your habit and a wet washcloth pressed against the back of your neck, you had hoped that it would be the last one you ever had to experience.
But the unusual heaviness in the air and the way you’re starting to feel more than a little wet under your armpits tells you that that particular thrown up prayer may have gone unanswered.
It’s much hotter than it’s been in the last few days.
The cabin has been a safeguard from any excess heat so far, the well built wooden roof and sturdy walls effectively blocking the sun’s powerful rays and keeping the inside of the cabin a temperature fit for human living. But now it's too hot, too well contained, and the heat feels like it's smacking you in the face every time you turn around.
You feel wet under your clothes, the dark layers of your habit doing their job at keeping your entire body covered but doing you no favors in helping you find any relief from the all consuming heat. Billy’s not doing much better either. His dark hair is plastered against his forehead, sweat beading around his hairline, and he looks just as exhausted as you feel. His eyes are closed as he lays back against the pillows and for the first time in the past few days, he doesn’t make any effort to try to get out of bed to move around. To be fair though, you don’t really make any effort to move around either. Being active uses energy that you most definitely don’t have right now - the ridiculous humidity taking away all your will and motivation to do anything other than use a spare piece of paper to fan yourself.
Eventually, it's not enough though.
Your clothes are sticking to your skin and you feel more disgusting than you have in a long time.
“I need a bath,” You mutter, still fanning your face with the paper. You really do. Some nice cool water sliding along your skin to help cool you down sounds about as close to Heaven as you can get right now. But then it hits you, eyes flying open as your head snaps to look at Billy. “Oh gosh, you need a bath!”
It’s been exactly two weeks less a day that you’ve been in hiding at your brother’s cabin with a wanted criminal and you still haven’t offered him a proper opportunity to bathe. You’ve done the bare minimum so far, running a wet cloth across your skin at the end of the day to rid yourself of the dirt and grime before handing it off to Billy to do the same. But it’s been far too long since you had a proper bath. Your last one was the day Billy found his way into the clinic - who knows when was the last time Billy had a proper wash.
One of Billy’s eyes crack open at your gasp. “You sayin’ I stink?”
Heat rises at your cheeks and for a second you think you’ve offended him, but the playful smirk that pulls under his sweaty upper lip tells you to relax.
“Yes,” You say anyway. “Very much so, in fact.”
Billy lets out an amused huff, his eyes slipping shut again. “Hm, so kind of you to say so,”
“Well, it’s a sin to lie,” You take a second to gather your resolve before forcing yourself up. Thank goodness cold water is what you're needing for your refreshing bath, you can’t stand the thought of having to run the stove right now to heat it up. “It should also be a sin with how bad we smell.”
“You don’t smell bad,”
You look at him, strict brow raised. “Now, what did I just say about lying?”
“Ain’t a lie,’”
He opens his eyes again to look at you and, for some crazy reason, there’s a seriousness there that you’re not prepared for. You thought maybe he was just being polite, not saying the truth because he thought it might hurt your feelings as a woman. It’s throwing you a bit with how sincere he looks.
“You should get undressed,” You tell him in lieu of anything else to say. “I’m going to fetch some water from the stream and bring it back for you.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to bathe in the stream?”
Honestly? Yes. Yes it would be. But it's a risk. A small one, but a risk nonetheless. If Garrett and his men showed up unexpectedly, it would be easier to keep them outside and hide BIlly inside than for Billy to try to run and hide in an open field.
“Inside is the safer option. From both the heat and potential searching eyes,” You slip on your shoes that you keep neatly beside the bed and Billy just continues to watch you. “Is that okay?”
Billy shrugs and places a hand on his side to protect his bandage as he pushes himself off the bed. “Sure thing, boss,”
You see Billy start to unbutton his shirt and take that opportunity to leave the room and grab the water basin from the kitchen. The stream is just a short walk from the house and just about as in Joe’s backyard as he could have allowed. It takes just minutes to walk from the front porch all the way to the stream’s edge and you’re beyond thankful that, even though you feel like the Devil himself is breathing down the back of your neck with all this heat and humidity, your back doesn’t twinge or pull or ache when you crouch to collect the water. Your hands dip into the stream as you dunk the bucket and the cool water feels heavenly on your hands.
When you return back to the cabin, fresh water in hand and grabbing a bar of soap you had borrowed from the clinic on your way back to the bedroom, you return to find that Billy has followed your orders. He stands naked - well, almost naked. He’s kept his undergarments on, the white cotton that usually extends down towards the knee is still covering his more private parts but has been rolled up to expose a majority of his thighs. The rest of him is bare, on display for your eyes to see, and you’re so ashamed to find yourself looking.
You are a woman of God, forever to be celebate and chaste in His honor - but it's becoming clear, especially in these past few weeks, that you are not as far from the Devil’s reach as you had once hoped to be. Temptations of the flesh have never been a problem for you. You had never met anyone who had held your attention enough in your youth to ever entertain such thoughts, and after you had taken your vows the option was off the table altogether, so you had never bothered to ever consider anyone worth the distraction to your mission.
The temptation had always been easy to ignore. You may find some people attractive, yes, but nothing ever so tempting that they stopped you in your tracks, unable to take your eyes off them. But Billy’s skin is smooth, broad shoulders with muscles that shift under his skin as he moves. The long curve of his spine. The strong arms that you knew must have been impressive with the easy way he lifted you that night. You’ve seen skin before. Seeing mostly naked bodies at the clinic is part of the job description when dealing with the different amount of injuries you’ve seen within your lifetime. But most of those bodies are old - the elderly with their wrinkles and saggy skin where muscles used to be but have now disappeared without use. And if they’re not old, they’re bloodied - able bodied people who need you to stitch them up and clean the rest when you’re done.
You’ve seen skin before. But not this kind of skin. Never the type that makes your fingers twitch like they want to run along the expanse of it and feels how it feels under your touch and—
Stop!
“Ahem,” You clear your throat from whatever had suddenly gotten in it. You take a bit to clear your head too. Temptation is not a sin. Giving into temptation is the sin. “I have the water,”
“Thanks,”
You cross the room, setting the bucket of water down on the bedside table along with the bar of soap. His eyes follow your movements and the guilt from your recent lack of self control has you feeling like he’s burning holes in the side of your head.
“Be careful,” You say, running your still damp palms along the front of your tunic. “You’re healing mighty well but that can all turn south if you're too careless with your movements. Don’t rush anything and move slowly when twisting your body to clean. I’ll give you some privacy so just holler if you need me.”
You need to pray. This is going to keep eating at you if you don’t, but Billy catches your wrist as you try to walk past him again, halting your escape as you head for the door to the main room.
“Wait,” He says, softly. “Would you mind helpin’ me? I think I moved a little too much yesterday and now that I’ve stood up, it’s feelin’ kinda sore.”
His hand is pressing against his side again and any awkwardness you were experiencing is clouded by concern.
“Sore?” You repeat, worriedly. “Sore like your stitches ripped open?”
You immediately reach for his bandage, intent on pulling it off and seeing the extent of the damage, but Billy halts your hand before you can.
“M’fine,” He whispers. You look up and you realize that you’re suddenly very close to a very unclothed, arguably attractive, man. “It’s just sore.”
Pulling your hand from his, you back up a few paces.
Get it together. You need to focus and be strong for Billy. You are meant to help him, both physically and spiritually, and now is no time to be having a moral dilemma of your own. You need to focus and be the person God expects you to be. You can pray for absolution later.
You are one of the Lord’s faithful helpers, and Billy is asking for your help right now.
“Of course, I’ll help you,” You nudge his hand away from your wrist, replacing your wrist instead with the bar of soap. “You go ahead and get started with what you can comfortably reach and I’ll go see if Joe has a blade we can use to clean up your face.”
Billy chuckles. “You don’t like the scruffy look, Sister?
“Hah, well, nothing wrong with being a little more clean cut, yes? The baby Jesus might have been born in a barn, but we don’t have to look it,”
You wish you could leave the room under the guise of going to look for your brother’s razor. You need a minute, just one, just to collect yourself and get your thoughts together. But if your brother has one, you know it would be in here, so you turn your back to Billy to give him some semblance of privacy and begin your search. You should feel grateful that you find it so quick, just the first drawer of the small dresser opened and there is it - a clean straight razor, a shaving brush, and a half used soap cake both sitting neatly on top of a mostly still white linen towel. There’s the gentle sound of splashing water as Billy begins to clean himself behind you and you pretend to search for another minute before finally collecting your resolve and pull the items from the drawer. You lay them on top of the dresser and unfold the straight razor. It still looks decently sharpened which is good because you have absolutely no brain power or motivation to go looking for something to sharpen it with, and you use the towel to wipe away any dust that could have caught on the blade even while being folded down.
With a deep breath, you turn around again. Billy is scrubbing himself with the wet bar of soap. His chest and stomach are cleaned already, the wet soapy residue still visible from where he ran the bar over his skin. His left arm is lifted in the air as he washes under his armpit, the dark hair there making the soap lather up even more than where there is none. His eyes are on you as you turn around but they cut away as he bends over the water bucket, washing away the soap suds from his body.
“Will you do my back?” He asks, holding out the soap towards you before adding a quick, “Please?”
“Of course,” You say, quickly. The selfish part of you wants to say no. Just staring at his back made you feel things you should give life to. You really don’t want to put yourself in that position again. But you have no choice. Billy’s needs outweigh your own, so you’ll just have to be quick about it.
Professional.
You set the shaving materials down on the side table next to the water bucket and take the soap from Billy’s outstretched hand, replacing it instead with the linen towel. “Here. Dry yourself off.”
The muscles in his back shift under his skin again as he follows your command and your so close to him like this, with your hand placed up on his shoulder in a halfhearted attempted to steady both him and yourself as you raise the soap bar to his skin, and you realize just how tall he is compared to you. He could easily tower over you and even though you’ve never felt short, felt inferior, around people who have been physically taller than you - Billy makes you feel so small right now.
You scrub the soap over the skin of his back, trying not to think a single second of thought based around how smooth it is or how well maintained and athletic the muscles look pulling underneath it. Some of the suds run down the length of his spine, following the curve of it all the way down until they soak into the material of his undergarments. You take the towel from him when he offers it to you and you urge him to stand closer to the water bucket so that when you dip your hand into the cool water, cupping some in your palm to help wash off the soap, there won’t be a ton of water clean up left on the floor when you’re done. The water washes his back clean and you catch most of the runoff with the towel pressed against his lower back, preventing it from seeping into his underwear or dripping on the floor.
“Okay, back is done,” You tell him as you use the towel to pat his back dry. You squeeze the towel over the water bucket to wring out the excess. “You should wash your hair too. The cool water will feel nice on your head and keep you cooler longer.”
“Will you do it?” He asks, hand reaching up to press against his bandage again.
You hesitate again, but only for a second. This you shouldn’t have any problems with at all. You’ve washed countless heads during your time at the clinic - don’t make Billy suffer because of your lack of self control.
“Sure,” You say, forcing a playful smile. “You know, I’ve been told these hands are like magic on a scalp. As close to God’s own miraculous hands as you can get.”
Billy grins, sitting back on the bed as you come to stand in front of him. “Now I reckon that’s probably right,”
You grab the soap cake and drip the shaving brush in the water to wet it. A few rough circles along the surface of the cake are enough for a decent lather and you motion for Billy to tilt his head up towards you so you can apply the thick shaving soap along his neck and jawline. With careful and out of practice strokes of the brush, the stubble becomes covered by the foam and it's nice that, for as long as he’s been without a proper shave, it seems like he doesn’t grow facial hair quite as quick as other men. It makes it easier to cover and when everything is fully topped in a thick layer of shaving soap, you place them to the side and grab the regular soap bar once again and tell Billy to tilt his head down again so you can reach his hair while the shaving lather softens the hair on his face.
Your fingers run through his hair, dragging the soap with them as you card the suds through the dark locks. His hair is still short enough that it doesn’t need to be cut just yet, but long enough that your fingers still catch on some snags as they work in the soap. Billy’s head pushes into your touch as your nails scrape against his scalp, a soft groan pulling from his chest as his eyes slip shut.
“You didn’t lie,” He mutters as his lashes flutter against his cheeks.
“Nuns don’t lie,” You respond. “Lying is a sin,”
Billy leans his head to the side when you tell him to, leaning over the bucket so you can rinse out his hair, being mindful of not letting the soap get into his eyes. It’s better to not towel it off. The water might drip a little on the bed and on the floor, but the heat is still stifling under your tunic, sweat beading up on your forehead just under the strap of your veil, and you can already see the relief in Billy’s face from how the water is cooling him down, so you think it's better to let him be more comfortable than trying to keep making clean up easier on yourself.
“Chin up,” You instruct. The still damp towel lays over your shoulder now as you pick up the straight razor, unfolding it again and gripping it steady in your hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this, so stay very still for me, okay?”
He grunts in agreement and doesn’t move from the position you put him in, sitting as still as a statue as you carefully run the blade of the razor over the side of his jaw. It won’t be the best or closest shave he’s ever had, but it will do for now. He sits while you work, stare on your face as you free his own from the scruff.
“You’re such an angel to be takin’ care of me like this,” He murmurs when you pull the blade away to wipe it clean on the towel.
“It’s alright, Billy,” Another methodical swipe of the blade up the side of his neck. “It’s my pleasure to help in any way I can.”
You’re almost done his face, his neck and left side of his jaw are hair free, and you pull away again to clean the razor, taking another second to wipe the back of your hand against your forehead to catch some runaway sweat.
He takes the opportunity to speak again without the presence of the blade against his skin. “You were right. The water feels good. Especially in my hair,”
“I’m glad,” You say, returning the blade back to his face. “I wouldn’t know.”
This time he talks even though the straight razor is pressed directly under his jaw. “You can take your veil off. I reckon it's just makin’ you hotter,”
Your hand jerks a little at his words and you're shocked to see that somehow your abrupt movement hasn’t drawn blood.
“No,” You say maybe a little harsher than necessary. “I can’t.”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone,”
“No,” The razor skims his skin a little quicker now. “That is not an option.”
“S’just hair. You’ve already seen me naked, touched my hair. What’s a little hair?”
“We are not having this conversation,” You assert.
The last swipe of the blade is more rough and unsteady than it should be, but your heart is pounding at his suggestion. How inappropriate. How unacceptable to even suggest that you take off something as meaningful and sacred as your veil and because of what? Because you’re hot? A little warmth is too much to handle for you so you need to abandon your vow of modesty just for a little relief.
“Clean yourself off,” You tell him, voice clipped as you toss the towel to him. You pick his discarded clothes off the floor and gather them in your arms. “I’m going to wash your clothes in the stream while you finish your bath.”
“Woah,” He says, hand reaching out to grab hold of your upper arm this time. “M’sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. Just thought you coulda been a little more comfortable.”
Shame heats over your cheeks and you will yourself to take a breath. You shouldn’t be so quick to get upset. Quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger - that’s what He teaches us. You should know better by now that Billy doesn’t mean any harm. Of course, he would just want to be helpful.
“I know,” You say, softly. “Billy, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. Must be the heat making me a little crazy.”
“It’s alright,”
You pull his hand from where it’s curled around your arm and pat his palm in reassurance. “I’m gonna go wash your clothes in the stream and try to cool down myself. The sun will have them dry in no time I’m sure. You finish up in here and just relax,”
“You’re not gonna need me?”
“No, I’ll be fine.
Billy nods and moves to sit back on the bed. “I’ll just take a nap then,”
“Sure! That sounds lovely. I’ll be back in soon,”
Scurrying out of the bedroom and through the front entry way of the cabin, you cradle his clothes to your chest and let the front door slam shut behind you. The heat beats down as you make your way down the porch but for the first full minute that you’re outside, you barely feel it at all. You feel almost cold, like an icy hand is circling around your insides and twisting up your stomach.
The isolation here of being restricted with a man in a confined space with no other barriers is getting to you - that’s all. You need structure again, daily routines and prayer to help get you back on track. Your fellow Sisters are good at helping you maintain the structure you need so that you don’t get lost in your thoughts. Each of you have your strengths and your Sisters help you in areas that you lack. But they aren’t around now and you’re feeling the effects of not hearing God’s words fall from their lips when the voice in your own head gets too loud. It’s okay, it’s not failure. Just because you are far from them now does not mean you are far from the Lord Himself.
All is well. Deep breathes.
The sun’s rays seep into the black fabric of your habit and the material encases the heat in its fibers like it loves it. You shake your head and decide to not think about it. Wash Billy’s clothes and while they’re hanging out to dry, you can sink your arms into the cool water of the stream and bathe yourself in it.
You’re sure your brother has a clothesline near the stream you can hang the clothes on.
Your brother doesn’t have a clothesline. Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? Why would his absurdly minimalistic way of living help benefit you in any way other than giving you a roof over your head.
Stop it, y/n, you scold yourself.
What a terribly bitter line of thinking. It’s not your brother’s fault. This is his life and the way he chooses to live. Who are you to judge him for anything? Especially considering the path that you yourself have chosen to take. The Lord encourages minimalism, urges all of His children to forsake material items and give them up for the sake of following Him and finding true happiness away from the only brief moments of glee any physical item can grant. Instead of becoming frustrated and pointing the finger, perhaps you should look within and take a page from your brother’s book. His relationship with God is not what you would consider healthy or strong, but perhaps he’s not as far off as you might have thought.
Focus on what you know: you’re tired and a bit irritable, soul a little bruised. Your back pain is nearly almost completely gone now and for that you’re thankful, but the excessive heat and humidity so high you feel like you are having some trouble breathing is ruining what should be a joyous experience. If you thought it was hot inside, then outside feels like an entirely different plane of existence.
The water on your skin as you dunk Billy’s clothes in the stream feels wonderful, but the water dries up all too fast leaving your skin feeling tight. You shiver in disgust and the thought of why something can even feel so good and then gross within seconds crosses your mind quicker than you can catch it.
The negative line of thinking halts as you scold yourself again.
Sister Catherine says there is beauty in everything, you need to remember that.
You just need to find the beauty to see God’s face even in the most trying of times.
You’re tired, but at least you’ve been allowed rest. Your back is still a bit sore, but it’s on the mend and through the pain you’ve gained a new appreciation for your body’s movements and capabilities. Your rolled up sleeve accidentally got soaked during a too careless dunk while trying to scrub Billy’s shirt with the soap, and while it annoys you, you find you don’t mind the feeling of the wet clothes against your skin as long as it stays on your arm below the elbow. You have a safe place to stay, away from the dangerous people who are hunting your charge, and despite how hot it is outside, the scenery of your brother’s cabin along the miles and miles of raw greenery is absolutely breathtaking now that you’re choosing to actually look at it.
The expert craftsmanship that Joe accomplished while building this place, the precision and time and patience it took and knowing that he did it himself with no one to help him makes looking at the accomplishment even more special. He chose a beautiful location - somewhere remote with no unwanted visitors but with such beauty in the scenery that surely he must feel more at peace here than anywhere else in the world. A little slice of Heaven here on Earth just for him. The land is abundant, green and full of life and only disrupted by the stream of glittering blue that cuts diagonally along the front of the land, and you know instinctively that Joe chose to face his home this way so he can look out his window or sit on the front porch and watch the water flow while he drinks his morning coffee.
You see it - the beauty God is trying to show you.
The peace and the serenity that’s been evading you the past few days finally hits you like a wave of holy light.
When things get hard or tensions get too high at the clinic and things seem like they’re turning for the worst, Sister Maria likes to invoke a practice that she calls ‘de nuevo’.
“It means ‘again’,” She had told you. “Restart. Do over. Start new. When life gets too hard and there seems to be no end in sight. Grita ‘de nuevo!’ and start again with fresh eyes and an open heart,”
Spanish isn’t your forte, but this is a saying that you’re very familiar with and can get behind. The sweltering heat still smacks at your body and you desperately try to cling onto the tranquility that you’ve found against the ruthlessly high temperatures.
“De nuevo,” You whisper, and then you start again.
Your brother doesn’t have a clothesline, but that’s okay. The front porch does have a nice chair you can drape the wet clothes off of as well as the bannister around the porch. They’ll do just fine and get the job done just as a regular clothesline would. You gather the clothes into a ball in your arms. The wet material soaks into the front of your tunic and you grimace at the feeling. The cold water helps to cool you down for a moment, but this time the feeling of your clothes sticking to your chest is a sensation you can go the rest of your life never feeling ever again.
You step up on the porch, drop the bundle of clothing on the seat of the rocking chair, and reach up to wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Just a few more tasks - you just need to lay Billy’s clothes out to dry and then you can bathe and clean your own. As much as you would love to clean the entire garb, you know that’s not in your immediate future. You don’t have a change of clothes and all you brought with you are the clothes on your back. You may be sleeping in the same bed with a man out of necessity, but you refuse to let Billy see you out of your habit.
Some rules are just too sacred to break.
No sooner than the first of the laundry is thrown over the back of the rocking chair, the sound of your name reaches your ears.
It’s your first name again. Just your first name, no title to be heard. And in other circumstances you know that this would have to be the moment that you correct him. A one time slip is acceptable within reason, but any more than that is plain disrespectful and even though you stand by the idea that Billy doesn’t intend any harm, the matter is still the same.
But that line of thinking doesn’t matter right now because it's not just that he said your name - it’s how he said it.
Your name, called in what you can only assume is a moan of pain.
It sounds tense, a pitiful whimper as he tries to call for you and you're immediately concerned about what could be making him sound like that.
Possibilities of Billy being hurt or suddenly in so much pain that he can’t contain his whimpers of pain anymore flood your mind. What could have possibly happened? You were just with him. Things were fine. He was just fine!
Maybe he tried to get up and twisted his body badly enough that it ripped open his healing scar and stitches. Naughty boy, always trying to stand or move about when he has no business going anywhere. You knew he was pushing himself by moving around too much. He did say it was sore. Or maybe there’s an infection that you’ve somehow missed - something that’s slipped past your watchful eye and now suddenly it’s rearing its ugly head and causing misery to poor Billy’s still fragile healing state.
You drop the pair of pants in your hands back into the pile, wiping the wetness off of your hands and onto your tunic. “Billy?”
Another moan followed by a deeper groan and your concern increases as you push open the front door. You keep your voice as soft and calm as you can. You don’t want to startle him and have him jump and hurt his injury more. “Billy?”
This time your name is more like a whisper - like a prayer being spoken between his sounds of pain and agony. Calling out for you to help ease his suffering. Forsaking calmness, your feet scramble across the small entryway and push past the bedroom door.
“Billy, are yo–”
Your words are cut off in your throat, swiftly ended by the sharp and scandalized gasp that bursts forth from the sight in front of you.
Billy’s not in pain as you had thought.
He’s not doubled over in agony, hands pressing against his side to keep pressure on his wound from whatever trauma you thought he had inflicted on it while you were out cleaning the laundry.
Or maybe he is in pain. The angry red tip peeking out from the top of his fist certainly looks like it’s painful.
He’s… touching himself. Naked body, fully naked this time, stretched out on bed with his hand between his legs. His thighs look like they’re trembling, toned tummy tensing and sucking in slightly as his face twists in response to what he’s doing to himself.
Immediately, your face is on fire, heat flooding your cheeks in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature outside and everything to do with the sinful expression of desire on display in front of you. Billy's eyes fly open at the sound of your gasp, bright blue almost black with how dilated his pupils are and the hand that’s stroking at his length freezes as those eyes lock on yours.
“Sorry!” You squeak. “I’m sorry! Lord, have mercy. I’ll just- I’ll give you a little time to finish.”
Your hands press to your warm cheeks as you scurry away from the room and back out to the porch. The front door slams shut behind you and you lean back against it, body trembling with an increase of adrenaline. Your fingers dig into your eyes, bright spots popping up in front of the black of your closed eyelids.
Lord, please forgive me for having seen such a private and intimate moment not meant for my eyes. You know it wasn’t my intention. Amen.
Your body is shaking and you will yourself to calm down. It’s normal, you try to remind yourself. It’s a completely normal and human action you just saw. It’s just the embarrassment of having interrupted it that’s making you shake. With a deep breath, you move to pick up another article of laundry. You intend for it to keep you distracted, but, despite how hard you try, you cannot keep your mind from wandering to the man inside.
The one who is probably still trying to… finish.
The image of him sprawled out on the bed, long fingers wrapped around his length and how hard and flushed and intimidating it looked still bounces around your mind. You try to shake your head, palms pressing hard into your eyes again to try to push the image from your mind. It doesn’t work.
The way the head of it poked through the circle of his fist with each stroke and how it glistened at the top even in the singular window of the bedroom.
How long his body is, lithe but strong as the muscles shifted under his skin.
How a few strands of his dark hair still stuck to his forehead from the moisture beading on his skin and how you’re not even sure if it's still from his bath, sweat from the heat, or sweat from… other things.
How hazy his eyes looked when he looked at you.
Stop it, y/n. Stop it right now.
You’ve seen your fair share of male parts in your lifetime. It’s important to remember that. This is no different. It’s part of the job description when caring for the sick or elderly. You’re going to see their private parts and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not sexual, even if sometimes patients do become aroused from time to time. It’s completely natural - a body’s natural response to stimulation even if that stimulation is not sexual in nature or intention.
In this instance, you must admit the sexual intention on Billy’s part. But this is also natural. There’s the occasional discourse between some teaching and beliefs about whether or not masturbation is a sin. Some say it is, stating that the overwhelming desire and need to touch oneself comes from a severe lack of self control and temptation from the Devil.
You’ve heard it said that it's a form of sexual immorality. Sex is meant for love between two people with the intention to procreate and bring forth new life with the Lord’s blessing. It’s not meant to be wasted on a ‘shameful, quick, and disturbing act of self release with tainted emotions and impure thoughts’. You remember those words well, spoken from the thin mouth of a very strict and rather unwelcoming nun you met during your travels before taking your vows. In her eyes, masturbation is dirty - corruption of the body as the Lord’s holy temple by your own hand.
Others argue that masturbation itself is not a sin, but rather a necessity and natural act of the nature that God granted us. The act alone is not sinful, but can turn towards sin depending on what the mind conjures up in the throes of that sensation. Pure physical sensation and the emotions that come with touching oneself - that is acceptable and natural. Imagining, watching, or objectifying another of God’s children, however, is where the Devil’s reach can come and turn an otherwise innocent act into something devastating.
Billy wouldn’t do that. He’s a good man, a sweet boy, and you just can’t picture him objectifying anyone like that. If he needed a release, then that’s his business, and you would do well to just wipe it from your mind and move on.
But you can’t - the images are still dancing around your head without permission, and to your horror you realize that now it’s you of all people being sinful. Again.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name,
Thy Kingdom come.
Thy Will be done.
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
You pray the entire time you finish laying out the clothes to dry. The constant repetition and chosen words of the prayer help you to clear your mind. You don’t even register the heat anymore.
You’ve finished Billy’s laundry by the time you actually gather the courage to go back inside the cabin.
You’ve also done your own. You hadn’t intended to clean the whole thing, just rinse your body and wash the parts of your habit that you could go without for a few minutes to smell and feel a little fresher. But the interaction with Billy has you scrambled and you can’t go back in there yet.
So, you take your time.
You washed your clothes as quickly as you could, not wanting to risk Billy looking out the window and seeing you in just your underclothes. The stream is just far enough from the cabin that you don’t think he would see anything in detail if he were to peek out, even less if you keep your back towards the house, but even the thought of him seeing you outside of your uniform makes you uneasy - the insistent litany of no no no no rushing around your head. It’s probably the quickest bath you’ve ever taken, scrubbing your skin raw and tossing glances over your shoulder every few seconds towards the window. You never see Billy’s silhouette in the frame and even though you’re still kind of tense, it does ease some of the tension in your shoulders. He’s probably still busy anyway, trying to… relieve himself.
Sweat and water still bead up at the place where your forehead and hairline meet, the moisture soaking into the headband of your veil and you really want to wash it too. Another glance at the window still shows no visible onlooker, so you take a chance and pull the covering from your head.
The sun works on drying your habit as you lay it out on the ground next to you. The cool water slides across your scalp as you wash your hair and it feels so good that you don’t even care that it’s sliding down your back and soaking into your thin top. You wash your veil too, paying close attention to scrubbing the band to get rid of any sweat or smell.
When you’re done, you grab your clothes from the edge of the stream, cradling them to your chest as you race across the field and back towards the outhouse. You lay your clothes on the grass beside it before darting inside and taking refuge within the small structure.
It stinks inside the outhouse, the unpleasant smell of bodily waste, only just muted by the dirt covering it, is not something you’re looking forward to experiencing for any longer than you have to. But it shouldn’t take too long for your clothes to fully dry and you could use some alone time to truly gather yourself.
The opportunity to stay in God’s sole presence, just you and Him and no one else in the entire world, feels like a weight being lifted off your shoulders. You’ve been slacking, and it shows heavily in your recent actions and thoughts. You sit on the side of the bench, legs crossed as you lean against the wall and let your words of praise fill the contained space. The cross laced around your neck normally sits safely under the collar of your tunic, but now it’s held reverently between your fingers. It feels warm as your fingers press into the wood - alive and simmering with your Lord’s presence.
You press it against your lips as you whisper prayer after prayer against the smooth wood, asking God for His guidance so that His words may once again ring loudly in your ears and fall confidently from your lips as opposed to the damning silence or tempting whisperings of the Devil that you’ve been receiving.
An hour of prayer might not be much, but it’s enough.
Despite the heat still beating down on you from above, you feel refreshed. There hasn’t been any wind or even the slightest hint of a breeze all day long and yet, when you leave the safety of the outhouse, you feel the softest touch of air blowing against your skin. You take it as a good sign, a signal from God that you are on the correct path and headed for healing and wisdom that you have prayed for. Your clothes are dry when you pick them up, dark fabric hot to the touch but you slip them on anyway, one piece after another until you’re back to how you should be. Covered and modest and protected in the uniform of honor that He has granted you.
Billy’s clothes are dry too when you reach the front porch and you drape them over your arm. And with a steadying deep breath, you open the door.
It occurs to you that you probably should have been more cautious when walking inside the cabin. The bedroom door is still wide open from how you left it earlier and nearly the entire room is on display even from the front door. Maybe you should have come in with your eyes closed, called out his name loud and clear so that you didn’t have any more awkward encounters like this afternoon. But things seem to work out in your favor this time because Billy is just sitting on his side of the bed, leg bent at the knee as he plays with what little is left of the knitting yarn. Thankfully, he’s back to wearing his undergarments, so even though he’s still naked (on account of you holding his only clothes in your arms), it's nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle.
He looks up when he hears you enter, hands stilling on the yarn as his wide eyes stare into yours. He’s nervous. You can relate.
“Here’s your clothes,” You say, resting them neatly on the corner of the bed. “I hope they’re clean enough.”
“Thanks,” He mutters, eyes still locked on your face.
You don’t want to say anything. You just want to move past the embarrassment and shame on your part and hopefully have him move past the complete disregard of his private time, no matter how accidental. But he doesn’t make any kind of move for his clothes, doesn’t even move an inch in an attempt to get up - just keeps looking at you and you know you’re going to have to say something.
“I– apologize for walking in on you earlier,” You say. “I thought you might have been in pain and wanted to help but…” You wring your hands together awkwardly in front of you before settling them to cross your chest. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
Billy shakes his head. “No. That’s not really somethin’ that embarasses me,”
“Good! It shouldn’t. It’s completely natural for someone to– to do that. And I should never have walked in on it. So, you have my apologies.”
“S’alright,”
“Okay,” You nod. “Good.” Thank goodness that went easier than expected. “Now, get dressed and I’ll start up some dinner for us.”
“Sister, wait,”
You stop midstep, unease fluttering through you, and once again you’re so close to thinking a blasphemous word because no! You thought for a second that you had come out of the conversation potentially unscathed.
You rest a hand on the doorframe and turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Yes, Billy?”
He stands from the bed, stretching just a little before reaching for the top of his clothes pile. “You really don’t have a problem with what you walked in on? With me, y’know, touchin’ myself?”
“No,” You say, sincerely. “Of course not. Men have needs and those are natural and God-given. What you were doing was completely natural for a young man like yourself.”
“And what about you?” He asks, buttoning his newly fresh pants at his waist.
“What about me?”
“Women have needs too. Do your needs ever get met?”
Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs on his shirt, completely unfazed. “Your needs. When you feel it. Do they ever get met?”
“I- I don’t–” You stammer, scandalized. Lord, have mercy. Okay, focus. Stay calm. “All my needs are taken care of by the Lord. He provides me with anything I might ever need. Any desires of… flesh are simply tests from time to time, but I wouldn’t consider it a need for me.”
Billy hums and finishes on the last button of his shirt. He doesn’t believe you, that much is evident in the way he keeps his gaze locked on yours, eyes both indifferent but also somehow so sure, as if he knows something that you don’t. You don’t wait to see if he has anything else to say on the matter and retreat into the kitchen to begin to fix up dinner.
The glow of morning’s light is shining in through the kitchen window, illuminating your workspace in a warm golden hue. You're making a simple breakfast of biscuits and gravy when you feel him come up behind you. The water is still heating on the stove, and you’re still so tired that you feel like you can barely keep your eyes open. Coffee isn’t usually your go-to breakfast drink, you like the bitter taste of black tea more than coffee, but you feel like you need a more significant amount of caffeine than usual this morning just to make it through today without falling asleep the next time your butt hits a sitting surface.
You don’t think Billy would mind if you did. In fact, he’d probably encourage it. But you have a job to do, and you’re not one to slack on your duties, even if Billy is now capable of doing most things by himself.
He comes to a stop just a hair behind you, much closer than you anticipated him getting, and the sudden breath at the back of your neck makes you jump.
“Ow!” You gasp, the jump making your finger graze against the hot metal of the kettle and pain explodes along the burnt digit.
Billy coos behind you, arm reaching around you so he can grab your injured hand. He cups your fist in his large hand, thumb urging your hurt finger out of its protective curl so he can see it.
“What are you doing?” You ask, head turning to the side so you can see the side of his face as it leans over your shoulder. The free hand on your waist isn’t lost on you, but you can’t seem to figure out why you aren’t moving away either.
“Shh,” Billy shushes you, lips pursing as he brings your pointed finger closer to them. “Just relax, y/n,”
Your eyes lock onto where his lips stop just an inch away, breath hitching as he blows cold air from between his pursed lips and onto your finger. Your eyelashes flutter at the feeling of the cool air against your burning skin, small shivers wracking your body as his breath slides across your flesh. His head is getting closer and closer with each light blow of air, slowly creeping nearer to your finger until his lips brush against the pad of your finger. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as his lips part to take your finger between them, the wet muscle of his tongue dragging soothingly across the injured skin. It laps gently across the sore pad, lips wrapping around the digit as he sucks lightly.
When he pulls it from his mouth, the length of your finger from tip to knuckle is glistening with his saliva. The hand on your waist tightens a bit and the clutching hold of it tickles your side.
“What are you doing?” You ask again, but your voice comes out weaker this time - more breathy.
Billy’s bright blue eyes cut over to you, hooded gaze holding yours as he presses his plush lips to your finger in a small kiss, a smirk pulling at his mouth even against your finger. “Taking care of you,”
You feel like you can’t breathe as he raises your hand to press a teasing kiss to the delicate skin of your wrist before trailing downwards. Another kiss to your forearm over the tunic’s sleeve, another to the inside of your elbow and you swear you can almost feel the heat from his lips burning through the thin black material.
He brings your arm back down and guides your hand so it rests on his cheek, the stubble along his jaw scratching gently at your palm. His other hand comes up to cup your own cheek, and then your entire vision is taken up by him. He’s so close, eyes wide and intense as he stares down at you, pupils dilated just like they were when you caught him touching himself, and you can see how there’s something desperate in his gaze - a longing you can’t even begin to understand.
He towers over you like this. Your body is frozen, pliable in his hands and you don’t know what’s happening, don’t know why you're letting him this close.
Getting closer. And closer.
You watch, helpless as his head leans down towards you, eyes flicking down to your lips before locking back on yours.
You don’t even register how your own head tilts up, lips parting slightly in preparation to meet his.
And when they do, it’s bliss.
Billy’s lips move against yours like they’ve been doing it for forever, and your only thought as he tilts your head more and kisses you deeper is yes, this feels right.
His touch feels all consuming, your body heating up under your clothing and reacting to his touch as his hands drop to your waist, squeezing the flesh of your hips through your tunic. He grins against your mouth when you squeal.
“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers. Your chest feels like it might burst from his words.
“Billy,” You whimper, whining as his hands slide over your ass, palming it in his big hands as he pulls you even closer. Your hands grip at his biceps, fingers digging into the hard muscle as he urges you to cuddle against him. Your head rests against his chest with your ear over his heart, and the steady thump thump thump of his heartbeat feels safe.
You can feel the wetness already pooling in your drawers when Billy’s hands slide down further, gathering the material of the tunic and bunching it up just over the curve of your ass so your entire backside is on display to his wandering gaze.
The feel of his fingers rubbing you through the thin material of your drawers makes you keen, electricity shooting through your body as the pads of his fingers rub lovingly against your clit over the drenched fabric.
“So wet for me,” Billy hums, tapping on the sensitive nub. Your back arches as you press against him harder, fingernails biting into his arms. “Such a good girl for me, honey.”
You feel like it's too much already, your pussy clenching around nothing as you wordlessly try to grind against Billy’s fingers - get him to touch you more, put them inside maybe. He just laughs at you, a soft but deep chuckle as if he relishes in the absolute mess he’s made of you by barely even touching you.
And then you’re hauled up into his arms, his hands gripping your thighs as your own arms wrap tightly around his neck. He’s pressed inside you now, thick cock spearing you open as he thrusts relentlessly between your slick walls.
The sounds of his moans in your ear make you wetter and he bounces you on him, pounding into you somehow without mercy but with all the love in the world as you hang onto him for dear life. Your own moans can’t be helped, a symphony of pleasure bursting from your throat and the room around you is so blurry - so blurry that you can’t focus on anything. Your eyes can’t focus.
And then you look up.
The picture of Jesus just above the front door is the only thing that’s clear, and your stomach drops, eyes locked and frozen in fear as you stare at the picture in horror.
He’s alive - Jesus is alive in the picture, head moving around and eyes looking and seeing everything.
Seeing you.
And he’s angry.
The normally relaxed and serene expression on his face has been replaced by one of fury. His brows pull together, eyes narrowing as he watches Billy claim you, lips pulling up in a snarl when your arms wrap tighter around Billy’s neck in fear. Billy takes your grip as passion and thrusts into you harder, moaning into your ear as your body is flooded with wave after wave of pleasure. But you can’t tear your eyes from the picture, can’t help but whimper as you stare wide eyed at the angry, holy being who is cutting you down with the immeasurable weight of his judgment.
“WAKE UP!” Jesus yells, and his voice is booming in your ears, so loud you think your eardrums might burst. “WAKE UP!”
Your body jerks awake in the same way that it jerks after having a dream where you’re falling off a cliff. The jump is violent, every single muscle in your body is tense and set ready for defense. Your gasp is loud, and you think that if Billy was still asleep he probably would have jerked awake himself from the sheer suddenness and intensity of it.
But he’s awake already - already sitting upright on the bed, already staring at you.
“Are you okay?” He asks, voice still a bit raspy. You notice that his pupils are blown wide, just like in the dream.
You’re still panting, still horrified by the dream - the nightmare - that you’ve just experienced. There’s wetness between your legs, you can feel it. You can feel the pulsing of need between your thighs, your clit still begging to be touched, hole dripping and clenching with the need to be filled. The sensations only add to the horror as tears prickle at your waterlines.
Jesus was so angry. Righteous fury burning in his eyes as he stared at you - watching you sin, watching you as you let a man inside your body, desecrating your sacred temple and breaking the vows you made to God.
And you let it happen as if all of it meant nothing.
Acid rises in your throat, tears spilling over and flowing down your cheeks like twin waterfalls and the quiet sob that rips from your throat can’t be helped. It was just a dream, you try to tell yourself. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.
Or a message. A warning.
“Hey,” Billy says, hand reaching out to comfortingly squeeze your shoulder as he tries to get your attention. You automatically jerk away from his touch, smacking his hand away the moment it touches you. Guilt swirls in your chest at his hurt expression.
“Are you okay?” He asks again. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to pray,” And his eyes widen even more at your desperate tone. “I need to pray right now.”
You don’t give him time to respond as you scramble out of the bed, hightailing it out of the bedroom and falling to your knees in the center of the main room. You pull the rosary from your belt and hold it tightly between your fingers, hands shaking from the panic still coursing through your body.
And when you peek over towards the front door, you notice that the spot above the door frame is empty.
You can’t sleep with Billy in the same bed anymore. Your back is feeling better and considering what’s happened the last few days, you think maybe it's best to return to your place on the floor, if only to remove any temptation or wandering thoughts you might subconsciously be having. Sam is due to make another trip into the neighboring town today and promised that he would stop by on his way. It would be better if he could see that you are both sleeping in separate spaces like you should be. Sam is a sweetheart - he would never judge you for anything, even less of something that you had to do for your own health and he is the last person that would ever accuse you of doing something inappropriate. But the laws of society and need for modesty should still be followed which means sleeping on the floor again is a must.
Billy doesn’t like the idea.
“You’re gonna hurt your back again,” He says as he watches you grab your blanket off the bed. His arms are crossed over his chest, a poorly concealed act to cover his agitation.
“I feel fine now,” You reason. “And if it does start hurting again-”
“It will,”
“If it does, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,”
“I think you’re makin’ a mistake,
“Then it’s my mistake to make,”
“Is this about yesterday?”
“No. This isn’t up for discussion, Billy. I’ve told you already that I shouldn’t ever be sleeping in the same bed with a man. This was out of necessity, not comfort,”
Billy sighs, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling in irritation. “I do think it’s necessary for you to sleep in the bed, y/n,”
“Stop,”
The word cuts from your vocal cords like ice. You can’t believe it. Again. He did it again!
“Why did you say my name like that?” You ask. “You’re dropping my earned title. That’s the second time you’ve done it.” Third, but you don’t want to think about the other time he’s said it. “Why?”
“Just an accident,”
Just an accident. “It’s disrespectful. And inappropriate,”
Billy hangs his head. “Apologies, Sister. Never meant to cause you disrespect,”
“Billy, what–”
Your words die on your tongue when the sound of galloping hooves tearing against the grass out front catches your attention. Billy’s eyes widen and he quickly moves past you and into the main room. His gun and hat are resting next to your bag against the far wall and he rushes to grab it, checking that the bullets are inside before closing it back up and cocking the hammer, pointing it directly at the front door.
“Wait!” You shout, one hand darting out to signal to him to stand down as you rush towards the front door. “It might be Sam!”
You push the door open slowly, trying to peek out and see who it is before it's even fully opened because it's probably Sam, it has to be, because if it’s not - everything you’ve worked so hard to prevent is about to crumble down around you in a second. Sheriff Garrett wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Billy dead this time. He wouldn’t miss. And you have a feeling that he wouldn’t hesitate to put down the famous Billy the Kid’s getaway accomplice right down with him either.
The familiar horses and wagon are a blessing to see. Sam’s head pokes out from the back of the wagon as he pulls a crate from the fully stocked bed.
“Sam!” You shout in relief. “Thank the Lord! It’s so good to see you,”
Behind you, Billy relaxes his stance a bit, lowering his gun down but keeping it cocked and you nod your head at it, wordlessly telling him to replace the hammer and put it down, but he won’t acknowledge you.
You push the door all the way open for Sam, scurrying out of the way as he shoulders through with the heavy crate. You strategically keep your body between Sam and Billy’s gun. You’re confident Billy wouldn’t ever shoot Sam, but the worry still lingers for as long as the gun is in his hand and you would never forgive yourself if Sam were to get hurt while trying to help you. The gun isn’t out of his hand yet but you relax when you hear the click of the hammer being reset.
Sam sets the crate down on the floor next to the now almost empty first one and turns to you with an adorably charming grin.
“Sister y/n,” He greets, clasping your hands in his and you return the gesture, squeezing his hands between yours in friendly affection. “It’s good to see you too.”
A loud clatter sounds as Billy tosses his gun back onto the floor, the metal striking roughly against the wooden boards. Sam lets go of your hands to turn his attention to Billy, tipping his hat at him respectfully.
“Mr. Bonney,” He greets. “I didn’t get to properly introduce myself last time we met. I’m Sam Anderson. Good to see you’re alive and well. How’s the bullet wound healing up?”
“Healin’ up just fine, Mr. Anderson. I have a great healer,”
“That you do,”
“Sam,” You interject, placing a wary hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You have news for us?”
Sam nods. “Yes. Good news in fact. Sheriff Garrett has been relentless in his search. He’s travelled to most of the neighboring territories in search of Billy but has been given no leads. He intends to search the last few remaining ones but I can tell he already knows you won’t be there. He’s stated that he thinks you bled out while fleeing and have been made a meal of by some animal,”
“Well, good,” You breathe, looking in relief between Sam and Billy. “That’s good news indeed.”
It’s beyond amazing news that Sheriff Garrett is coming to terms with the possibility that Billy bled out before he could find any help. Even if he’s travelling to other territories to question if Billy had come through, the idea that he’s already dead added to the fact that those questioned in the neighboring territories will say no, they hadn’t seen Billy come through there, means that it's already even less likely that Sheriff Garrett would show up at your front door. It means that in a short time when all of this is over and Billy is well enough to travel on his own, that you can return back to the clinic without fear of being hunted down yourself. You can return back to your Sisters.
“How are they?” You ask Sam. You don’t need to clarify, he knows who you’re asking about.
“They’re fine. I visit them every time I can to check on ‘em. I know you would have wanted me to,” You nod in agreement as he continues. “They miss you. Sister Catherine holds everything together like she always does, but she always makes for all of us to pray together for you. And Billy, of course.” He says, nodding to Billy. “Praying for Billy’s quick recovery and for you to return home safe. Sister Ann is biting the sides of her fingers more than ever now. I stop her whenever I see her doing it, but she’s bled quite a few times from it already. Sister Maria was out sick for two days after you left. Sick with worry is what Sister Catherine said, but she is up and well now although she does still worry.”
You feel like your heart is breaking as you imagine your fellow Sisters distraught and in pain over worry for you during your absence. It shouldn’t be a surprise. All of God’s creations are our brothers and sisters, but those three women waiting for you at the clinic - worrying for you, praying for you, missing you - those are your sisters. They are your family. And you will do what you have to in order to get back home to them soon.
“Thank you, Sam,” You say, voice thick with emotion. “Please continue to look after them for me.”
“I will,” He promises. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder gently and you’re beyond thankful for the comfort he’s providing.
“Do you have to get goin’ soon, Mr. Anderson?” Billy asks. “Quite a ways you have to travel, right? We wouldn’t want to hold you up.”
Your hand automatically reaches out to cover Sam’s still on your shoulder, keeping it in place. “You can stay just a little longer, right, Sam? We have some leftover food from breakfast. I can fix you a bowl?”
You don’t want Sam to leave just yet. The events of yesterday and this morning, the dream, are still fresh in your head and you’d appreciate it immensely if Sam could stay for just a bit longer to provide a buffer between you and Billy.
To your despair, Sam shakes his head. “I can’t. Billy’s right, I should get moving if I’m gonna make it back to town before dark. Thank you for the offer though, Sister y/n. I know if you cooked it, it must be mighty good.”
Reluctantly, you nod. “I’ll walk you out then,”
Billy makes his way back to the bedroom as you walk Sam out. You thank him again for the generous crate of supplies. You saw that there were a few more balls of yarn shoved into the side of it and you wonder if that was Sister Catherine’s doing or if Sam had seen you shove the yarn in your bag before first leaving the clinic and had asked to bring you more.
Sam heaves himself back into his seat and grabs the reins. “How much longer do you think Billy needs before he can head off on his own?”
“Just a couple more. He’s healing up quick,”
“That’s good. I have another delivery in 10 days. I can stop by on my way and pick you up? I’ll bring an extra horse that Billy can take along with him on his own when he’s ready,”
Ten days. Another ten days of this. Think about this logically, you’re uncomfortable and a little frazzled but it’s not necessarily all Billy’s fault. He’s just a man and non-religious one at that. You are bound to clash at some point. But he’s a good person and there’s still so much work to be done in trying to heal his faith. You can handle ten more days. You will do what you can and return to the clinic knowing that you tried your best whatever the outcome.
“Sister,” Sam says. “Are you alright?”
You snap out of your daze and nod. “I am,”
Sam looks a little uncomfortable himself, eyes flicking towards the bedroom window. “Billy treating you right? He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”
“No! No, of course not,” You insist. It’s not a lie - Billy wouldn’t ever hurt you. There may be discomfort and a little inappropriateness, but nothing that can’t be worked through or forgiven. Billy would never hurt you, you’re sure of it.
“Alright,” Sam concedes. “I’ll see you soon, Sister. Take care of yourself. God bless,”
“Thank you, Sam. God bless!”
You watch as he snaps the reins, offering a sharp yip as he urges the horses forward. It feels nice outside today as you watch him travel over the wide expanse of land, beautiful weather and none of the ridiculous heat that had felt like it was cooking your insides like yesterday. When he’s disappeared over the hill, you return back inside.
The yarn this time is a pale yellow instead of the blue you had been working with but you grab it anyway. Perhaps a little color change on the blanket might help turn the current shift between you and Billy around once again for the better.
Your room at the convent is small and modest, something that brings you peace in the limited space. Having little things creates more space for the divine and all-consuming power of His Grace - the additional space that would have been otherwise cluttered with needless items or physical luxuries is offered up to Him instead, allowing His presence to wash over the room and fill it with the healing aura of His love.
The simple bed is big enough for one, just you as it should be, and God can fill in the areas around you. A small chest hides away in the corner of the room, barely filled with all the personal belongings you have left from life before you took your vows, and the crucifix sits on the wall at perfect eye level so that as you kneel down on the prie-dieu to pray, you can have the reminder of the significance of Jesus nailed to the cross right in front of you just as the cross is nailed to the wall.
It’s here that you kneel now, bare knees digging into the cushioned bottom of the prie-dieu while your hands fold together along the wooden shelf at the top. The words of a prayer automatically fall from your lips as your eyes trace the detail of the crucifix without taking them in.
The room is your room, a place that you’re intimately familiar with, but the feel of it is wrong. It feels off and like something is missing - the peaceful presence of the Lord is unnervingly absent in this space that should be holy.
There’s another presence though, something darker, and the hair stands on the back of your neck as you register the new energy. Something is creeping up behind you, you can feel it - can feel as it comes closer and closer and you want to turn around so badly, want to spin and lock your eyes onto whatever is nearing you and making you feel so unnerved in a place that’s supposed to be safe. But you can’t, your body is frozen in its spot, not listening to your brain’s commands as you scream at it to turn around.
There’s warm breath on your ear, a hand at your hip and you’re still frozen as the hand balls the material of your tunic, dragging it up until it's over your bottom and pooling around your waist. Another hand finds the curve of your waist and then another caresses your shoulder. Two more hands slide along your front and drag down to grip at the fat of your thighs, trying to pry them further apart, and you can feel the faintest of touches of fingers against your nipple as if the hands touching you now don’t need to be concerned with the barrier of clothing you have on to block their advances.
Fear courses through you at the touches and you murmur the words of the Lord’s prayer faster. Your eyes are locked on the crucifix, taking in the wooden grain of the cross as it contrasts with the dull metal figure of Jesus hanging in the center and it's the only place you can look. The warm breath is still on your ear, but now it's between your thighs too somehow - searing hot as it fans across your bare folds.
Your clasped hands squeeze together harder as something soft and wet slides against your slit, and you gasp when the thing laps over your clit. The murmured prayer is louder now, rushed and panicked as you beg God for guidance and deliverance from whatever monster is attacking you right now. A demon maybe. Perhaps the Devil himself. Your body heats up as the thing digs in deeper, pushing between your folds and dragging against your hole. The tip of it nudges against your entrance, wiggling like it wants to push inside but is just barely holding back before it retreats and slides back up to the top.
The heat that fills your body is a terrible combination of pleasure and shame as the demon has its fill of your paralyzed body. The sensation of what it's doing between your thighs is forbidden - you were never meant to experience this, and yet the feel of it makes your eyes water and your hole clench like it’s trying to clench around something else.
The thing focuses on your clit, lapping at it and swirling around it and you can feel how your belly tightens with increasing pressure with each lick. You can’t think clearly anymore. Your prayer is becoming muddled - coming out in whimpered words, accidental repeated sentences, and interrupted by the desperate whines and moans as your hips unconsciously try to drive down harder on the foreign thing between your thighs.
And then suddenly, you’re not in your room at the convent anymore. You’re in your brother’s cabin, on his unforgiving floor, and your bleary eyes blink up at the ceiling as they try to adjust to the new environment outside of sleep. The grogginess keeps your brain in a state of confusion, but eventually it registers that something still isn’t right.
Your dream is over. You’re awake now.
But the slick feeling of something wet and soft between your thighs is still there and your head shoots up to see the scene before you.
Your mouth falls open in horror.
Billy’s on his stomach, upper body cradled between your open thighs as his hands curl around each one of them to keep them spread. His mouth is pressed against your core, wetness glistening off his face with each movement as he drags his tongue through your folds.
And you swear when those beautiful blue eyes you’ve come to know these past few weeks flick up to stare at you from beneath his dark lashes, you don’t see that same kind and caring man just in need of guidance and faith that you’ve come to associate them with.
Instead, you think you might be looking at the Devil.
Taglist: @queenofshinigamis @hidden-poet (Lemme know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist)
Summary: After nearly a year of mystery presents, your gift giver finally reveals himself to be none other then the outlaw Billy-the-kid.
Warnings: Mentions of violence, nonco/dunco, unhealthy behaviours, out of character, Dead dove do not eat.
Word count: 7781
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
part 4 coming soon
You reach Montville late afternoon instead of the early morning promised. You knew it was your fault. Billy would have made it days ago if not for you.
You can’t ride as long or as fast as he can. The extra weight of you slowed his horse down. But it was too late to turn back. Westfield was long gone, your security with it.
While you were in Montville you were Billy’s wife and as such, under his protection. You would worry about the ramifications of it later. Right now a woman, alone, in a foreign town, would only mean trouble. No one would come to the aid of such a woman.
Billy finds the town hotel with ease, as if he had been here before. The tall building flooded people in and out of its doors. You hear music and people loudly talking over it.
The whole town seemed to be vibrant. Unlike the sleeply, peacefully smalll town of Westfield. Back home everyone was in doors as soon as the sun began to set, here it seemed they only just woke up.
”This ain’t Westfield”, Billy spoke your mind, “You got to be careful here. Don’t trust anybody. Anyone who speaks to you is either lying or trying to cheat you. Just stay close okay”.
You nod to let him know you understood. People watch you as Billy’s slides down to tie his horse to the post before coming back to retrieve you.
After he helps you down, he goes to unpack the bags from his horse. You keep your promise under the curious gaze, shadowing him as he moves.
You didn’t look like the other women here. They wore bright, big dresses and feathers. Showing more skin then what was respectable.
It was obvious you were out of place, and the whole town knew.
Eager to get a room, you help Billy carry the bags into the front entrance. Not even minding his tight hold on your hand.
“Excuse me”. Billy greets the women behind the podium, “We’re looking for a room. One with a bath”.
The women’s bright red dress mostly covered her. Although her breasts were pushed up nearly over the neckline. She was young, couldn’t have been more than five years your senior. No ring was on her finger, and she spoke with careless authority.
“The one with the baths cost extra”, she states, giving Billy the once over but never paying you any mind.
“That’s okay”, Billy contends, “It’s our honeymoon”.
She raises a thick, dark eyebrow in response but turns to retrieve a key from behind her.
“No discounts”, she slaps a key on the counter and points to her left. The open doorway shows the source of the noise. A large crowd outpaced the available table and chairs. People weaved through the space,
“We serve breakfast at seven. Lunch at twelve thirty ,and dinner at six. The girls charge their own rates, although I doubt a married man like you is worried about that”.
”No” Billy agrees.
“Two pence a night”, the women directs.
Your jaws drops at the price but Billy lets go of your hand to retrieve his purse.
Once the money is exchanged, the woman directs you up the stairs where you were more than happy to follow billy into designated room.
A bath tub in the corner is blocked off by a brown, wooden room divider. A double bed is pushed in the corner and neatly made.In the far corner across, a small rectangle table and chair is found, holding a candle stick and a jug of water.
A long window up high allows natural light in to the otherwise empty room.
You stand stunned at the space you found yourself in. It would be the first bed you ever slept in that wasn’t your own.
Billy moved comfortably, dropping the bags and disappearing behind the divider.
You hear the pipe groan as it retrieves the water. The water splashes quickly in a continuous flow. It was obvious when billy put his hand under it to test the temperature.
He must have found it satisfactory as he reappeared in front of you again. A soft smile greets you but you don’t offer one back.
“I’ll go find a stable for Buddy”, he tells you. He is back in his signature posture, hand on his holster, hard, stiff Stance with a leg out in front of him.
You drop your bag on the floor, reaching to loosen your hat from your head as he speaks,
“Then I might go explore. See if I can get information on our friend Henry. I doubt he would still be here but he wouldn’t be too far”.
He moves as if something had kicked him, straightening up his stance, and securing his hat more firmly on his head.
“You should take a bath. Relax. We’ll go down for dinner when I return and we’ll have an early night”.
You nod again, your eyes flying around the room.
With his hat on straight, he moves over to you, slowly and cautious, leaning down with clear intent to kiss. You turn your head away but he settles with planting a quick kiss to your cheek, before moving to the door.
“Oh y/n”, he stops half way out the door to turn to you, “If anyone comes to the door act as if you aren’t here. If they know a girl is alone in here, they may try and get in”.
You shiver at the thought. You wanted to shout at him for bring you to such a place, but the words were stuck in your throat. Instead you just nod again in understanding. He takes it and leaves. The key locks you in but you feel oddly grateful for it.
You take Billy’s advice and take a long, hot bath. Scrubbing every inch of yourself and washing your hair.
It felt good to be done and clean. Billy still wasn’t back so you took it upon yourself to begin washing the clothes in the bath water. You debated doing Billy’s but he did share his food and shelter with you. Besides, there was nothing else to do anyway
You wring the clothes out, leaving them to dry across the room when Billy returns.
He eyes the drying clothes before he lands on your face with a kind smile.
“Are you okay? Did anyone come to the door?”, he asks.
“No”, you confirm, hanging his wet shirt across the back of the chair.
“You should have had a lie down” he critiqued, coming over and placing his large hands on your hips, “You’ve been travelling for days”.
You shove his hands off you, turning around to face him.
“And who’s fault is that?”, you bite.
Not wanting to be near him, you move away to pull the plug from the bath tub.
“I’ve got some good news” he announces following you over to the tub, “He got chased out of town here. Sheriff injured him in the fight which means he’s heading to the city. Only place he could go to get the proper care”.
He sits on the edge of the bath tub, next to where you knelt.
“Figure we can afford to lose a day or two here. From what I hear, he ain’t going anywhere too fast”.
”We should keep going”, you contend. You needed to keep Billy's mind occupied with his quest. Staying in a place like this would encourage him.
‘Every day he will get better. This room is too expensive. I just want to finish this and go home”.
Billy reaches out to put a hand on your arm, concern written over his face.
”Hey, you let me worry about that”.
You stand up to brush him off, going back over to the centre of the room.
“We’ll stay tonight, and set off tomorrow”, you demand.
“We need supplies,” he tells you. He stands up to match you once more but remains past the divider.
“We should stay. At least for a day or two. See if we can find out what gun he uses. If he is with anybody. His fighting style, anything. You never know what might be useful in the long run”.
”What if someone kills him before you do? You’ll lose the bounty. All of this would be for nothing”.
”No”, he fights, “not for nothing”.
He moves forward slowly, only taking a couple of steps before stopping himself.
“If he dies before I can get to him, we’ll figure something else out. Not the only wanted man in the world”.
”No”, you scoff, “I dare say not”.
You can tell your words hurt him. Most criminals wear their crime like a badge of honour, but he seems to want to distance himself from Billy-the-kid and just be William. But he is branded now. Billy the kid would grace the name of his tombstone.
He takes his hat off his head and throws it to the end of the bed with a sigh.
“I’ll take a bath if you don’t mind. And then we can go get something to eat’.
Without waiting for answer, he begins to remove his suspenders from his shoulders.
”Where should I go?”, you ask, watching him as he tends to his bath.
“You have to go somewhere?”, he asks unbuttoning his shirt.
“It’s improper”.
“For a stranger but not for a wife”, he contends, “You can wait in the room while your husband bathes”.
He disappears behind the divider to take the rest of his clothes off. You go to the table and chair in the farthest part of the room and stare at the wall.
You hear him as he enters the bath. The sloshing of water as he scrubs himself clean. Imagining him rubbing a wet cloth over his body is almost as worse as actually seeing it. He dunks his head under water, you can hear him as he does it.
The steam of the bath floats overhead to you, heating up the room.
He continues to wash, you continue to imagine his movements. A knot forms in your stomach as you get an uncomfortable, needy feeling between your legs. Your face is flush, shame fills your very core. You try and push him out of your mind, slamming your head on the table and throwing your arms over your head to try to block out the noise.
He finally finishes not long after. You hear the pull of the plug and the drainage of the water. Still you don’t lift your head.
You hear bare feet against the hardwood floors. They get louder as he crosses the floor.
”You alright?”, he questions.
”Are you dressed yet?”.
”Almost”.
The sound of his belt instilled belief in you but you remained hunched over.
Only when he approaches you and flips your hair back over your shoulder do you raise your head, certain he would be dressed.
His suspenders hung at his hips, and his boots remained on the floor but otherwise he was adequately dressed to be viewed.
“Shall we go eat?”. His fingers linger near your neck, gently grazing the skin.
You push off your chair, knocking off his touch and running to the door. You wait for him there as he pulls on his boots and suspenders.
You are eager to get out of the room. The uncomfortable feeling remains, you worry he feels it too.
If he does he doesn’t show it. He is almost sluggish from his day as he moves closer to the door. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads the way to the dining room.
It was somehow busier than this morning. The loud shouts fill your ear painfully. As you walk, only a few centimetres separates you and the next person. The band playing helped none.
Billy manoeuvres through the crowd up to the bar where he kept you behind him as he spoke to the bartender.
The evidence of the key was enough to secure two bowls of stew, and a bottle of wine. The bartender tells you to sit where you can, although the chances of that are slim.
You follow Billy with your bowl in your hands as he scouts the area. Your eyes look at the company. Big, mean looking men. Drunkish women laughing too loudly. Your father would die if he knew you were here. He hated you going to the tavern back home which pales in comparison.
Billy turns back to check on you, seeing your distressed face, he tucks the wine bottle under his arm and reaches out his hand.
“Maybe we should eat in the room”, he suggests.
”No”, you whine. You had been stuck there all day. At least down here there was something to look at. Besides eating amongst drying clothes on a wet floor would do nothing to lift your spirts.
“Here mate!” The voice boomed but the liquor hung heavy on every syllable.
“Here” it yelled again demanding Billy’s eyes.
An older gentleman with a young girl was in lap called out. His face was red from the drink and his white blouse was wide open so his lady friend could play with his chest hair.
You pull back as Billy follows the command of the voice.
“Here, my friend” He tells billy, “You can have our place”
The man squeezes the girl in his arms causing her to playfully squeal against him.
“It’s time we went upstairs”, he spoke into his friend neck.
“Thank you, sir”, Billy acknowledges, putting down his bowl and bottle of wine. He then reaches for your bowl of stew and glasses which you let go.
The man retreats from the women neck but makes no move to get up.
“Sister?”, the man guesses.
”Wife”, Billy quickly corrects, “On our honeymoon”.
The admission causes the man to laugh wholly and without reservation.
”Did I say something funny?” Billy bickered.
You worried the provocation would lead to a fight, but the man puts a hand up in surrender and halts his laughter.
“No, son, no”, the man comments, now standing to his feet, “Just rare to see awkward newly weds out this way. You know where to put that thing?”.
Billy hand hovers over his gun, the man see it as his eyes roll up from his jest.
”I know where to put this thing”, he warns.
“Whoa. Whoa”, the man laughs, “Take it easy. It was just a joke. My night is just beginning, not ending”.
The man turns to you showing you how bloodshot his eyes were. You wanted to tell Billy the man was too drunk to realise what he was saying, but Billy didn’t seem to be in the mood to hear you.
“He always like this?”, the man wobbles forward as he speaks to you, causing Billy to pull you back with his hold on your hand.
“Don’t talk to her”, Billy demands. His hand now off his gun, but still close to his belt.
“Sorry”, the man mockingly whispered.
“Dalton”, the women behind him protested, pulling on his shoulder.
“You, and your woman, have a nice night now” Billy dismisses.
He blindly reaches for the hand of his counterpart before he gives a wink to Billy.
“I hope you and yours do too”, the man gibed.
“I ain’t his woman. I ain’t no ones woman”, she declared, ripping her hand from her customer to wave it in Billy face.
”My apologies ma’am” Billy offers with a tilt of his hat.
“What do you mean not my woman? I’m paying you ain’t I? Well that makes you my woman”.
She was grabbed more forcefully by the man and shook violently. She spits at him in return before being smacked down to the ground. You gasp, hands flying to your face in shock.
Billy is less surprised by the outcome. He grabs the man by the back of his shirt when he pulls back another punch for the woman and throws him backwards to the ground.
The woman is quick to leap to her feet and disappear amongst the crowd. Only a few who had stopped to see the commotion. The rest didn’t stop in movement or sound.
“Let her go now’, Billy demanded.
He turns back to you, directing you into the spare chair and pushing your bowl closer. You sit at command but your mouth wouldn’t close from shock.
Dalton rises in anger at his ruined night, leaping from the floor up to Billy.
“Billy”, you squeal, pointing to the charging man.
He is quick enough to turn but not to stop himself from being tackled to the ground.
This commotion drew sight of half the room who whooped and holled as they wrestled each other.
A circle formed around them blocking your view. You push to the front certain Billy was facing death. The man was older, bigger, and more viscous. Billy couldn’t shoot him even if he could get to his gun. This man was unarmed. Billy would be hung before the night finished. With Buddy in a nearby stable you wouldn’t be able to flee fast enough.
You try to push your way to the front but as the fight intensified, more men blocked your way. They paid you no mind as you tried to fight to get between them. Their bodies were like bricks, unmovable and unresponsive.
You see one man lose interest, turning away, you rush to take his spot before the men closed in.
To your relief Billy was on top, pounding his fist twice into the mans face but then letting go to stand up. His hat laid in the corner next to a mans foot, Billy staggers to go get it. He was breathing heavily from the fight but otherwise seemed to be okay.
A slight wince doesn’t go unnoticed by you as he bends to snatch his hat up. The man must have got a few good shots to his ribs. You wondered if he would be okay to ride.
“You owe me a woman!” The man shouts over the ever playing music, “Give me a turn on yours and I’ll forget it”.
The man crawls over to where you stood and reaches for the bottom of your dress, too hurt to rise for a full assault. You pull back but the crowd of bodies would not let you retreat.
Billy rushes over like you knew he would, and stomps his boot down on the man's face. The crowd cheers as the man falls back to the crowd. Mumbling odd words that didn’t form a sentence nor stop as the blood from his nose runs to his mouth.
The crowd embrace Billy as the winner, closing in on him to offer their admiration. You are pushed forward as they do. Billy steps closer to you, pulling you close to his chest and holding out his hand to stop people from getting too close.
The man is taken from the floor to free up the space. You watch as he is dragged out as Billy shuffles back to the table.
“Are you alright?”, you can finally ask as the crowd loses interest.
He bends down to where you are sat and presses a deep kiss against your lips in response.
He sighs as he rises, going back to his side of the table where the man once sat. He throws his hat on the back of the chair and slides into it sluggishly.
You didn’t realise how tired he looked but now you can see it so plain.
He picks up his spoon bringing a mouthful of stew into his mouth. A man slaps him on his back in passing causing him to spill over the table.
Frustrated Billy drops the spoon completely, using his hands to bury his face in.
“This isn’t how I wanted this to go”, he complains, “I am sorry”.
”It’s not your fault” you offer. He was protecting the woman. Despite your hate for him, even you saw that.
‘None of this is how I wanted things to go”, he removes his hands from his face to look at you, reaching out across the table for the hand you do not give. Still he leaves there, outstretched and begging for you.
“This wasn’t meant to be your honeymoon”, he says almost apologetically.
“It’s not” you refute. Billy is your husband in protection only.
“You only get one true one”, Billy contends, withdrawing the offering of his hand.
“I’ll keep that in mind”, you bite.
“Do you have to be so…”, Billy doesn’t finish his sentence, reaching for the bottle of wine instead and pouring out a glass.
“Yes” you answer. Angry, hot tears dab at your eyes but none fall. “I am away from my father who I didn’t get to say goodbye to, I am stuck in foreign place with an outlaw who has ruined my reputation forever. I am tired, hungry, and angry. So angry. I’ve had my whole life mapped out by men who never once asked me what I want”.
”You’re right”, Billy says softly, avoiding your gaze, “I am sorry things have turned out this way. I don’t mean to decide your life, only my part in it. Once I get this money, we can do anything you want to”, his gaze finds you at his promise, holding you captive as he makes his pledge, “Anything, anywhere, so long as I am with you, I don’t mind”.
His promise softens you. You were unsure how to respond. Only a young boy would make such a pledge, you realise billy the kid is exactly that. A young boy alone in the world. You wonder if that’s where his need for a wife comes from.
“Right now, I just want to eat and go to bed”, you state, picking up your spoon for a mouthful of stew.
Billy nods in agreement, following suit. The talk at the table dies, but you can hear the lost words from the man behind you explaining the alteration moments ago.
You hear the shuffling of boots as the man re-enacts the scene, poorly and somewhat drunk.
Billy eyes the scene behind you, leaping up out of his chair next to you and holding out a protective hand to stop the man from swaying into you as he talked.
The man immediately apologises, stepping away from the table and Billy pushes no further.
To your irritation the space is quickly taken up again by someone else. The room was too busy for personal space. The music too loud for any deep conversation to occur so foolishness seeped through the room, loudly and with little care for your distress.
“It’s hot” you complain to Billy as he retakes his seat. The heat from the bodies began to stick to your skin, “And loud. Maybe we should go upstairs”.
Billy looks around the room, trying to find a solution to your issue like a good husband should.
”I have a better idea”, he states picking up the bowls of half-eaten stew, “Follow me”.
You take the bottle of wine off the table as you do. He leads you through the crowd to the back door
He leads you out to the back deck. The cold air felt refreshing after the hot, crowded room. Even the noise dulled behind the closed door. Only faint stomping and laughter over the distant music could be heard. The crickets were louder, welcoming you.
“Better?” Billy asks in genuine question.
You nod your head, taking a seat on the cold step to eat your stew. Billy joins you, and for a moment you two share a quiet moment together. The stew was salty and had little meat but after days of travelling it was a fresh, hot meal so you couldn’t complain.
You finish it quickly, your spoon hitting the bottom before your appetite had finished. Billy noticed, as he always seemed to do.
“Here”, he offers, exchanging your bowl for his.
“Oh no”, you politely declined but the bowl was thrust into your hands.
You try again to refuse but billy acts as if he doesn’t hear you.
He places the bowl on the floor beside him, and lays back on the deck, gazing up at the stars above.
“Aren’t you hungry?”, you ask, looking at his red cheek.
“You eat” he replies, not shifting his gaze.
Selfishly you do. Finishing his bowl in less than a minute, and placing your bowl down in the same fashion.
“Thank you”, you softly praise.
He smiles gently but continues to look up at the sky.
From the corner of your eye, you see him gently lift his hand and wave it softly, before tucking it back under his head as a pillow.
“Do you want some wine?” He offers, slowly rising up. He stops hearing your no, laying flat back down.
A tug on your elbow pulls you back next to billy. His arm cradles you to his chest, holding you close and tight. Your instinct was to struggle out of his hold but his warm was not unwelcomed and your tiredness weighed you down.
“Who’s up there?” You ask him.
“Hm, everyone. My Ma, my pa, my little brother”.
‘Do you have no one else? No other family?” You pry. You wonder if that fuels his desire to have a wife. To make his own family.
“Maybe back in Ireland. But I wouldn’t know them”.
”I couldn’t live without my father” you sympathise
“Yes you can”, your comment irritated Billy who rose up from the cold floor into a sitting position.
“I wasn’t trying to argue with you”, you explain. His hold is no longer on you as he folds into a defensive stance.
”I am just saying I realise how hard it would be to have no family”.
He turns to you, extending out his hand in peace and placing it on your knee.
“Well I am not alone anymore”, he says.
is this why he is doing this? A forced wife for a desperate man?
Would you play this part? What would happen to you if you didn’t? What would your father do to you once he found out?
”I am tired”, you state, standing up. Billy follows, taking the bowls and bottle of wine with him.
You don’t wait, turning back to the crowd indoors. The men cheer as Billy enters into the room.
No one blocks you way but crowd you as they spur on Billy.
He manages to place the bowls and wine down, to free his hands to place on your waist as you lead the way upstairs.
You could have knocked his hands off as you reached the top off the stairs and out of the eye sight of the crowd but you chose not to for the short walk to the door.
Billy steps up behind you rather than moving to the side. You felt his broad shoulders rub against you as he unlocked the door.
When it open, it gives you space to distance yourself from him. You go about lighting a lamp and sourcing your nightdress from the dried washing.
You can feel him watching you as you dart around the room so you try to deliberately avoid eye contact.
“Yell 'done' when you are dressed for bed” you ordered him as you disappear behind the divider.
You wait a moment before undressing to ensure billy wouldn’t follow you around.
Your stiff hands only began their work upon hearing him call “done” followed by the squeak of the bed as he rested in it.
Would he expect you to perform wifely duties now that you were out of the forest. He ribs were sore that could prove to be useful if he tried. Although you doubted you would be able to stop him even with that.
With your night dress on, you poke your head out to check to see if he was ready to pounce. Instead, you see him sitting up right on the bed, arms crossed and head lowered to his chest in sleep. It was a long day for Billy, or maybe god was protecting you until your father found you.
Either way, you were careful not to wake him. Blowing out the candle and tip toeing to your side of the bed. There was only one blanket and it was too cold to sleep on the floor so you yield to your desire to warm yourself under the sheets.
The bed was only small, you could feel Billy’s body heat next to you. There was little space between you, accidentally hitting billy leg as you found your spot. He doesn’t wake, which gives you enough security to fall asleep.
You are woken during the night when billy wakes up from his uncomfortable position. His shifting breaks your soft sleep as he lowers himself next to you. His finger twists your hair up out of his face, his nose now brushing against the back of your neck as he snuggles in. The feeling of arms wrapping around you was the last thing you remember before sleep took over.
————————————————-
The next morning you wake, alone and late. The sun blinded you as it rose over the window. Billy was gone.
You wonder why he didn’t wake you. Where has he gone that he couldn’t take you?
Your stomach growls, you hope you didn’t miss breakfast.
You dress as quick as you can, eager to go downstairs despite your nerves. The rowdy men were sure to still be asleep. It surely would be safe enough to eat breakfast.
Billy did not think the same. The door was locked when you tried it. You were to stay where you were until Billy returned.
You kicked and screamed at the door before remembering where you were. The people on the other side would not help you without their own gain.
You fume as you pack away the clean clothes. Your father would find you shortly and make Billy pay for this treatment.
You longed for Westville and your own bed. Familiarity that only the place you were born and raised could bring. You hated being at Billy’s mercy. Under his protection and therefore his will while you waited for this to end.
How would your father react when you found out you were married? There must be some sort of law that could undo it due to distress. Something that could get you out of binding your life to him.
Would your father kill him to get you out of it? Would you let him really die? You hated Billy for what he has done, but knew there was goodness so deep within him that it overflowed. However, you remind yourself he was the outlaw Billy-the-kid. Maybe he deserved to die. Maybe he would escape death again, and find another girl in the next town.
You would cross the bridge of Billy’s punishment when it came. For right now, you need to stay focused.
With the washing put away, there was little else to do but stare out the window at passers-by and daydream about going home.
The scratch of the key at the door, arose your fury and you stood to face him as he came through the door.
“Hey”, he greeted you, “Good morning”.
He had been to the shops you summarised from the parcels in his hands. A place he could have brought you.
“How dare you” you seeth, “Don’t you ever lock me in here again”.
He looked puzzled but apologised anyway, ‘You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you”.
“You locked the door Billy. That was a little more than fear of waking me. Where did you think I was going to go? You know I wouldn’t make it back without you. You were trying to intimidate me”.
”No” Billy refutes coming closer, ‘I told you this isn’t Westfield anymore. You need to be careful here. If somebody sees something they want, they just take it”.
”Oh”, you scoff, “And you wouldn’t know anything about that”.
He walks past you angry, going over to the table and dropping his purchases.
“I brought you some bread from the bakery”, he changes topics, “I thought you might be hungry”.
He holds out the bag for you to take which you do, tearing into the soft sweet bread instantly.
While you ate, he talked. You sat at the bed, picking at your food while he stood over by the window.
“I went around town asking about our friend. He has two guns. His main one and one strapped to his ankle. They recon’ he made friends too but I got different answers to how many”.
”Do you get more money if you kill them too?” You ask interested.
“No. It would be just murder without a warrant. Maybe self-defence if they raise first”.
Worried pooled in your stomach. What would you do if billy died? You would never get back to Westfield without him.
”It’s not too late to turn back. We could go back to Westfield. I would admit to being married”, you offer.
He comes before you, kneeling down and gazing up at you as he spoke.
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything is fine. When we get to Aratula I will figure out a way to lure him out”.
”How can you speak so casually about murdering a man?”, you question in disgust.
“Hardly a man. Murders women and children. Innocent, unarmed men. I will put him down without too much thought or remorse”.
You nod in support. The world would be a better place without Jackson in it. It would just be better if the murder was not your husband.
“I also stopped by the jeweller”, he announces pulling out a drawstring pouch from his pocket. He lifts your hand and places the gold band on your finger, giving it a kiss to seal it in place. “I was worried it wouldn’t fit”.
The ring was comfortably tight on your hand.The weight of it felt foreign. It symbolised ownership but given the circumstances you were grateful for it.
”Mrs Bonney”, he coons, standing up.
“I guess I am”, you agree.
”Let me wash up and we’ll go see if any more townspeople have anything to say”.
Billy washes the sweat from his body with a damp cloth while you finish your bread. Gratefully, soon you were out of the room and into the fresh air.
It was exciting to explore another town besides your own. You had never been away from home before. Billy remained close as you went from shop to shop questioning people.
Most talked freely, telling you everything they knew. Jackson had terrorized the town despite only passing through for a short period of time. Others dismissed you without a word.
Late afternoon came quickly, the only real piece of useful information you received is the location Jackson stayed until he was chased from the town. You implore Billy to go see it, curious yourself to see the stay of an outlaw.
It was on the outskirts of town, from where you were it would have been longer to walk back to the town centre to collect your horse then to just continue walking so you set off with Billy, chasing the sun as it went down.
It was less than what you expected. A rundown stone place with a straw roof. It dulled your excitement looking at it.
“A Quick Look”, Billy commands, “I don’t want to be here long”.
He eyes the place as if he expects someone to jump out from the surrounding rocks and ambush him. He was always cautious, you observed.
The place was left in an array. No furniture stood upright, bullet holes cover the surfaces of nearly everything. You are amazed he managed to escape with his life. He suddenly felt much more dangerous.
Billy investigated the property. Looking in draws for anything of use. Jackson has left his clothes in the run, but nothing else of use. No clue to a weakness or indication of the sort of gun he used.
You see blood on the stone floor. It splatted where he got shot and then dripped on the floor to the back door. You can see it so clearly, you could almost imagine the entire fight in your head.
A loud bang shakes you from your head when Billy drops an item to the floor in his search. You jump out of your skin and into his arms in fright. Scolding yourself when you realise you were acting like a little girl who had heard her first ghost story.
He catches you instantly, wrapping his arms around you in protection with a soft chuckle.
“Sorry”, he apologizes, giving you a squeeze, “Let’s get you out of here, hey?”.
Once you see there is no real danger, you push out of his arms. Straightening your dress to steady yourself.
“Let me go pee and then we’ll head. Just stay here” he commands.
You wait for him inside while he follows the blood trail outside. He goes around the side of the house, checking over his shoulder to ensure you didn’t follow. Only then does he unscrew the lid of his water bottle, tipping out all but two mouthfuls out.
With a sigh, he returns the lid and goes back into the house to collect you.
The sun was nearly gone on the walk back but the humidity of the day lingered beyond its welcome.
He plans works perfectly when you ask for a drink of water only to receive the last few drops.
”Is that it?” You asked him surprised. You hadn’t seen him drink once from the canister.
“We’re almost back”, he confirms, but takes a wrong turn deliberately.
Your annoyance at him grew as you travelled back through unrecognised pasture. When you finally did reach town centre your throat burned for a drink and your legs a rest.
He leads you back to your hotel bar. It wasn’t as busy as the night before. A few seats were spare, and there was no band playing tonight. You could have shouted in joy. Your patience was at an end.
Billy leaves you at a table in the corner while he goes to the bar to collect the nights meal and water.
On a tray he carried back two plates of roast dinner and large glass bottle that looked too cloudy to be water.
He places the meal in front of you without a word and pours out a glass of the liquid. It was not water, you brought it up to your nose for a smell, pulling back when it burnt your nose.
“Drink it”, he says, “It will rehydrate you. Cowboys drink it all the time”.
As thirsty as you were, you believe it. Gaging as goes down bitterly.
He pours you another glass. Before you can reject it, he convinces you once more.
“We’re supposed to drink the whole bottle. It helps to replenish our bodies”.
Seeing no reason not to trust him, you take the next glass sipping it slowly this time.
It sat better in your stomach with food. Soaking up the quinsy feeling. It was a strange drink, the more you drank the harder it was to stop. Billy only had a glass or two. He was always so sacrificial, you thought to yourself.
Suddenly you found his words very funny. Your mood improved but you found it hard to find the words you wanted to say. You would dance if there was music, but instead you laugh loudly at a story Billy told. You weren’t sure what was funny, only that it was.
Your hand reaches for the bottle, but Billy catches it as it is risen.
“I think we’ve had enough”, he states, gently lowering it back down.
“I thought we were supose’ to finish the bo’ttle?” You slur.
“You’re hydrated plenty. Why don’t we go up stairs”, he suggests.
You nod enthusiastically. You were tired, but when you rose your legs wobbled and the room began to spin.
Billy is quick to your side, gripping your waist as you hold yourself up on his shoulders.
“Walked too much”, you comment.
“Hmm”, he agrees, beginning to assist you forward.
The stairs proved difficult. They seemed to move under you, your footing was unsure, and you found it all so funny.
“Oop”, you exclaim stumbling forward, testing his hold.
“Careful”, he warns, “we’re almost there”.
The door was only ten feet but you somehow managed it in twenty. Billy keeps you up with a hold around your waist as he fiddles to get the door open. You giggle into his arm watching him. Always so serious. He smiles at you in response, giggle himself as he unlocks the door and swings it open.
“Alrighty, come on you”, he shuffles you in, laying you on the bed first before he goes back to lock the door.
“You alright?” He asks you.
He sits down beside you on the bed, brushing his hand across your face.
“I had fun today’, you admit. Playing detective in a new city, gave you a thrill you had never experienced.
“You did?”, he chuckles.
You hum back in confirmation. Your eyes closing themselves in tiredness before you forced them back open to look at billy. Only moonlight lit the room, it was just enough to make out your surroundings.
”I am tired”, you complain, sitting up to take off your shoes. Billy rises from the bed to assist you in undoing the laces and disregarding the shoes on the floor.
“I know baby”, he acknowledges, “I just want to try something first and then you can go to sleep”.
He sit back on the end of the bed and gently messages your feet with his hand while he rids himself of his boots, hat and holster with the other.
He squeezes at your ankles and cafs, edging slowly back to the middle of the bed and parting your legs under the disguise of a massage.
His hand crawls up your leg as he squeezes, pushing up your skirt to your hips. Even in your drunk state, you attempt to push it down.
”It’s alright baby”, he tells you, “I don’t imagine everyone has ever told you about this before”.
”About what?” You question, trying to sit up but Billy pushes you back down by your shoulders.
“I’ll show you. It feels good. Just lie still and I’ll show you”.
You feel the strings over your undergarments loosen.
”what are you doing?”, you whine. Your head spun, and your lower region ached in desire. You knew you should tell him to stop. It wasn’t right. But without your clear head, your lust kept you compliant.
”I know what sex is”, you state, giving his hands a weak shove.
He manages to pull them down, leaving you bare. Your hands bunch your dress, covering yourself with weak constituent.
His hand reaches under the bunched fabric, his thumb gently rubs against your Clint in a circular motion. Your hips buck at the sensation.
”I know that” he confirmed, “I just don’t think anyone ever told you how good it feels”.
Good, indeed. Your cunt was warm and wet, giving him no resistance as he moved his fingers. When his spare hand pushed yours away, you gave up too easily, baring yourself to him and his pleasure.
“You don’t have to fight it. God intended it to be enjoyable”, Billy coxes.
“You gotta stay up through”, he comments, tapping your face lightly so you would open your eyes.
“Good girl” he praises when you do.
He rewards you by going down and placing his mouth against you. His tongue lashes between your folds, eliciting a low moan from your throat. His thumb never stops rubbing against your client, and his warm, hot mouth covers you whole.
Knots form and then fall in your stomach as he works, slowing building to completion.
When he raises his head to speak, it disrupts the flow completely.
“Feel good, huh angel?”.
You push his head back down, urging him to continue and he does with more passion than before.
You come with a yelp, wiggling as he licks you clean greedily.
Despite just laying there, your body heated to the point of sweat. Your head rolled back against your pillow and sleep fought to take control of your body now your high was complete.
“Hey, no, no”, he calls coming back to your face. He taps gently against your face.
“You have to stay up okay? Just a moment longer”, he promises.
He hastily takes off his shirt and pants, before attempting to undo your dress without your assistance.
”Stay awake darling”, he commands, lifting your neck against his shoulder so he could shimmy down your dress. With great effort he gets it off. Shame floods you as it hits the floor.
“It’s natural”, he soothes, seeing your distressed face, meeting it with a kiss, “Husband and wife are one flesh. We’re just being one flesh”.
You see him move in the dark, reaching for something in the draw before his hands disappeared into the dark shadows below him.
He feel the tip of his cock, poke at your entire before finding the correct hole and shoving it in. You gasp at the pain as it enters without warning, clawing at his back as he slowly adjusts himself in you.
“You’re good. You’re good”, he promises, “It will go away”.
The pain does go away and you begin to feel full with him inside of you. Every time he separates his hips to thrust, you almost felt empty.
“My beautiful girl”, he praises into your ear.
“Billy” you moan half in pleasure and half in disgust.
“Right here, darling, now till forever”.
He kisses you once more. Grunting into your mouth as he picks up pace nearing his end. The pressure helps to build you to the spot where you were able to come with him.
He rests in you keeping you full, as he brushes his fingers against your face. Dragging them all over in a calming fashion. When you lose the fight to keep your eyes open, he pulls himself from you, covering you with the blanket and placing a kiss against your forehead.
“Goodnight Mrs Bonney”, he whispers, taking his condom off himself and going over to the basin to wash it out for reuse.
How strange, you thought, to sleep as billy- the- kids wife.
Warnings: dark and possessive Yoongi, kidnapping, captivity
Masterlist
After the knife incident, things changed.
Not dramatically.
That was the problem.
If Yoongi had screamed at her or locked her in a room or threatened her, she could have held onto her anger cleanly. Could have hated him without complication.
Instead, he became gentler.
More careful around her.
And somehow that felt worse.
The next morning, every sharp object in the kitchen was gone.
Not just knives.
Scissors. Corkscrews. Peelers. Even glass dishes disappeared, replaced with soft plastic versions that made her feel humiliated every time she used them.
Yoongi never mentioned it directly.
Never threw the incident in her face.
But she noticed the changes everywhere.
The bathroom mirror had been replaced with one that couldn’t shatter.
Medication cabinets were locked now.
Balcony doors required codes.
It was suffocating.
Because none of it felt malicious.
It felt… preventative.
Like Yoongi had spent the entire night thinking not about how she might hurt him, but how she might hurt herself in another moment of panic.
That realization unsettled her deeply.
Especially because she could still remember the expression on his face when she’d raised the knife.
And every time she caught sight of the bandage still wrapped around his hand, shame twisted low in her stomach again.
Because even injured, Yoongi never once acted like she had hurt him.
Only like he was worried she had almost hurt herself.
Not fear.
Heartbreak.
Two days later, she stopped speaking to him entirely.
At first, Yoongi assumed she just needed space after the incident.
He respected that.
Mostly.
He still checked whether she ate. Still sat quietly across from her during meals even when she ignored him completely. Still asked whether she slept well despite receiving no answer.
Patient.
Steady.
But underneath that patience, frustration slowly began building.
Because silence from her felt unbearable.
He could survive anger.
Survive screaming.
Even survive hatred.
At least those things meant she was engaging with him.
But this?
This felt like disappearing.
And after weeks of carefully managing every interaction between them, Yoongi knew exactly why she was doing it.
Punishment.
Maybe not consciously.
But she had realized something important the night of the knife incident:
Her affection affected him far more than his control affected her.
So now she withheld everything.
No eye contact.
No replies.
No acknowledgment whatsoever.
And despite all his discipline, it was working.
By the fourth day, Yoongi looked exhausted again.
She noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
He sat at the dining table scrolling absently through his phone while untouched food cooled between them. His jaw looked tense. His eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
“You need to eat,” he said quietly after nearly ten minutes of silence.
She continued staring out the window.
Something flickered in his expression.
“Please.”
Nothing.
Yoongi set his phone down carefully.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said evenly. “But this isn’t productive.”
Still nothing.
His chest tightened painfully.
God.
He missed her voice.
It was pathetic.
He knew it was pathetic.
But after finally experiencing what it felt like to have her attention fully on him, this silence felt unbearable.
“Talk to me.”
She stood abruptly from the table and walked away.
The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor.
Yoongi closed his eyes briefly.
That sharp ache returned to his chest again.
The same one that had existed ever since she tried to leave him.
Except now there was something uglier mixed into it too.
Resentment.
Not toward her.
Toward the situation.
Toward the fact that he was doing everything possible to care for her and she still looked at him like a monster.
Some nights he lay awake wondering if there was any version of this where she eventually loved him willingly.
Other nights he decided he didn’t care anymore.
As long as she stayed.
The punishment happened accidentally.
At least that was what Yoongi told himself afterward.
She had started pushing boundaries more aggressively lately.
Nothing major.
Small things.
Testing him.
Seeing how far she could go before he reacted.
Ignoring curfew inside the house.
Refusing meals.
Attempting to access locked doors.
Once, she even tried flirting subtly with one of the younger guards just to watch Yoongi’s expression darken from across the room.
That one had almost made him lose his composure entirely.
The guard disappeared the next day.
She felt guilty afterward.
Not because of Yoongi.
Because the guard had looked genuinely terrified when security abruptly removed him mid-shift.
Still, some cruel part of her had enjoyed seeing Yoongi affected for once.
Enjoyed proving he wasn’t nearly as calm and detached as he pretended to be.
Which was exactly why she pushed too far that evening.
Yoongi returned home late after an especially stressful schedule.
She could tell immediately.
His shoulders were tight beneath his coat. His expression distant and exhausted as he loosened his watch while walking into the kitchen.
“You waited up?” he asked softly after noticing her sitting there.
She shrugged.
Truthfully, she had.
The realization annoyed her.
Yoongi moved automatically toward the refrigerator before pausing slightly.
The female maid normally responsible for preparing late meals was gone tonight.
Instead, one of the older male kitchen staff stood near the counter finishing cleanup.
And she was talking to him.
Laughing softly at something he’d said.
Yoongi stopped moving.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
The staff member noticed first.
His face paled immediately.
“Sir.”
Yoongi’s gaze stayed fixed on him.
“How long has he been in here with you?”
The question wasn’t directed at the staff member.
It was directed at her.
She leaned back in her chair slowly.
“A while.”
Wrong answer.
She saw it immediately in the subtle shift of Yoongi’s jaw.
“He shouldn’t be alone with you.”
“Why?” she asked coolly. “Scared I’ll run away with him?”
The older man looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor.
Yoongi remained very still for a moment.
Then said quietly:
“Leave.”
The staff member bowed quickly and practically fled the kitchen.
Silence settled heavily afterward.
She crossed her arms.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You know the rules.”
“Oh my god,” she laughed sharply. “You really are jealous of every man who breathes near me.”
“Yes.”
Again.
No hesitation.
No embarrassment.
Just blunt honesty.
“You don’t own me.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like it!”
Yoongi looked at her carefully.
Measured.
“Did you enjoy provoking me?”
The question caught her slightly off guard because he sounded genuinely curious.
Not angry.
That only irritated her more.
“At least someone around here reacts like a normal person.”
Something hardened subtly in his expression.
There.
Finally.
A crack.
“You think I’m not reacting?”
“You act like nothing bothers you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then maybe show it once in a while!”
The words echoed sharply through the kitchen.
Silence followed.
Yoongi stared at her for several long seconds.
Then he spoke quietly.
“Go upstairs.”
Her stomach tightened instantly.
“What?”
“Go to your room.”
The calm authority in his voice made heat flare through her chest immediately.
“No.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“There it is,” she snapped, standing abruptly. “There’s the controlling asshole underneath all the fake patience.”
Yoongi’s composure slipped for the first time in weeks.
Not explosively.
Coldly.
“You deliberately crossed a boundary tonight.”
“A boundary?” she laughed incredulously. “You mean speaking to another human being?”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“And what if I did?”
Silence.
Then finally:
“Upstairs.”
Her pulse quickened.
Something about his tone made the room suddenly feel smaller.
She hated that part of herself still responded instinctively to his authority now.
Hated that living with him had already started conditioning her reactions.
“No.”
Yoongi stepped closer slowly.
“You need to calm down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Her voice cracked sharply through the kitchen, but Yoongi didn’t answer immediately this time.
That was new.
He just stood there watching her, jaw tight beneath the exhaustion on his face.
Something unsettled in her chest at the sight.
Usually he would soften things.
Usually he would de-escalate.
Tonight he only looked tired.
“I hate this,” she said shakily. “I hate the way you act like this is normal.”
His gaze dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to her.
“I’m trying to make this easier for you.”
The answer hit something raw inside her.
“Stop acting like you’re helping me!” she snapped. “You kidnapped me!”
“I know.”
Not defensive.
Not angry.
Just tired.
And somehow that exhausted acceptance made her even angrier.
“You stand there acting calm and reasonable while you keep me trapped here like some fucking pet!”
Before she fully realized what she was doing, she shoved him hard.
The movement happened fast.
Too fast.
Something in Yoongi finally snapped.
“Stop fucking pushing me!”
His hands closed around both her wrists instantly, and before either of them fully processed it, he shoved her backward hard enough for her lower back to hit the kitchen counter with a sharp sound.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
Silence crashed into the room.
Yoongi froze.
So did she.
For one horrible second, neither of them moved.
His grip around her wrists was tight.
Too tight.
His chest rose heavily beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, composure hanging by a thread now instead of sitting neatly behind his expression like usual.
And for the first time since she’d met him, he looked angry.
Not explosive.
Not violent.
Worse.
Restrained anger.
The kind dragged down under months of pressure and sleepless nights and constant self-control.
“Stop pushing me.” He repeated.
The words came out low and strained.
Almost rough.
A chill crawled suddenly down her spine.
Because he sounded human now.
Not careful.
Not endlessly patient.
Just exhausted.
Worn thin.
She stared up at him, breathing unevenly, suddenly hyperaware of how trapped she was between his body and the counter edge digging into her spine.
Then panic flickered across her face.
Tiny.
Instinctive.
But Yoongi saw it immediately.
And the second he did, everything in him seemed to break.
His hands released her so fast it was almost violent in reverse.
Like he couldn’t get away from her quickly enough.
Horror crossed his expression.
Real horror.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology came instantly.
Too fast.
Too genuine.
He took an actual step backward from her, breathing hard now, like he was disgusted with himself for losing control even for a second.
But the damage had already settled between them.
She rubbed at her wrists automatically despite the fact he hadn’t truly hurt her.
The gesture twisted something viciously inside his chest.
Because for one brief moment, in his hands she had been afraid of him again.
And after everything he’d done to keep her here, to convince himself he was protecting her, that expression still shattered him completely.
Thou Shalt Not Covet | Valarr Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen
From the moment you marry his father, the prince makes his hatred for you plain and clear.
Warnings: NON-CON, Stepmother! Reader, Age Gap, Arranged Marriage, Voyeurism
Laughter and cheers fill the Great Hall. The gathered lords and ladies clap for the circus performers, their faces red from the overindulgence in the Dornish wine flowing from golden goblets. It would be unsurprising if the clamor of your wedding celebrations echoed far past the stone walls of Dragonstone.
Your Lord Husband spared no expenses. Jesters, jugglers, fire-eaters. An entire company of circus performers plucked from the Free Cities. A flock of white doves released from the highest tower at the end of the ceremony. A lavish banquet fit for a king…well, future king. Roasted swans, glazed wild boar, spiced deer pies, pears dipped in wine and so forth.
The spread alone makes your head spin.
Your gaze glides over to him. Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, your Lord Husband. At eight and thirty, twenty summers more than you, he remains an astounding warrior and sharp-witted hand to the king. Or so your father told you. You know not the man you wedded at evenfall.
No more than a handful of words were traded between you and him before the ceremony. The bargain struck with your father was swift, your consent immaterial, your obedience expected.
All decided before you even crossed the Narrow Seas.
Even as you both uttered your wedding vows, him swearing to protect you and you swearing to obey, he said no more than what custom demanded.
Your eyes trail the sharp angle of his bearded jaw, his noble profile, his steely stare.
Targaryen majesty radiates from his being, lighting the very air around him ablaze.
As a keen mismatched gaze finds yours, your stomach clenches.
You nervously pick up your wine goblet and swallow another sip. A sip of courage. Tonight is your wedding night. The septa who prepared you beforehand had but scant knowledge to share. She said your lord husband will know what to do and your only task is to obey. It did little to soothe your unease.
Wives are vessels for heirs, instruments to further bloodlines. That is what you are now. A vessel. Your fears, your hopes, your dreams…they’re now as inconsequential and forgotten as yesterday’s rainfall. A proper lady must be soft, quiet. Seen but not heard. It is what mother used to say.
Prince Baelor’s eyes tumble to your uneaten plate.
“You have not had a bite,” he says, concern clouding his unflinching gaze.
You swallow the lump in your throat, nudging a gentle smile on your lips.
“I fear my travels have soured my appetite, your grace.”
Your husband studies you a long while, his pointed scrutiny needling your skin. Your eyes widen as he rises, offering his hand.
“Mayhaps that is enough revelry for the evening,” he states. You understand the unspoken command and slip your fingers in his open palm. His hold on you is firm, steady. That hand around yours is the only thing keeping your quaking legs from collapsing on the ground. You are thankful that the wine has gone to your head, begun to haze your senses. Perhaps it will make the entire ordeal more bearable.
As Prince Baelor escorts you away, the back of your neck tingles. You turn to glance behind you. Discomfort stirs your insides as a fiery mismatched gaze that eerily resembles your husband’s collides with yours.
Prince Valarr.
From the moment you got off the ship bringing you to Dragonstone, the princeling has made his disfavor of you a plain fact to all. He has not spoken a word to you. In fact, he has stormed off every single time you have tried to greet him. Unlike the young Prince Matarys who instantly clung to your skirts after the wedding and called you his new mother, Prince Valarr displayed no such warmth. You fail to understand what you have done to offend the princeling. You have endeavored to be kind, sweet, pleasant…everything your mother bid you to be. Yet the princeling appears to find your mere presence a curse upon House Targaryen.
The frightful ballad of your heart swells in your ears as you walk through the dim hallways of Dragonstone besides your new husband.
You reach Prince Baelor’s bedchambers. He shuts the door. Sweat blooms on your palms, your insides knotting with dread.
The soft glow of the candles paints the walls, the moon’s silver hues seeping through the curtains. Fear sings in your blood. You will it to not show.
As your lord husband turns, clasping your hands in his, his forehead creases.
“You’re trembling,” he notes.
Your stomach plummets. Have you already failed at your wifely duties?
“Apologies, your grace,” you mumble, guilt searing your chest.
Prince Baelor lifts your chin, assessing your expression. Your breath hangs still beneath his studious scrutiny.
“You are scared,” he says.
Panic clutches your heart. You give a frantic shake of your head.
“I am well, your grace. I am…delighted.” The lie wobbles off your tongue uneasily, its falsity scorching your throat.
His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, his expression solemn.
“You need never lie to me.” He pauses, his mismatched stare corralling yours. “I swore an oath to protect, cherish and honor you. I aim to honor that oath.”
He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on your skin. Heat floods your cheeks.
His deep voice is as gentle as a ripple over the sea, washing over your overwrought senses.
“I know how far from familiar shores you are, my lady. But I dare hope that, one day, you will call Dragonstone home.”
This draws a curtain of tears over your sight. Memories of your childhood home invade your mind, longing crushing your heart in its unforgiving fist.
“I harbor the same hope, your grace,” you croak.
Prince Baelor cradles your face, plucking your tears. Your chest heaves, unsightly sobs escaping the confines of your throat. Your armor shatters. To your astonishment, your lord husband collects the broken pieces, leading your quivering form to the bed’s edge.
He swaddles you in a thick blanket. For the first time since arriving at Dragonstone, a rush of warmth fills your chest.
Tremulous sobs swell in the room. Lord Baelor sits besides you. At first, his hand hovers, hesitant, searching. A silent inquiry. As your eyes swing to his, he seems to find the answer he sought. His firm hand settles on your back and you unleash a heavy breath.
You sag against him. He is unbothered by the flood of tears soaking his doublet, the steady press of his fingers your anchor amidst the rushing tide of emotions you throttled into silence. Now they refuse to be shackled.
When your tears subside, the weight of failure settles in your chest like lead. You were instructed to be meek, obedient, agreeable. Instead, you made a pathetic spectacle of yourself in front of your husband. Father would be furious. Mother would be disheartened.
Your gaze lingers on the floor, a blanket of defeat draping over your shoulders.
“Speak to me, wife,” Prince Baelor says.
Your heart leaps. Your husband speaks with the poised confidence of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be heard, a mere whisper enough to inspire respect and compliance. Meanwhile you wager that you could scream until your throat bleeds and your words would still fall into unlistening ears. Such is the fate of a woman in this world.
His gentle yet firm command tears the words from your throat.
“I fear my melancholy ruined our wedding night, your grace,” you confess.
The shadow of a smile sways on his lips. His focus shifts to the window.
“Ruined? The moon and stars still hang in the sky.”
A bashful smile tugs your lips.
“They do,” you say.
When your eyes find Lord Baelor's this time, a heat is nestled there. Your stomach tightens. Your nerves flare again. Not from fear this time. Mayhaps a strange anticipation. One that sears your stomach and dampens your palms. Your attention falls to your lap, your fingers twiddling with the linen beneath you.
A firm hand slides under your chin, angles it up, keeping you from evading sizzling, mismatched orbs.
Your throat knots.
“My lord-”
The words are seized from your lips as Prince Baelor’s mouth slams into yours. Your cry of surprise shrivels on your tongue. Steady fingers cradle your face, your husband's mouth gliding over yours with purpose. The path of his tongue is languid, fevered as it explores your mouth. Your body grows feeble against his, your mind going hazy.
Your hands tighten on his doublet as you get lost in your first genuine kiss.
His passion knocks the breath from your lungs, a startling contrast to the composed, regal lord you had come to know.
His hand drifts to the back of your head, twisting in your hair. You gasp as Prince Baelor tilts your head back, giving him complete dominion over the expanse of your neck. He abandons your mouth, leaving it swollen, tingling. He scatters a trail of fiery pecks with his lips. His teeth dance on your skin and a broken whine slips from your throat. Your Lord Husband relishes every sound, embers of desire sizzling in his stern gaze.
His hands travel down your throat and your breath stills in your lungs. His callused palms sweep over you until they find your hips. His fingers clench on the embroidered silk. Your heart bounces in your chest.
Darkness clouds your husband’s gaze as it traces your face, the motion of your throat, your heaving chest. His throat bobs, his lids sagging.
When he peers at you, still clutching the fabric of your dress, a question hangs in the sweltering air of the room.
A dull trepidation remains but the rising heat in your blood silences it.
You give a tremulous nod.
Prince Baelor peels the dress off you and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Your husband’s eyes darken as they sweep over your bare, goosebumped flesh. You sit on the bed, watching him remove his royal attire. A dragon shedding its scales, letting you see what lay beneath.
So this is what a man looks like. You soak in every line of corded muscle, every pale scar and… the blatant evidence of his desire for you. Heat settles in your cheeks.
Your heart sings a clamorous, chaotic ballad in your ears as he approaches.
He presses his thumb over your parted lips. Despite the hunger etched in his mismatched gaze, you feel his silent inquiry again. It lingers in the hesitant graze of his fingertips along your arm.
You give another nod. The fear, the apprehension…they have shifted into a heated curiosity for what comes next, what husbands and wives do on their wedding night.
He nudges you backwards until your back lies flat on the plush covers.
You wait, your stomach clenched so tight it seems it might soon burst.
He rubs his swollen tip against your entrance. Your breath stumbles. Heat gathers between your thighs. The friction is maddening. You clutch at the linen, a whine spilling from your mouth.
He clutches your hip, lining himself with your folds. He enters you, and the world turns red. Despite bracing yourself for the discomfort, tears spill down your cheeks.
“My Lord,” you mumble, your voice hardly more than a husky breath.
“My Lady,” he replies, cupping your face.
He freezes, wiping your tears as he looms above you. His eyes never leave yours.
When he drags himself out and sinks into you at a sluggish pace, you tense.
“The pain will not last, sweet girl,” he whispers in your ear.
Your voice is distorted by your sobs.
“Do you swear it?”
He takes your hand and drops a gentle kiss on your knuckles.
“A knight never breaks a vow to his lady,” he says softly, his fingers twining with yours.
He moves his hips and you cling to his shoulders, his tender words anchoring you amidst the painful tide. The symphony of flesh against flesh swells in the room.
Your husband speaks truth.
The pain is ephemeral. Soon, delightful tingles bloom over your flesh; fire consumes you.
You melt against him, stars flooding your vision.
In his arms, you forget how far from home you are. Every gentle whisper and careful touch makes you feel safe, desired, cared for.
In Prince Baelor’s arms, you are no longer adrift. You are found. Again and again.
As your husband shifts you, making you straddle him, it’s when it begins.
Cool tingles along your spine that do not relent. They start down your back and bloom outwards. Persistent shards of glass embedded into your skin. Your head turns, your eyes landing on the wall. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the tapestry and wardrobe.
Your husband grips your chin, swaying your focus back to him.
“What is it, sweet girl?”
Your chest clenches. It is just you and your husband in this room. Dragonstone is brimming with dark corners and old statues that play tricks on the mind. You force a smile on your lips.
“Nothing. It is nothing, your grace.”
It is enough for Prince Baelor’s hip to start moving again, yanking a broken moan from your lips.
You dismiss the peculiar sensation along your back, yet it lingers even as you ride your lord husband with abandon.
Your days are filled with peace and joy. More fulfillment than you could have fathomed. You had worried your husband’s famed fondness of his first wife Lady Jane would be an unassailable opponent, that you would struggle to carve a place in a heart already claimed. But no such thing occurs. Prince Baelor seeks you out whenever his duties for the days are done. He takes you to bed almost every night, showing you countless paths to pleasure.
You even overhear the maids say that they haven’t seen their lord look so merry in years, which brings a smile to your face.
Little Matarys accepts your presence with ease, clinging to your skirts and allowing you to tell him stories from your home.
Soon, every fear you held close to your chest when you first set foot on Dragonstone dissipates. You settle into your life as Prince Baelor's wife and Lady of Dragonstone.
Still, the shadow of Prince Valarr’s hostility looms large over you.
Your stepson makes his distaste for you a truth known to all, skipping every dinner or feast when he’s made aware you will be in attendance. Every attempt at breaching the ice walls the prince erected around himself are met with crushing defeat. Your stepson won’t even look at you. And the rare times he does, your blood chills from the searing hatred burning in his mismatched gaze. The prince stares at you like he wished to tear you limb from limb or have your head mounted on a pike above the castle walls for all to see. Mayhaps both.
You cannot deny that this blatant rejection hurts, a fact you do not conceal from your lord husband.
“He is a child. He will grow to adore you as I do, sweet girl,” Prince Baelor mumbles, planting a tender kiss atop your head. Your chest warms with his words but the doubts nestled there remain.
You ache to argue that Prince Valarr is no more a child than you are, as only a few months set you apart from him. You have never been allowed such fickle whims. From a young age, you were taught a proper lady is to be ever pleasant, ever agreeable. But your stepson’s chilly glares and icy words leave a taste of failure on your tongue. As if every teaching and lesson was for naught. As if you will never be good enough, worthy enough. Everyday you try to engineer new ways to make the sullen prince despise you a little less. Everyday you find your attempts thwarted.
You lean back against your husband’s chest, your eyes falling shut. You soak in the smell of fresh cranberries and pine trees. It soothes your frazzled mind. Sitting in Aegon’s Garden always casts a blanket of serenity over your worries and fears, quiets your woes.
“It has been four moon turns, your grace,” you say, resigned.
“My son loved his mother dearly. So did I. Her kindness and sweetness knew no equal…until I met you,” he says with a smile, bringing your hand to his lips.
“I’m sorry he lost her so young.”
A shadow of grief flickers in Prince Baelor’s gaze.
“Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “Give him time. He is a good lad.”
“I know,” you reply, your heart sinking. It is the very reason that rejection aches so deeply. You’ve witnessed how gentle Valarr is, with his family, little Matarys, even the servants. You’ve seen him help an elderly servant to her feet when she apologized for spilling his food. He is kind to everyone. Everyone but you, his own stepmother.
Your husband plucks you from the depths of your forlorn thoughts by pressing you against a nearby pine tree, his hands firm on your hips.
“Enough about my son…especially when I have my lovely wife all to myself.”
You smile, your heart fluttering.
His lips tug upwards against the column of your neck, his fingers creeping below your dress. Your eyes swing to the nearby turret, the windows thankfully absent of any spectator.
An airy giggle soars from your lips as he trails languid kisses along your throat, his hand traveling to your inner thigh.
“My lord…we are out in the open. Someone could see…” you scold him though there is no real heat laced in your words.
“See me attend to my wife as a true husband should?” he says, drawing a gasp from you as his beringed finger sinks between your folds. Your back arches against the pine tree, your lips parting around a lustful whimper. The heat in your lower belly grows as your husband’s steel ring drags along your slick walls.
You bite your lower lip, riding his finger, seeking more of the delightful friction.
As you tilt your head back, your focus lands on a figure at a distance. A disturbingly familiar figure standing at the tower’s window. You shove Baelor away, your heart leaping.
“Wait…your grace!”
Prince Baelor scowls, confused by the expression on your face.
“What is it?” he inquires, following your gaze.
You blink, your eyes rounding when you realize the window is now empty.
“I…Apologies. I thought I saw-”
Prince Valarr.
But you dare not speak the thought aloud. Because it sounds ludicrous, unfathomable.
Why would Prince Valarr stand at a window watching you and his father in the throes of…passion?
Your husband cradles your face, concern wrinkling his stern features.
“Saw what, sweet girl?”
You shake your head.
“Exhaustion must be wearing my senses,” you mumble, ignoring your thundering heart.
Prince Baelor takes your hand.
“You shall rest then.”
You ignore the itch to glance back as he leads you away, that peculiar chill settling over your spine once more. The very same sensation that has plagued every intimate moment you’ve shared with your husband for several moons. In your chambers, his chambers, the gardens, the great hall…everywhere. Like a shadow tracing your every step.
Ever watching.
For the next few days, you are in hell, your own mind becoming a cage assailing you with doubts and inquiries. Did you truly see him? Were your overwrought senses conjuring false apparitions? Perhaps you are so far away from home, so desperate to be liked, that you are growing slightly mad.
There is no reason he would be there, staring. After all he cannot stand the sight of you, a fact he has made astoundingly clear.
You should go pray, light a candle to clear your mind of the unthinkable. The Septa says proper ladies must offer a prayer to The Seven at least twice a day. You have faltered in your duties to the gods. Perhaps it is why your thoughts are so scattered, your mind so hazy. Your husband is a pious man after all. You should follow his example.
As you are lost in a spiral of daunting musings, your feet lead you near the throne room. The sound of incensed, familiar voices reaches you, causing you to halt your steps.
“I will not marry her, father. You cannot make me.”
Your heart skips a beat as you recognize Prince Valarr’s voice. He’s angry…no, he’s furious.
You cling to the wall, clutching your chest when your husband’s imperious inflection fills the throne room.
“It is your duty, son. Or have you forgotten what is at stake for House Targaryen? Our dragons made us gods amongst men. Without them, we must be wise in choosing every match. The girl from Tyrosh is-”
“You had the freedom to choose your own wife,” Valarr snaps, his words sharp as the strike of a whip. “Why can I not?”
You hear your husband’s heavy sigh.
“I have done my duty, son. Therein lies the difference.”
“Indeed,” Valarr sneers. “Now that you have heirs, you may bed any fresh, pretty cunt you desire. Is that not right, father?”
Your chest tightens. Prince Valarr may have been unwelcoming, but he has never tossed such crude terms to your face. Tears hover beneath your lashes. You suppress them, your lip wobbling.
“The boy I raised would not speak with such a wicked tongue,” your husband says, his voice bleeding with disappointment. “I will speak to you when you remember your duty to this house.”
The irate stomp of your husband’s boots rises and fades. Silence then falls in the hall.
You close your eyes, willing yourself not to weep right here.
You remind yourself that those words were not designed for your ears. Still, despair squeezes your heart in its unforgiving fist. What have you done for him to loathe you so? What grave offense would warrant-
“I should kill you where you stand. How dare you spy on my father and I?”
You gasp, your eyes snapping open as a blade is pressed against your throat. Prince Valarr’s dagger. Angry, mismatched irises pin you into place.
Your pulse quickens.
“Apologies,” you croak, your eyes watering. “I was just-” The words stumble in your throat as the blade is pushed against your skin. A lone tear slides down your cheek.
Valarr’s gaze narrows, suspicion laced in his tone.
“Is this what you are, a spy? Sent here by the Blackfyre traitors mayhaps…It would make quite a bit of sense.”
An anxious squeal escapes your lips.
“I’m not a spy, my lord."
You gulp in a large breath, gathering the nerve to ask the question that has sizzled your insides since you first met him.
“Why do you abhor me so much, my lord?” you blurt out.
Valarr freezes at that, his eyes widening.
“My lord, Valarr…” you stammer, acutely aware of your pulse singing under the tip of his blade. “I have tried so hard to be agreeable yet you seem to hate me for the mere fact that I draw breath.” Flames dance in his eyes as he gapes at you, silence stretching to the point of discomfort. You quell your fear and mumble, “Have I done anything to hurt or offend you?”
The prince’s gaze narrows.
“You do not get to interrogate me, or question me,” he hisses, his dagger traveling down your flesh, along your heaving chest.
“You are a plague upon my house. A curse.” His eyes follow the path of his blade, his breath growing more erratic. His voice deepens, hoarse and hateful. “Your very existence fills me with rage. A rage I cannot contain.” He removes his blade, instead wrapping his hand around your throat. His voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Every time I see you, I just…I do not feel as myself, and I hate it. I hate what the mere sight, the mere thought of you does to me.”
His heavy, chaotic breaths flow over your face, his fingers squeezing your neck. You whine at the pressure and he releases you, his eyes wide and panicked.
He slams his fist besides your head into the wall. You leap in fear. He narrowly missed your face.
“Begone, mother…before I do something I regret,” he snarls.
Not having to be told twice, you gather your dress and race back to your chambers.
After the events of the throne room, you are the one keeping your distance from Prince Valarr. Even if you were aware he wasn’t fond of you, you didn’t expect such venom spilling from his mouth. Every time you remember his cruel words, tears rush to your eyes. You did not think it possible for someone to harbor such deep-seated hatred for you.
At least, you find comfort in your husband’s arms.
While he notices your melancholy, Baelor doesn’t press you to confess what’s gnawing at you. Thankfully. You decide to keep Prince Valarr's words to yourself. It would break Baelor’s heart. And what purpose would that serve? There is enough misery in you already. You do not wish for that burden to be shared with your husband, not when so much already rests upon his shoulders.
“I have to leave Dragonstone for a few weeks,” he announces one night as you lie in bed together.
You sit up, tugging the sheet against your bare frame.
“What?”
Baelor cups your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheeks.
“There is a Blackfyre uprising in the south. We must crush it before it is too late.”
Your heart plummets. You know that men must sometimes head to war. Such is the way of things. But you don’t want yours on a battlefield, in harm’s way. So often men leave and never return.
Your brows thread into a worried frown.
“Cannot your brother Maekar settle it on his own?”
His expression softens as he strokes your hair.
“What kind of future king cower from a minor rebellion?”
Understanding fills you, though in that moment you hate Baelor for being so honorable, so dutiful. You wish he were more selfish, selfish enough to stay besides you. But you know if he were selfish, he wouldn’t be your Baelor. He wouldn't be the man who owns your heart, body and soul.
He lifts your chin, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead.
“Although duty calls my name, my heart calls yours always,” he utters softly.
Your heart swells and shrivels all at once.
“If I could stay, I would, sweet girl,” he says, studying your sombre expression.
Resignation laces your tone. “I know.”
“Valarr will protect you in my absence.”
You go still, a chill traveling down your spine.
“I know there have been…hurdles. But he is my son. He will do what honor demands. You are safe with him.”
You swallow your words. Your husband is about to go to war. His mind must be clear, free of worries or distractions. You cannot cost him his life with petty grievances.
You give a bright smile.
“Of course, my love. I will pray to the gods everyday for your safe return.”
Fondness glimmers in his mismatched gaze.
You pin him with a stern stare, lifting your finger.
“Do not make me a widow, Baelor…or I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you again myself.”
Baelor grabs you by the waist, pinning you under him as you both laugh.
The day Baelor leaves, you feel as if a piece of your heart tore from your chest and walked away. The day itself mirrors your gloom, angry clouds roaring above Dragonstone, rain pouring down in thick sheets over the castle. Your desperation hit such a nadir that you begged your husband to take you with him the night before, but he reminded you that a woman’s place isn’t on a battlefield. You argued that your place is wherever he is and he gave you a smile that shattered your heart.
You lie in bed the entire day. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do nothing but stare at the cold, empty space in the bed where your husband used to be.
Of course, Baelor’s words echo in your head. A minor rebellion. But how often do men go away to settle a minor rebellion, a trivial skirmish or enter a meager tourney to lose their life when the gods flip a coin?
“You have not eaten today. Come.”
Prince Valarr’s sharp tone startles you. Your gaze lands on his form near the door.
You ignore him, burying yourself further in the bed.
“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you counter, injecting all the meager authority you can in your feeble voice.
A deep sigh ripples through the room.
“My father told me to keep you safe. I intend to keep that vow.”
A sad laugh bursts from your lips.
“Even if you despise me?” you mumble.
“Come down and eat.”
“I’ve no appetite.”
“I care not. You will eat.”
His tone is icier. When you refuse to move, Prince Valarr does. Quick as lightning, he picks up your limp form from the bed and strides out of the room.
Your protests are ignored, Valarr’s expression determined as he stomps to the Great Hall, cradling you in his arms.
The prince all but drops you in a chair at the dining table before finding his own seat. Your eyes drift to Baelor’s empty seat at the head of the table. Your chest tightens.
Valarr’s mismatched gaze follows yours and his jaw ticks.
“He will return,” he states as a servant places a steaming plate of stew in front of you. “There is no warrior more fierce and capable than my father. Now eat.”
Impatience twists his boyish features.
“In my father’s absence, I am the lord of this castle. I command you to eat, lest I find less…pleasant ways to make sure you do.”
You shudder. Fingers wobbling, you collect the spoon but your stomach lurches at the sight of food.
“Please eat, my lady,” a familiar voice erupts besides you.
You blink, dazed. Little Matarys. The young prince’s expression is etched with concern. You didn’t realize he was here. Your mind lingers in a fog you can’t find your way out of.
Valarr rises from his seat, makes his way to you. He looms over you, his scent coating your senses.
His heated whisper tickles your earshell.
“What will my father say when he comes home and finds a skeleton waiting for him instead of his wife?”
His blunt words stab at your bleeding heart. Hand shaking, you take a slow sip of the stew. With every bite, you think of Baelor. He would hate to see you like this. You are a dragon’s wife. You must be strong, resilient. Your grip tightens on the spoon.
Beneath Prince Valarr’s watchful eye, you finish your plate.
The days fly by, each harder than the last, your husband’s absence carving a deeper hole inside you. The days erode into weeks. During these desolate times, Prince Valarr cares for you the way he promised he would. To your surprise, your stepson is the one reminding you to sustain yourself each day, displaying a care you did not think was in him. You learn to stand tall in your agonizing wait. Little Matarys’ gentleness helps. The long walks on the beach and games of cyvasse by the fire you play with the little boy help ease his father’s absence. While Prince Valarr’s gaze never sways from you, he makes no attempts at warmth or kindness, always keeping a careful distance. You’ve grown so used to the prince’s hostility that it leaves you numb. You just long for your husband’s swift return.
Every day you light a candle for him in the Sept, begging the gods to return him to you whole.
Most days, you hold on. You cry yourself to sleep no longer.
But tonight is different. A storm breaks out near the shore, dusky thunderclouds raging over Dragonstone.
You sit against the wall near the wooden wardrobe, your huddled form shivering.
You’ve been terrified of storms since you were a little girl. Baelor knows that. Whenever the heavens raged, he would cradle you against him, his deep, tranquil voice lulling into a sense of calm. He would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead, and never let go until slumber found you. With Baelor’s soft touch, the storm fell away, becoming a distant rumble.
In his absence you cannot stop shaking. The sky seems as if it might split open and the roof appears on the brink of collapse. You rock yourself back and forth on the floor, hands covering your ears to muffle the noise.
“My Lady?”
You lift your head, startled when a mismatched gaze fills your vision.
Hope flares inside your chest, tears filling your eyes.
“Baelor…” you mumble, overwhelmed with emotion.
“I’m not him.”
Your eyes round as you are yanked back to reality, realizing you are looking into Valarr’s eyes. You forgot how eerily similar they are to your husband’s.
The prince's jaw clenches as he studies you, kneeling before you, a flickering candlelight in his hand. You note that he dons a simple loose shirt and breeches, a sharp contrast to the armor you are so used to seeing him in. The candlelight casts shifting shadows over his face.
“Why are you…what are you doing here, Valarr?” you ask, shuddering as a bolt of lightning appears behind the window, heavy rain slamming against the glass.
“You are scared of storms,” Valarr says, like it's obvious. “I wanted to ensure your well-being.”
Your brows knit.
“How do you know that?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m scared of storms.”
Silence lingers, the prince’s gaze drifting away from yours.
“My father told me.”
He clears his throat and offers his free hand, helping you to your feet.
He leads you to the bed and you sit on the edge, your fingers trembling in his, your attention glued to the window.
“It is alright. I’m with you,” Valarr assures, placing the candle on the night table.
He hesitates a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, tugging you into his embrace.
At first you are stunned. You freeze, completely still in Valarr’s arms. But it’s been so long since you’ve been held like this, felt safe like this. You surrender, sagging in Prince Valarr’s arms.
Fingers sweep over your hair, a soft voice pouring into your ear.
“You need never be scared when I’m with you.”
For a moment, you forget you are in Valarr’s arms. You imagine yourself in Baelor’s. In your mind, your husband is home. He is whole and he holds you through the storm the way he always does. Your arms wrap around Valarr’s neck. His hand settles on your back, traveling up and down in a soothing motion.
“I hate this,” you say.
“I know. I know,” he replies softly.
Remembering yourself, you retreat.
“Apologies, your highness.”
Valarr doesn’t pull away. He cradles your face, sweeping away your tears with his thumbs.
“You need not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”
The prince's gaze roams over your face, landing on your lips. Clouds mirroring the ones in the angry sky darken the prince’s gaze. He drags his thumb down your cheek, presses it against your mouth.
You girdle your breath.
“Truly…nothing.”
The prince’s mouth slams into yours. Your eyes go wide as his lips devour yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You bite his lip, groaning in protest. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, Prince Valarr’s kiss turning hungrier, feral.
He pushes you onto the bed, his mouth tracing awful, fiery trails on your neck. You push his face, his chest, whatever you can grab at. His iron grip fastens around your wrists, pinning them above your head.
Disbelief makes your head spin. You struggle beneath Valarr, fighting him harder as he spreads your legs, his hand creeping under your night shift.
“No…” Tears blurs your sight as his mouth travels down your chest, his lips latching around your nipple. His tongue swirls until your peak hardens. Your body shakes with sobs, your whimpers swallowed by the rumbling thunder above Dragonstone.
The prince grunts as he cups your cunt, his thumb pressing into your tangle of nerves.
You shake your head, jolting as his thumb swirls around your sensitive nub. It grows swollen and slick under his hand. Your face heats.
“Highness…Valarr, you can’t…”
He buries two fingers between your folds. You gasp, your thighs closing around his hand. He thrusts inside you as you weep beneath him, the wet squelching melting with the sounds of the storm.
His breathy whisper flows over your face.
“I can’t stop…” He buries his fingers further inside you and you cry out, your back arching against the sheets. Valarr forces your thighs open with his knees, his hard tip nudging against your folds.
His long lashes flutter, an entranced expression on his face as he licks your essence off his fingers. You gape at him, horrified.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stop…”
He sinks into you to the hilt, drawing an ear-splitting scream from you. His hips collide with yours, the bed rattling with his frantic pace.
His chest brushes against yours, trapping you between his body and the bed.
Beads of sweat drip down his brow, landing on your face as he grunts above you.
He brings your wrist to his lips, dropping tender kisses there that twist your stomach in knots.
As you clench around him, your body betraying you, tears stream down your face.
Whenever your face turns, Valarr grips your chin, forcing your gaze to hold his as he ruts into you with abandon.
“Forgive me. Please, forgive me…” he repeats as he keeps slamming his hips into yours.
You lose track of time, going limp under him. You don’t remember when he leaves, when the storm ends. You only know one moment Prince Valarr was burying his cock inside you and the next, the sun is spilling through the velvet curtains.
You are alone in the bed. It is morning, you realize. For a few moments, you wonder if all of it was just a horrible nightmare conjured by the storm. You are wearing your shift, the sheets are clean. But the soreness in your limbs, the ache between your thighs…it’s all too real for all of it to be a dream. Your body tells the truth of what happened. You bring your fingers to your throat, your breaths growing erratic. You can still feel him, feel Valarr inside you. You rush to the nearest chamber pot and empty the meager contents of your stomach.
A maid barges into your room.
“He has returned, my lady!” she chimes.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, staggering to your feet.
“What?”
“Prince Baelor! He has returned from his travels.”
The blood rushes from your head to the bottom of your feet, the room tilting sideways around you.
“My lady! My lady!” the maid yells, catching you as you topple to the floor. The room darkens around you, pins and needles scattering on your arms.
As you lose consciousness, you hear the maid’s muffled scream.
“Get the maester! Now!”
When you awake, you are lying on a soft surface, Baelor’s tender expression crowding your vision. He looms over you, a smile tugging his lips as he strokes your hair.
“Well, it is far from the sort of reunion I had hoped for, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says. His teasing lilt summons tears in your eyes.
“Husband,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.
He chuckles, rubbing your back in that achingly familiar way. A quivering sob escapes your lips.
“Now, now, sweet girl…there is no need for tears. I am unharmed, am I not?” He lets you weep in his arms. You cannot stop the flow of tears. You cry for your husband’s safe return. You cry for what happened the night of the storm. You let yourself drown in a sea of emotions. The relief, the elation, the despair, the pain…and the sobering, aching realization you do not know how to tell Baelor the truth without ruining this fragile happiness.
He cradles your face, collecting your tears.
“We are both unharmed, both safe. Please, sweet girl, I loathe to see tears on that lovely face of yours.”
“Both unharmed, both safe...” you repeat, your stomach sinking.
“Valarr told me there was a chill with the storm yesterday.” The sound of your stepson’s name coming from his lips makes bile rise to your throat. Baelor's knuckles sweep over your cheek. “Mayhaps you have fallen ill.”
When you remain silent, Baelor gets to his feet.
“I shall leave you to rest.”
Your fingers clutch his, your expression pleading. You cannot bear to see your heart walk away. Not again. Not right now. You need him here, where you can see him, hear him, feel him.
“No, I beg of you, your Grace, stay.”
Baelor’s brow wrinkles in concern. His thumb rubs the inside of your palm. He sits beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Unleashing a heavy breath, you curl against him.
“Of course, sweet girl. Of course. I will not leave your side,” he whispers, his chin settling atop your head. You close your eyes, soaking his scent, the press of his body on yours, the soothing motion of his fingers over your hair. Fresh tears flood your sight.
Your fist tightens on his doublet.
“Do not leave me ever again. Swear it.”
“Alright. I swear it, my love.”
His lips brush against your forehead. The familiar tickle of his beard makes your stomach flutter.
“I will not leave your side…ever again.”
As you stand before the funeral pyre, the only thought in your head is that your husband lied to you. Fury mingles with grief. Baelor was supposed to stay by your side, to never leave you again. Yet he did. For good this time. Without a warning. Without a goodbye. Without giving you one last chance to look into his eyes and tell him how much you loved him. Just one more time…you wish you could tell him.
The trip to Ashford was supposed to be a mere courtesy appearance. Your husband was not even supposed to enter the lists. He did not even bring his own armor. He wore Valarr’s. He died in Valarr’s. And a small, shameful part of you wishes it had been Valarr, not your beloved, who fell in the tourney.
Your gaze swings to him. It is impossible to guess what thoughts lurk in the prince's head. His eyes are dry, unlike yours, the flames of the pyre dancing in his mismatched eyes.
You drag yourself away from the pyre, needing to be away from the scent of smoke, away from the smell of your husband’s burning remains. Your entire future, your love, your dreams…all gone up in flames and smoke.
You find a secluded spot in the grass. You completely sag in your spot, your body too heavy to carry. The air itself feels heavy. The beautiful sunset is a mockery to your grief. The lush forests are an offense to your loss. How dare the world go round, the sun still rise and dip on the horizon, the moon and stars still hang in the sky…when Baelor is dead. How dare the birds not stop singing, the wind not stop whistling, the waves not stop crashing against the rocky shores?
How dare the whole world not hold its breath when yours drew its last?
“We shall journey back to Dragonstone on the morrow.”
You are torn from your thoughts when Valarr’s voice shatters your peace.
Your voice rises, shaky but firm.
“Journey back to Dragonstone? My husband lies dead.” You hold Valarr’s gaze. “Lord Maekar arranged for me to board a ship so I may return home to my family.”
The prince’s jaw flares.
“I am your family, and Dragonstone is your home,” he says, his tone icy, resolute. “You were my father's responsibility and now, you are mine.”
Dread settles in your gut. After that awful stormy night, you avoided him. You never spoke a word of it to Baelor in the weeks that followed, burying the secret deep within your heart, so it may never hurt your husband. You are glad Baelor died thinking his son good and honorable, thinking him fit to carry his name and legacy. Still, you have no desire to be anywhere near Valarr ever again.
“I do not wish to return to Dragonstone with you, my lord. I have done my duty. It is only right for House Targaryen to release me.”
His gaze narrows.
“I do not care for what is right. I care that you stay where you belong.”
You lift your chin and get to your feet.
“I belong back home with my mother and father,” you say, starting to walk away from him.
His hand latches around your wrist. Your pulse quickens.
“No, you belong with me.” There is an edge of desperation to his words now. His fingers tighten on your wrist. “I will not lose both you and my father on the same day.”
“Apologies, my lord. It is done.”
You tug on your wrist but Valarr yanks harder, drawing a pained yelp from you. He drags you down to the grass, looming over you. His glistening eyes are brimming with emotions. Emotions that strangely mirror yours. Hatred, grief…utter despair. There's also that wicked glint of lust that chills your blood.
“I’m the one who ought to apologize, for not making myself more clear.”
Valarr pulls down his breeches and panic seizes you. You crawl to your feet but he's faster, shoving you onto the grass once more. His body traps yours, forcing you onto your stomach. You sob as he bunches your dress around your waist.
“You were my father’s…and now you are mine,” he mumbles against your ear, sinking himself completely into your dry entrance. Your nails break as you rake your fingers across the dirt, whimpering as he slams his hips into yours roughly. “And soon, you will be my lady wife, and I your lord husband.”
Valarr drapes his hand over your mouth, silencing your screams as his pelvis snaps into yours from behind. Tears blur your sight, your muffled pleas swallowed by the grass.
Prince Valarr’s warm breath tickles the back of your neck.
“So best you learn to obey, and take what I give you, my lady,” he says, his tone ripe with warning.
summary: your father never liked valarr's family, you never realized why until it was too late
pairings: valarr x reader
warnings: incest, dark!valarr, dub-con, non-con, smut, pinv sex, fem!reader, extreme violence, abusive father, manipulation, slight voyeurism if you squint, mdni, dead dove do not eat
word count: 2.9k
a/n: feel free to shoot me any asks i adore answering any questions about my work!
Your eyes. People always said you and Valarr had the same ones—two pairs of mismatched eyes. It was what first drew you to him. You were neighbours, if you could call it that. In this provincial rural town, houses were sparse and far between. Baelor had been childhood friends with your widowed father, but whatever happened between them before your birth–and your mother’s subsequent passing–seemed to sever that relationship entirely. Your father refused to speak about anything related to their family, but you could hear the hurt and hatred laced in his voice whenever he warned you to stay away from them. That didn’t stop your secret meetings with Valarr.
Valarr was now crawling through the narrow space you allotted through your window sill. He couldn’t help but fall for his kind-natured demeanour, but that night he seemed different. He was rough with you, as if he had just so many pent-up emotions. You didn’t mind him using you like that; he was yours just as much as you were his.
He didn’t bother prepping you at all that night, roughly bullying himself inside you with a groan whilst you yelped into your pillow–a feeble attempt at muffling your whines. His every thrust met the flesh of your ass; he was unrelenting. You could feel the stretch of your walls with every slide of his cock inside you. The growing arousal slowly soothed the dull ache from his harsh penetration, lubricating his shaft. He pushed up against you with his bare chest against your back, sandwiching you between your mattress and his chest as he continued to push himself further into you.
“You belong to me. You’ll always be mine no matter what. Nothing is going to take you away from me,” he groaned into your ear.
His pants tickled your ear as his ministrations became more erratic. He was throbbing and gripping your waist tighter. He was close. He was going to cum inside you.
“Valarr–Wait–Ah! Pull out!”
Your desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as he showed no signs of stopping. He was going to fill you with his essence, and there was nothing you could do about it. Despite your resistance, your cunt clenched violently around him, milking him for all that he was worth.
He pushed you further into the mattress as he made one last sharp thrust, making sure his cock tip pressed tightly against the entrance of your womb. Ropes and ropes of his seed flooded you; there was just so much of him. His panting and the continuous stream of his semen dulled your senses. He was leaking out of you around the sides of his softening cock.
Before you could truly bask in the aftermath, a harsh swing of the door brought both of you to your senses. Your father stood at the doorframe, his face twisted in horror.
“Have you two lost your minds? Get off her!” he lunged forward, grabbing Valarr by the shoulder and yanking him off you.
“Daddy! It’s not what it looks like!” You cried.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face flushed a deep, furious red. You had never seen him like this–never this angry.
“You will stay away from my daughter, do you hear me, boy! If I ever catch you near her again, I will make sure to gauge your eyes out!” He shoved Valarr toward the door, forcing him out, following close behind.
You didn’t know how much time passed. Only the sounds remained–heavy footsteps, shouting, the unmistakable struggle as your father chased Valarr from the house.
Then came the silence. The stairs creaked as he approached your room once more. The door slammed open again.
“Have you taken no heed of my words!? I’ve repeated myself repeatedly, yet you still defy me!” Your father incessantly screamed at you once returning.
You’re sobbing as you clutch the sheets closer to your chest, attempting to protect the little dignity you have left.
“It’s my fault. I should have done more to stop you from seeing him. I should have confined you to this house the moment I saw the way he was eyeing you. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make everything all right again.”
He grips your face with his hands, his dirt–ridden finger nails digging into your cheeks. You could feel the soot and grime smear on your face. He tosses your face aside, your father abruptly turns to the corner of your room to retrieve your pink baseball bat. You haven’t touched the thing since you were eleven.
“Daddy… what are you doing?” You’re scooting back now, desperately pleading with your eyes as your face stained with your tears.
“This is going to hurt. But it’s for the best, sweetheart.You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
You scream as you try to make a run for it. You barely made it halfway across the room before your father yanked you back by your hair, the strands tucking harshly on your scalp. You let out a pathetic whimper as you toppled to the ground. You’re scrambling backwards as he slowly trudged towards your fallen figure.
“Please, Dad–I won’t do it again. Please,” you plead between sobs, praying he’ll relent.
You let out a terrified scream before he lifted the bat and swung harshly at your leg. A grotesque cracking sound reverberated through the room as you felt unbearable pain radiating all throughout your leg as he swung again, you fell to the ground completely, your hair sticking to your wet face as you went in and out of consciousness. Your leg is nothing but a lingering numbness now as he continued to swing at the limb.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You weren’t sure how many days it had been since that night. The days came and went, but Valarr never did. You had almost thought he had given up on you. Almost. So when the familiar tapping against your window came, you didn’t think twice before rushing to slide it open.
“You came,” you sighed in relief.
“Of course. I would never leave you here alone.” Valarr climbed into the room before dusting his jeans off. “I missed you.”
Bruises bloomed across his cheek, marring his beautiful previously untouched face. It seems he didn’t leave the incident unscathed either. You slowly brought your hand to his face, cupping his cheek gently. He melted into your touch, bringing his hand to rest over yours.
“You’re hurt,” you state with a crack in your voice.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m much more worried about you,” he stepped back to examine you, “did he touch you anywhere?”
You looked down instinctively, and his gaze followed to see your awfully bruised leg.
“He did this to you,” it came out more like a statement than a question.
He quickly brought you in, embracing you in his arms. His touch consumed you, his face rested between the crook of your neck. He took a deep breath in, making sure to bask in your scent before bringing his lips to your ear.
“Let’s run away together.”
“What?”
You pulled away briefly, not because you didn’t want to, but because the fear from your father’s cruel punishment had laid rest deep within your bones.
“I–I can’t.”
“Why not!? You’re not safe here. Look at what he has done to you,” Valarr motions to your leg.
“I know–I know. I’m just… scared.”
“Don’t be,” he said softer now, “I’ll always be with you. I’ll make sure he never lays a hand on you again.”
He brings you back into his arms to caress.
“Where would we go?” You ask after a long pause.
“My mother had a house down south,” he said. “Before she married my father. We could make it there by tomorrow if we leave tonight. I don’t think anyone’s there anymore.”
You don’t answer. You didn’t have to. Valarr knew in his heart that you would follow him to the end of the world. And he was right. You two left that night.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It had been a year since you two fled from that place.
You were worried at first, believing that your father would find you two before you could truly settle down. What had come for you two wasn’t your father nor Valarr’s, but a sequence of symptoms. It started small. A feeling you couldn’t shake. Like something was wrong, just beneath the surface. Then came the tremors. The clumsiness. The way your hands wouldn’t quite listen to you. Valarr brushed it off at first–stress, he said. Everything you’d been through. But when it started happening to him too, he stopped dismissing it. He insisted on seeing a doctor. You didn’t want to at first but with some assurance you went.
The town was a small and quiet place. The kind of place people didn’t ask too many questions. The clinic was even smaller–cramped and stuffy. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to everything. Instruments you didn’t recognize gleamed under harsh lighting as the doctor moved around you, poking and prodding with casualness that unnerved you.
“Y’all have beautiful eyes,” the doctor said almost absentmindedly.
You laugh nervously, “We get that a lot.”
“Mhm. Don’t see that too often. Not around here at least.” The doctor scribbled something illegible on his clipboard.
You looked over next to you at Valarr anxiously, something about the doctor’s tone of voice unnerved you.
“Y’all new to town?” The doctor asked.
“Yea, we just moved here from a rural town up north,” Valarr answered smoothly.
The doctor hummed, like that was enough. “Couple, I’m guessing?”
Valarr’s hand found yours, giving it a light squeeze.
“Something like that,” you forced a smile.
“I saw on your chart,” he flipped a page, “you came in about a year ago for a broken leg.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Yes, sir,” Valarr said.
The doctor looked up briefly. “What caused the injury?”
You and Valarr paused neither of you making a move to respond.
“My fiancée’s father didn’t take too kindly to us being together,” Valarr replied.
The doctor studied the two of you for a moment longer than necessary before nodding. “That’s unfortunate, family can be like that.”
Valarr chuckled half heartedly.
“I saw on yer chart that y’all came in here a year ago for a broken leg. Does that have anything to do with it?” He continued to prod.
Valarr was silent for a beat before replying, “My pretty fiance over here’s father didn’t take too kindly to us being together.”
“Ah. I get that. My parents weren’t great people either.”
To hear the doctor put it so plainly was like a punch to the gut. You wanted to scream at him, tell him off, that he doesn’t get it at all. It was as though Valarr could sense your unease, he gently rested his hand over yours on the armrest, giving your hand a little squeeze.
“Alright, the blood work should be back any minute. I’ll take a look and come right back.” The doctor left the patient room after that.
You turned to Valarr whilst letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“I wish you didn’t have to tell him all that.”
“I know, darling. But we don’t have to be ashamed. I’m proud of us. Of you.” He leaned over to give you a quick peck on the lips.
That calmed you down, leaning into his affection. He always knew what to do to make you relax. One of the many things you loved about him. Then, breaking the two of you out of your trance, a knock was heard at the door.
“Come in,” Valarr called out.
The doctor stepped back into the room but something was off. The calmness in his posture no longer. His eyes lingered on the two of you in a way that made your skin prickle.
“The lab results came back.”
“And?” Valarr leaned forward expectantly.
“We’re pretty sure it’s Wilson’s disease. It’s treatable–manageable even, with the right care.” He was obviously still uncomfortable as he shifted on the spot.
“Then what’s wrong,” Valarr sounded agitated now.
“Well… it’s genetic. And with both of you presenting the same symptoms it’s likely you share some lineage.”
You went still.
“With the heterochromia,” he added carefully, “and you both being from the same small rural town… it raises some concerns.”
The room was silent. Your vision started getting blurry, your hearing static. You could see a blur in the corner of your eye of what seems to be Valarr standing up to go. You’re not sure what he’s saying; it was all just a mess.
Everyone always said you two had the same eyes.
Your father’s anger. His hatred for Valarr’s family. The refusal to talk about your mother. That night. The throbbing pain in your leg. Everything came rushing back all at once. He knew. He must have already known you two were related.
Valarr’s grip on your arm snapped you out of your daze.
“Come on. We’re getting out of here.” He’s dragging you out to the protest of the doctor.
“Wait–” the doctor called after you two. “I’m not making any accusations, I just–legally I can’t disclose anything anyway, but you should really–” he’s cut off by the slam of the door.
One moment you’re leaving the clinic and the next you two are home, back in your shared bedroom. The world didn’t seem right. You couldn’t focus on anything. Nothing was real.
“Are you still thinking about it? Don’t listen to him, they just want to separate us,” he’s cupping your face between his hands.
You instinctively flinch away, a look of hurt flashes across Valarr’s face.
“You don’t seriously believe him, do you?”
A beat passes.
“We have the same eyes, Valarr–and there’s my father–you saw how he reacted when he saw us together,” your voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “What if my dad isn’t really my dad? What if–”
You can’t bring yourself to say it.
Valarr doesn’t say anything. You wait patiently, hoping he would say something–to deny it. Laugh it off. Tell you you’re overthinking.
He doesn’t.
His eyes darken–something ugly flashing over his usually pristine eyes, before he took a step closer to you.
“You need to rest.”
“No!”
He takes another step forward. You’re getting a bit nervous now, taking a step back. This continues until you hit the edge of the bed.
“You’re hurting me, love,” Valarr wore a pained expression.
He pushes you onto the bed, moving himself atop of you before you can push him away.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Valarr–stop–” you’re pawing at his chest, but it’s no use. “You’re scaring me.”
He’s bunching your dress up your hips then, making a move to undo his belt.
“I’ll make everything all right again. Promise.”
He shuts up your protests by harshly kissing you. It’s rough and intense. You’re instinctively leaning into his touch, your body remembers him before you can fight it. You’re ashamed that you’re slowly soaking your panties. Despite your horror of it all, you can’t help but be aroused.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he’s lining himself up with your entrance.
Your eyes widen in horror at that, “You knew–”
You’re cut off by him thrusting himself fully to the hilt. You’re slick, making it easier for him to slide in. You’re gasping for air, both from the pain and the shock of it all.
“Ngh—I knew… that night—when he caught us. I found my father’s album… your mother—she was in every photo,” he grunted between thrusts.
You’re a mewling mess as he continues his assault on your unsuspecting cunt.
“She looks just like you, you know.”
You’re disgusted. By it all. By your half–brother lover and by the conversation at hand whilst he pistoned his hips to meet yours.
“Don’t–” It’s all you can force out before you moan from another one of his thrusts.
“Even if you’re my sister–I still love you. Is that wrong? Do I make you feel sick?” He moves his hand up your abdomen to your breast, giving it a quick squeeze.
You can only whine in protest.
He leans down to place kisses on your breasts.
“Valarr–” you can’t stay upset at him, as much as it disgusts you, he’s still your Valarr.
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re mine to love. Mine to fuck. Mine to hold. Nothing in the world could change that.”
You let out a deep, guttural sob. You still love him. You love your brother in a way sisters shouldn’t, and yet deep down you knew it never mattered.
“You are everything to me,” he whispers into your ear, his hand moving down to your clit, stroking it gently, a great juxtaposition to his relentless pace.
“Valarr–I’m going to cum,” you gasp out between half sobs and half moans.
“I know. I know, darling, let yourself go,” Valarr presses his forehead against yours as you come apart around his cock.
He thrusts into you faster, his breath becoming uneven as you grip around him.
“I love you.”
He makes eye contact with you as he pushes his cock to your cervix. He’s cumming inside you. He doesn’t bother pulling out despite being spent, using his girth to plug all the cum inside.
I was thinking about Curtis' Prized Possession Reader getting a little drunk.
On one hand, I imagine she wouldn't want to drink because it's even scarier to lose any bit of control and be less vigilant. Perhaps even Curtis makes sure she doesn't drink, he wants her fully responsive at all times.
But on the other hand, what if she's just the slightest bit tipsy. Maybe he made her accompany him and gave her a drink or two himself. Now she's more clingy, relaxed, cute giggle at something random. Maybe even blurts out she's horny.
Uninhibited
Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,863
Summary: It only takes a couple of drinks and a surprise encounter with a sweet, furry baby to have you letting your guard down for the first time in months.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Captivity. Soft!Dark!Curtis (shocking, I know lol). Mentions of alcohol consumption and gossipy, judgemental assholes. Unprotected sex. Allusions to oral sex (f receiving).
A/N: Eva, I absolutely love this ask, but for the life of me, I cannot imagine this Reader giggly and letting loose with Curtis, let alone blurting she’s horny lol. However, I did have a thot… 👀 and I hope you like what I came up with.
Please note: this does NOT directly follow the last installment, Tit for Tat, timeline wise. I would say it likely comes after Chase the Nightmares away but before Placate.
Prized Possession Masterlist
It had been so long since you had a drink, that after only one cocktail and a flute of champagne, you were feeling the effects of—and also regretting—being too nervous to eat all day.
But you couldn’t help it, because here you were at some fancy party hosted by one of Curtis’ mob associates. It was the first time he had taken you out with him publicly, and just as you had feared, as soon as you had stepped foot in the room at his side—anchored close by his thick, possessive arm around your waist—the staring and whispering had begun.
Everyone knew who you were. What you were.
Curtis’ prize.
You felt your insides wilt the further Curtis had led you into the ballroom, and when he had surprisingly offered you a drink, encouraging you to, “Loosen up, pretty prize,” you had accepted.
Now, an hour or so later, as you slipped from the fancy bathroom a few halls over from the party, you felt a little lightheaded but also so relieved to have a moment away from it all.
You were taking a few slow, steady breaths to try to reinforce your armor, to feel more in control, when you heard it.
A tiny, quiet mew.
Perking up, you tentatively moved further down the hall, further away from the party and deeper into the opulent manor belonging to the party host, who was a complete stranger to you and probably just as terrible as Curtis.
A few more yards and half a dozen quiet meows later, you stepped into what looked like a child’s room. Just across the floor, clambering out of a plush cat bed, was a tiny white kitten who only meowed louder when it saw you.
“Oh my gosh!” You breathed, a genuine smile splitting your lips as you rushed across the large room and sank to your knees without care.
Why should you care if the expensive, fancy gown Curtis had picked out for you was now pooling on the floor? Or that the sweet little ball of excitement hopping toward you would likely get fur all over it?
You couldn’t even remember the last time you had seen a kitten, let alone played with one. Probably not since you were a child, and in this moment, you felt as innocent and carefree as one as you cooed at the furry baby and lifted it between your hands to get a better look at it.
“Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” You gushed as the kitten continued to wiggle and chirp some more under your full attention.
Giggling, you cradled it against your chest, giving it gentle scritches atop its head. When it started to purr–much louder than you expected from such a tiny creature–you outright laughed for the first time in you couldn’t remember how long.
Soon, you were giggling and cooing up a storm–completely uninhibited in a way you hadn’t been in so, so long–as the kitten squirmed from your hold and began to jump and pounce along the folds of your dress that you used as a makeshift toy to entertain it.
And that’s how Curtis found you minutes later.
Sat on the floor, your gown spread around you as you giggled and played with the kitten, completely oblivious to his presence and the way he watched you for a few long moments, mesmerized.
Because in all the months that you had been with him, Curtis had never heard you giggle or laugh. He had never seen you smile so freely and without reserve. He had never heard you talk in a silly baby voice or see you be so gentle with such a vulnerable creature.
It was like you had escaped the dark shadows of his world–the mob underbelly–and returned to your rightful place, one that allowed your light to shine–and that light, it was such a rare commodity in Curtis’ world.
It allowed him to witness a new side to you, which only made him want to possess you more ardently than ever before. It made Curtis want to greedily claim you and covet that pure light of yours all for himself, like a dragon hoarding a precious treasure.
Without realizing it, he took a step toward you, his weight making the floor creak and alerting you to his presence.
Your head snapped up, and as soon as you saw him, your smile dropped. The joy that had lit your face was instantly snuffed out as you protectively cradled the kitten against your chest and stared at Curtis in fear.
“Please, I’m sorry—“ you started, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand.
“Relax, pretty prize.” Curtis kept his steps slow and even as he moved closer. “Seems like you snuck away and found the best company at this thing.”
You were stunned–and wary–as Curtis crouched beside you and reached out his big hand. It was a protective instinct that you didn’t have time to think better of or suppress, recoiling from him and taking the kitten with you.
But Curtis just seemed amused as he watched you, his eyes gleaming as his lips twitched and he murmured, “You think I’d hurt it?”
“Can you blame me?” you replied without thinking, your own eyes widening as you cursed having touched even a sip of alcohol if this was the result–being dangerously bold with someone who could truly make you pay for it.
Smirking, Curtis held your gaze as he once again reached out, clocking the way you stiffened but didn’t recoil this time as he used one long, lone finger to gently pet along the kitten’s head.
You deflated with a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as the kitten began another round of loud purrs, and it seemed as if you thankfully hadn’t stoked Curtis’ ire by hiding away in here and then practically sassing him due to your less than sober state.
All too soon, Curtis was lifting the sleeping kitten from your hold, grinning as you pouted at him but didn’t object as he moved to place the kitten in its bed. Your lips tilted into an almost smile as you watched the kitten turn in circles a few times before eventually curling up and falling into a peaceful, sound sleep.
You were so busy watching the kitten, you didn’t realize Curtis was just as avidly watching you. Not until he stroked your cheek just as softly as he had petted the kitten just moments ago, and you turned to him to find his darker-than-normal gaze intently fixed on you.
“Sometimes I forget how sweet you are,” he husked, his knuckles gently drawing down the length of your throat and making you shiver.
It was instant the way your body perked up in awareness—throbbing with a shameful interest and need—as Curtis continued to gently touch you. Until you were squirming and avoiding his gaze, wishing that he didn’t have such a primal effect on you always.
After everything.
“You look very pretty tonight,” he murmured, gently stroking beneath your chin before tilting your shy gaze up to meet his.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Your eyes started to fall away again, but Curtis’ touch shifted, until he was gently gripping the front of your neck and holding your head aloft.
Your gasp was sharp and startled—scared—as you met his gaze. “Please,” you trembled. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hurt you,” Curtis hummed. “I want to make you feel good.”
You were startled for an entirely different reason now as Curtis swiftly rose to his feet, gripping your hand to take you along with him. A moment later, you were down the hall in a spare bedroom, pressed up against the closed door as Curtis kissed you so hungrily, there was no other word for it than ravished.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or the reprieve from prying eyes and gossip that had greeted you at the start of the night–or maybe it was just your traitorous body finally luring your frazzled mind to the dark side–but when Curtis’ hand began to descend your body, when it worked its way beneath the long folds of your skirt, then between your thighs, you welcomed his sinful touch.
You begged for it.
“Please,” you gasped, your head falling back as Curtis’ lips blazed a hot trail of kisses down your throat.
“You’ve got me aching, I’m so hard for you,” Curtis gristled against your neck, giving a nip sharp enough to make you whine in need before his tongue soothed over your skin.
You were so wet by the time Curtis sank into you, that he bottomed out in one slow, deep thrust that had you both moaning as his forehead dropped to yours. You panted and squirmed as your pussy fluttered and clamped around him, earning another throaty groan from Curtis before he started to move inside of you.
He kept his promise and didn’t hurt you, but your coupling was quick and rough–desperatre. Your bodies rutted against one another, your moans smothered against each other's lips until you were cumming with a sharp cry of delight and clinging to Curtis’ broad shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.
“Fuck,” he grunted, burying himself as deep inside your cunt as he could before giving shallow ruts as he came and pumped you full of his seed.
You shivered as the warmth of his pleasure bloomed inside of you, making your pussy flutter all over again as you sank back against the door, completely boneless and dazed to boot.
And–as Curtis had promised–feeling good.
So good that you didn’t want this moment to end, and when Curtis went to pull away, you clung to him, giving sleepy blinks and a discontent pout that made his lips twitch and his eyes dance at you.
“Come on, pretty prize, this party’s a bust, and I’d much rather get you home where I can eat your sweet, needy cunt at my leisure.”
Laughing as he felt you clench in response to his words, Curtis finally pulled away. He took a moment to put himself back together again, then another moment to do the same for you.
When he glanced up, Curtis found you watching him with a furrow between your brow. Whether it was due to his rare, gentle caretaking, or your own contentment in this moment, he wasn’t sure, but regardless, he caught your chin with his fingers and leaned in to kiss you slowly.
You made a soft, sweet sound of surprise against his lips that had Curtis smirking as he pulled away, and when you swayed after him–mindlessly chasing his retreat–a deep rumble of satisfaction vibrated his chest as he touched his lips to your forehead and hummed, “You’re so fucking sweet.”
Then, much like you had started the evening, you ended it nearly the same way–with Curtis’ thick arm curled around your waist. Only this time, he was leading you from the room–and the party altogether–shouldering most of your weight as you struggled to walk on your jelly-like legs, uncaring of the numerous gazes and judgemental whispers that accompanied your departure.
He’s such a mindfuck 😩 But also: I’m so here for it.
—
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(Warnings: implied kidnapping, captivity, implied punishments, yandere, non con touching, a bunch of mermaids drag you down into the ocean so they can stare at you all day WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME)
Merfolk and humans share many similarities.
Humans love animals, many often make great strides to ensure the pets they keep are healthy. You knew of many cat owners and dog owners in your time on land. A few humans also opt for taking care of more exotic creatures: reptiles, birds, insects. Though they aren't the most traditional, it's clear they love their animals just as much.
Merfolks also enjoy being pet owners. They mainly keep humans.
You stare at the mirror. The dress looks more like it's wearing you, rather than the other way around. It's frumpy, with frills and bows in every place you look. Impractical, is the only word you can describe it as. The heels weren't any better, already constricting your feet. You'd fall if you took two steps. Luckily, you didn't have anywhere to go.
If it were up to you, you would have burned the dress a long time ago. Unfortunately, your owner would not appreciate your lack of gratitude.
There's a soft tap on the glass. You'd like to ignore it, but you know better. Merfolk are prideful as they are beautiful. You remembered the last time you stubbornly ignored a visitor. Some nights, you can still feel the water in your lungs, the taste of seawater in the back of your throat.
You reluctantly rise up from the vanity mirror. The walk to the end of the room is short and yet daunting. It's not so much of a room than it is a bubble. The space is larger than a house, with a ceiling that stretches tens of feet above you. It's more of a ballroom, packed with things that resembled a home: a bed, a mirror, a desk, a bathtub.
There were no walls, nothing but crystal clear glass. Why would a pet need a silly thing such as privacy?
Scarlet red hair and a long tail greet you. He looks enthusiastic as soon as you meet his gaze, spinning and bobbing in the water.
"Eiji." You greet, hoping your voice and smile is soft and sweet-just the way he likes it.
Kirishima seems satisfied with your act. His grin deepens, showing you his sharp teeth.
"I missed you!" He says your name with a happy thrill. "Did you miss me? It's been so long since I last saw you. Is Momo treating you well?" He frowns, clawed hands scraping at the glass that divides the both of you.
His voice is slightly muffled, but you can hear him just fine. Unlike the others, Kirishima is specifically prohibited from entering your terrarium. He's too brash, too reckless, uncontrollable. Those are the traits Momo often complains about. You've seen the way he ripped apart a human ship with his bare hands, all with a smile on his face.
For once, you and your owner share the same sentiments.
"She's been well to me. Everyone has." You insist.
He brightens. "Oh! I have a gift for you." He unveils his hand.
A pretty necklace sits in his palm. It gently floats in the current.
"It's beautiful." You awe. "Is it for me? Thank you."
He nods excitedly, preening and your acceptance.
"Is Momo here? I'll give it to her." He suggests.
You give an apologetic smile. "She's out with Jirou. I'll let her know you came by." You suggest.
"That's okay!" He tells you. "In that case, why don't you let me in?"
You can feel your smile freeze on your lips.
"Oh..." you trail off, pretending to think, pretending that your heart isn't pounding in your chest. "I'm not sure if Momo would like that."
"It's okay." Kirishima tries to assuage your concerns. "She won't have to know. It'll be our little secret." He winks.
When you continue to hesitate, his smile starts to fade.
"Do you not like me?"
"What?" You backtrack. "It's not like that. I just-"
"I'm the only one not allowed to come see you and touch you." His voice drops. His tone shifts from a whine to something more akin to a growl. "I can only talk to you with this wall stuck between us!" He presses harder against the glass. You swear you heard it crack.
"I don't get it, why don't you want to let me in, why don't you want to-"
He's cut off by a hand yanking on his hair.
"You're not allowed in 'cuz you're a dumbass." Bakugou gruffs out.
Immediately, Kirishima reverts back to his original self. He whines as he holds his hair, complaining about how rough the other merfolk was. Bakugou hardly seems to care about his grievance. His red eyes focus on you.
You stare right back.
While Kirishima was built like a tank, Bakugou was built for agility. He’s far longer than Eijirou, with an orange and black tale that glimmers like gold in the sunlight. The fins on his face and hands are the same pattern. His neck is often covered in necklaces covered in gems and shark teeth. He never fails to stand out.
Much like Kirishima, Bakugou also seemed to respond well to your placating, though he isn't as expressive. He and Kirishima often visit you at the same time. You think it's intentional on Bakugou's part. He seems to like to step in and play hero when Kirishima grows too erratic. You arch your lips in a smile, trying to look relieved and happy to see him, despite the flip-flopping in your stomach. His red eyes simmer a bit.
Then, he looks down at your outfit and scoffs.
"The fuck are you wearing?" He asks.
You glance down, looking at the ridiculous amount of frills and bows.
"Momo gave it to me." You could only answer.
"Course she did." He sneers. "Always had a shit sense of fashion."
His lips curl as he surveys you a bit more. You don't like the look in his eyes.
"You need something that shows more skin." He decides on.
Kirishima floats next to him. He tilts his head as he looks at you.
“That’s a good idea.” He agrees. “Maybe something a bit more red.”
It’s odd how naked they make you feel sometimes, like you’re nothing but fillet freshly served and ready for them to eat.
That’s probably how they saw you.
Bakugou retreats slightly. They exchange glances.
“We have to go,” Kirishima says, clearly disappointed. “I’m sorry. I promise to visit you as soon as I can tomorrow.”
You wave him off as he disappears into the murky sea. Bakugou starts to follow but he hesitates.
He looks once more over your dress.
“I’ll find you something.” You don’t know if that promise is to you or himself. He’s gone with the flick of his orange tail.
You finally take your first real breath of air in minutes.
~
In the center of your terrarium, sits a large pool of water that gradually seeps up from below.
It’s where most of the merfolk like to visit you. Talking behind the glass is mostly reserved for quick visits. During their leisure, most of them like to sit at the edge of the pool, swishing their tails back and forth as you obediently sit beside them.
Though you’d never admit it, you did have your favorite share of visitors. Perhaps favorite isn’t the best term. Most tolerable. You liked Jirou, the more musically inclined of the merfolk. She’s not a big fan of touching, happy to sit at the pool and hum tunes.
Sometimes, she goes a bit overboard, gets caught up in her songs, and starts to really sing. She typically stops when your nose bleeds and your head feels like it’s about to crack open. Mermaid songs aren’t made for human ears.
Iida is another one who is on the tolerable side. You don’t like how coddling he is sometimes, but he’s pretty respectful. He isn’t too keen on touching, either. You can’t tell if it’s the genuine lack of desire, or the fear of never getting enough once he does. Sometimes, you can see his fingers twitch and his mouth clench in a way that you force yourself to ignore.
Midoriya and Ochako have no such regulations.
“Is that the dress Momo gave you?” Ochako asks when she floats up to you. Without hesitation, she reaches out and lightly tugs on a bow.
“It’s adorable!” She squealed.
Beside her, Midoriya grins. “The color suits you.” He compliments.
“Thank you.” You tell them both, allowing Midoriya to fiddle with your shoes with scarred hands.
You’re pretty sure it’s his favorite part of you. When you first became Momo’s, Midoriya could not take his eyes off of you. You often wondered if you were the first human he’d ever met. He always seemed to watch your every move, memorizing every action you did. At least, he has the decency to look bashful every time he gets caught looking up your skirt.
Ochako is a bit more obvious with her interest. Her hands often stop lingering right at your thighs, mostly because she knows she’s not allowed to go any further. You have this scary thought that if Momo was any less restrictive of you, Ochako wouldn’t ever stop exploring every nook and crevice your clothes hid away.
Eventually, you fade into the background as the two friends catch up with eachother. They talk about their lives, what they’ve been up to, small talk. It reminds you of the talks you had with your own friends all those years ago, before you were dragged down into the depths by slender hands and pretty lips.
“Did you hear about Todoroki’s newest human?” Ochako asks.
Midoriya gives her a sympathetic look. “I heard. Poor thing. He only had that one for a few weeks, too.”
From your brief glimpse into merfolk culture, it seems only a certain type of merfolk are able to obtain and keep humans. Momo is one of them, which is why so many flock to her terrarium, eager for a glimpse of you.
The other is Todoroki.
Unlike the others, you never knew how to treat Todoroki. He never seemed to respond to your placating, or your feigns of appreciation to his appearance. His face remained blank every time he approached your terrarium. He hardly ever spoke. Despite being allowed to, he’s never once entered your terrarium.
He just watches. Every move you make. Every breath you take. He catalogs it all.
He keeps humans, too. Multiple. You hear he replaces them once a month.
Ochako seems to finally catch on that you’re listening. She coos, reaching out her hands. You obediently lean down to rest your face in her cradling fingers. Her claws ever so slightly scratch your checks.
“Did I scare you?” She asks. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry, nothing like that will happen to you.”
“Of course not.” Midoriya assures. “You’re so sweet. Momo would never replace you.”
Ironically, you often wished Momo would get bored of you and replace you. Especially in the beginning. You used to hope she’d find another human and forget all about you.
Maybe it’s a good thing you continue to hold her eyes to this day– considering what getting replaced means down here in the depths.
~
You never know what time it is.
The merfolk have no such thing as clocks, and sunlight does not reach this far in this ocean. You have no idea if the sun or moon is out. The only light you have comes from the terrarium itself.
It’s scary to think that all that’s between you and the tumultuous sea is delicate glass. One tiny crack, a miniscule chink in your frail armor, and it could all come crashing down. Millions upon millions of seawater would descend on you. You wouldn’t drown. You would be destroyed. Not a trace of you would be left behind.
There’s no way to tell time here, but you know it’s the end of the day when Momo comes back.
She slowly eases her way into the pool with the grace of a ballerina. Water drips from her pretty face and hair as she peers up at you with adoration. Silently, she lifts her hand out.
You step forward, uncaring about soaking your dress as you float into her arms. Momo grabs you when your feet can no longer touch the bottom. She brings you into her chest, face pressed into your neck.
“Welcome back.” You murmur.
“Thank you, darling.” She coos, inhaling your scent.
“Did you have a good day?”
You nod. She pulls back, searching your face.
“I heard Kirishima made a scuffle a while ago.” She frowns. “Did he scare you?”
You shake your head. She doesn’t buy it.
“I’ll be stricter on him going forward.” She tells herself.
A part of you hopes this means you won’t have to see him for a while. That’s usually what she meant.
She hums as she spins you around in the water. It feels like the two of you were dancing as she holds you against her, like she’s leading the waltz.
She glances down at your dress. “Do you like the dress?” She asks.
You nod. “I love it.” You tell her. “Thank you for giving it to me.”
“I ran into Bakugou, earlier. He certainly wasn’t a fan.” She rolls her eyes. “I believe his exact words were ‘a lump of shitty bows’.”
“He mentioned he’d bring me something else.” You offhandedly mention.
“Did he?” She wonders. “What do you think of that?”
You smile. “I appreciate anything everyone gives me. Especially you.”
She likes that answer. “What do you like about the dress?” She asks.
You look down at the soaked fabric. It’s ruined now, but neither of you care. She’s planning on getting you a new one tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.
“I like the color.” You tell her, trying to sound eager. “I just really love the shade. I also like the shoes. They may not be practicable but–”
You stop as soon as you hear those words. It was too late.
Momo’s eyes darken.
“You don’t like the shoes?”
“No!” You immediately backtrack. “I adore them! I–I meant they just weren’t the best for swimming, that’s all. They’re so beautiful, Momo. Every part of the dress is so beautiful.” The words rush out like vomit. Momo doesn’t seem to hear any of them.
She sets you down at the edge of the pool, pulling away. She refuses to look at you. In desperation, you try to reach her, trying to escape your fate.
“I’m sorry,” you tell her. Your voice trembles. “I–I didn’t mean it like that. I love the dress. I’m so sorry.”
Eventually, she sighs. She takes her hand in her own, pressing it to her cheek. Her skin is several degrees cooler than yours and stiff. It oddly feels like she’s dead.
“No, I’m sorry.” She tells you and she looks genuinely remorseful.
Your shoulders are about to sag in relief, when she continues.
“I haven’t trained you well.”
You try to smile. It comes out like a grimace.
“That’s not true,” you say.
She nods, continuing to lavish your body heat. “It is. You wouldn’t be so ungrateful, if I had.”
She hesitates at this next part.
“I was talking to Todoroki a while ago. He mentioned he had some experience with training humans. I think it would be a good idea if he kept you for a few days.”
Something lodges at the back of your throat. You want to scream.
“You want me to leave?” You ask instead, already on the brink of a breakdown.
She shakes her head, leaning up to give a kiss on your freezing cheek.
“I’ll never abandon you,” she tells you with unwavering eyes that almost make you want to believe her.
“But, it’s not good for either of us if you keep acting up like this. We need to deal with that somehow.”
Outburst. She considers a hint of criticism as an outburst, of you lashing out. Any hint of disobedience is shot down because pets aren’t allowed to complain.
She looks heartbroken as she looks at you. You feel her lips against hers as you remember cold eyes–one blue, the other black. Always watching. Never not watching.
“Maybe in a week." She hums. "You’ll see all that I do for you.”
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
Female Reader
Boys -> Hawks + Dabi + Bakugo
Warnings at each part (but the title is quite explicit, right?) + NSFW Link (be careful + on twitter (you need a account to see)
AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback + Gimme ideas
–
Hawks
-> Manipulation
Keigo is a cunning guy, always looking out for a way to get things done his way. He’s used to tricking people, using his tactics to reach his desired goals. But honestly? You have to be the biggest chump he’s ever met in his life.
Did you actually believe when he deeply sighed and pretended to relent to your begging, just before meekly offering you to walk away from him?
Did your ingenuous self really trust him when Keigo swore on his hero honor - what honor really? - that he’d let you go home, safe and sound?
But the reality is that you fell for it, like a bee attracted to honey. It’s moments like those that Keigo acknowledges how naive and kind-hearted you are. Too cute and good for this twisted, cruel world.
So that’s why a minor part of him is almost satisfied at the reluctance and doubt that shades your pretty face when he tells you the inflated price for your freedom.
You clearly don’t want to sleep with him. Your attempts to bargain are immediately turned down and it takes less than five minutes for you to crumble down.
Keigo almost feels bad at your distressed teary face. But hey, a win is a win.
You try to relax when he starts kissing and touching you. To be calm when he slowly starts making love to you.
But it feels so dead wrong and the overwhelming realization that Hawks was lying about letting you go finally hits you like a brick and you try to push him away, pointlessly make him get off from you.
But no point in that cause Keigo isn’t gonna let you go anywhere.
“Deal’s off, babe. I mean, I was willing to let you go and all, but since you ruined the whole mood…there was no need to fight me, ya know? I wasn’t forcing you into anything, was I? But since you broke your promise, I suppose I’m gonna have to keep you here with me.”
(VISUAL)
Dabi
-> Noncon
Dabi isn’t one to shy away from what he wants.
He takes what he wants, when he wants and how he wants and you don’t get any say in it.
So, if for a moment you actually believed you could argue or convince the black-haired villain to leave you alone, then you’re not up for a great start with him.
Dabi doesn’t care when you start crying, spirit battered over the small burns he gives you for trying to fight back. He doesn’t care for your wails of pain when he fucks you in the way he wants to.
Dabi is sadistic like that, he actually enjoys the terror that floods your entire face when he explains in extensive detail all the scary lustful needs he wants to fulfill by using you.
He’s definitely one to use tight ropes to bend you in uncomfortable positions when fucking you - just because they allow him better access and less struggle from you.
Doesn’t give a crap about your wellbeing or if you get to cum, those are unnecessary thoughts for him.
As long as Dabi gets to end his night with a few orgasms, he’s good.
“Oh sweetheart, there’s no point in begging. That’s not gonna change my mind. And can you even blame me? Just look at you, such a pretty body you have. You’re just too tempting to let go and trust me, I’m not planning to.”
(VISUAL)
Bakugo
-> Forced Oral - (male receiving)
Bakugo has mild-anger issues and everyone knows that so, if anything, it was entirely your fault for provoking the anger out of him.
You saw an opportunity to try an escape and you took it, even though it was meant to fail miserably.
Bakugo ends up wrestling you back inside the house, tightly clutching your hair as he angrily shouts at how much of an ungrateful brat you are.
He’s so damn pissed that you almost got away that he can’t control himself. All the adrenaline and anger mixing up in his blood and all he wants is to teach you a proper lesson. Scare you into submission. Make sure that you’ll never act up again.
His hands are cruel as he roughs you up a bit, ignoring your scared shrieks.
But the real punishment is the way he fucks your mouth.
His pace is so insanely fast, demanding and brutal, and he carries on without caring for the numerous times you gag and choke around his length, unable to pull away because of the vice grip he has on your scalp.
The way he facefucks you is humiliating and brutal, and the cherry on top of the cake is when Bakugo shoots his sticky cum all over your face before leaving you bruised up and with a hurting throat.
Afterwards, Bakugo might feel a bit bad because that’s definitely not how he planned your first time doing something intimate together, but on the bright side - you get much more obedient and calm towards him.
“The hell you giving me that pathetic look for, huh. You fuckin’ deserved that and you know that. Had you not acted all lunatic and none of this would’ve happened.”
Part 4 of the Betaverse Masterlist
Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Kotarou, Akaashi Keiji x female reader
w.c 8.7k
tw: a/b/o, yandere, noncon, smut, ptsd, blood and minor violence, forced claiming, nsfw
“You can’t not go.”
“I’ve spoken two whole sentences to the guy, and I’ve never watched a game of volleyball in my life,” you reply. Both of which are true. Not the entire reason, but valid objections all the same. “Besides, it wasn't like he invited me specifically. He invited the whole team, it was a general thing. He won’t even notice if I’m not there.”
Ino shrugs. She glances over her shoulder to check no one’s around and leans in close, lowering her voice.
“Yeah, but it’s not about him. The boss’ got a hard-on for Kuroo. His packmate’s some big-shot player in the league and he’s obsessed. Like, ultra fan-boy. He was standing right next to us when we got the invite. If you don’t go, he’ll notice and trust me, he’ll make it a thing.” She gives you a meaningful look as she draws back, patting you on the shoulder. “It’s a few hours, you’ll be fine.”
Your fucking boss.
The sole reason you went out with the rest of the team for drinks, the reason you didn’t – couldn’t – make a polite, if not hasty exit after finishing your first. The invite would’ve gone out regardless – you work in the same building, a few of the guys on your team close enough to call drinking buddies, hitting the same bars and hole in the wall joints after work – the only difference being that you wouldn’t have been a part of it.
‘Nothing beats courtside, ‘course, but it’s tradition to kick off the season at mine.’ Stuck between your coworkers, insides twisting into knots when those hazel eyes flicked your way, ‘You guys should come.’
And now, apparently, you don’t have a choice in the matter.
—
Not counting your boss, there’s ten of you on the team. One happily bonded omega, seven betas – including you and Ino – and two alphas; Sakai, in her mid-to-late 30’s and Junya, who’s two years younger than you and already working his way to his next promotion.
Nearly four months in, and you’ve finally gotten to a place where you don’t have the urge to flee any time either of them walks into the room. That’s progress.
Sakai’s got an omega of her own and Junya’s not interested in women, much less betas, and those facts should matter, they should make a difference, but they don’t.
Still. Baby steps.
—
There’s butterflies in your stomach. Not the kind you used to get back in school, making eyes across the room with your crush. Not the type to leave you warm and giddy. You feel faintly ill.
Your hands are clammy too, but short of anyone reaching for a handshake or a hug – unlikely – that’s a problem you can deal with.
You’ve been at Kuroo’s for twenty minutes already and the game doesn’t start for another fifteen.
You wander around with a glass of wine someone handed you that you haven’t touched, flitting on the outskirts of conversations that don’t include you, and while you do make an effort to appear present and attentive, laughing when everyone else does, a hum of agreement here and there, you find yourself more often that not staring at the furniture, the framed pictures on the walls. No specially lit trophy case or wall of medals, but–
“You look bored.”
The glass in your hand slips. Blame the sweaty palms or the way you spook like a startled animal – it crashes to the ground at your feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor, the wine you hadn’t touched drenching the front of your skirt and your shoes.
“Shit.”
Kuroo, who’d snuck up beside you, makes a choked noise of surprise. People stop talking, turn to gawk – only for a moment, but that moment stretches infinitely, in slow motion with a spotlight shined directly on you. Stupid, awkward, clumsy beta. Your cheeks burn.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jumpy little thing?” he drawls, nudging his shoulders teasingly against yours. Like you’re friends. Like this is funny.
And that, more than the shards of shattered glass at your feet or the wine staining your clothes, cracks like a hammer to your defences.
“I, um–” your throat’s too dry. “Sorry. I’ll go get…” you’re backing away, stumbling over your heels when there’s a light, fleeting touch to your wrist.
A pretty, auburn haired omega you hadn’t noticed before stands at your side, next to Kuroo. She offers a small, reassuring smile, “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll clean this up. Bathroom’s just over there,” she points, “if you need a sec.”
You take the out. Not a word to Kuroo or her or anybody else, scarpering off without a backwards glance.
There’s not a whole lot to be done for your skirt. With trembling hands and vision that blurs with stupid, ridiculous tears, you sponge it off best you can, leaving a giant wet spot that doesn’t look much better.
You need to pull yourself together.
It’d be bad enough if everyone out there were strangers you’d never have to see or speak to again, but these are the people you work with. They already believe you’re awkward and probably socially inept, you can’t have them thinking you’re going to unravel after a simple startle.
The worst part is, you’re fully aware this is an overreaction.
If you could, you’d change it. Rewire your brain so logic would overrule blind panic. One alpha hurt you, years ago. You can’t be spiralling into hysterics every time you’re forced into close proximity with another. By and large, alphas aren’t interested in betas, most won’t pay you a second thought, most don’t have bad intentions.
You need to get a fucking grip.
Deep breaths. Inhale through your nose, hold it, exhale through your mouth. Inhale, hold–
Exhale.
You breathe like that until your hands stop trembling and your pulse calms down. Until you don’t feel hunted, and when you stare in the mirror and school your features into something less haunted, still wan, still a little wide-eyed, the image of it holds.
As good as it’ll get.
You emerge from the bathroom steadier than when you went in, but rather than slipping back into the fray, you head for the balcony. The sun’s set, it’s cooler outside and you desperately need another minute to just breathe.
This time, you see him coming. Clock him peeling away from his friends’ conversation to follow you out. Dark haired, glasses, handsome with a somewhat serious mien. An alpha. He’s in a few of the photos you’ve seen tonight – the last of Kuroo’s packmates, if you had to guess, though if anyone mentioned his name, you’ve since forgotten it.
He stops a few feet away, leaning against the railing, head tilted your way. Casual, relaxed. Not far enough.
Your heart thuds off kilter.
“He wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” the stranger says after a long beat, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “It’s a natural talent of his, unfortunately.”
“W-what?”
“Kuroo,” he elaborates. “With the wine and all that. He wasn’t looking to scare you off.”
“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Um, yeah. No, it’s– it’s fine… Sorry I broke one of your glasses.”
“I think we’ll survive the loss.”
You don’t get it. He’s smiling, lightening the mood with dry humour, apologising for his packmate. There’s no move to close the distance between you, no hint of hostility or derision, and none of it is the slightest bit reassuring. None of it eases the prickling on the back of your neck or the vice-like constriction around your lungs. You turn to face the view, the glittering city lights miles away set against the violet sky, the whisper of a breeze blowing. It’s beautiful. Peaceful – or it would be, if he wasn’t boring holes into you with those flat, blue-grey eyes.
“Since I doubt Kuroo said anything, I’m Akaas–”
He’s cut off by someone calling your name. Both of you turn on instinct, you half expect it to be Ino, but standing in the open doorway, a faint frown marring her otherwise flawless face, is Sakai.
“The game’s about to start,” the female alpha says, a sharp, assessing gaze flickering between you two. It softens fractionally when it finally settles on you. “You should come back inside. It’s cold out here.”
You can count on your fingers the number of times Sakai’s spoken directly to you when it wasn’t work related. There’s no mistaking the concern etched in her brow, though. The look she flicks the other alpha when you wordlessly scurry past him.
She steps back, giving you plenty of space to get past her, and for the first time you wonder if the carefully maintained distance between you hasn’t entirely been a one-sided endeavour.
In a quiet voice, she asks, “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you lie.
—
Six days later, you’re waiting on the ground floor for the eternally slow elevator to ride up to your office when a woman steps up behind you, an omega, if the sweet scent of honeysuckle is anything to go by.
Since you don’t make it a habit to ogle random omegas, you simply shift a bit to the side to give her more space, attention already sliding back to the digital display above the elevator, tracking its crawling descent. For the life of you, you cannot understand how in a twenty storey building with three elevators, only one ever seems to be working at a time.
“Hi,” she says.
You don’t glance over, positive that she’s talking to somebody else. It’s only when there’s no immediate response, not even a tinny echo from down a phone line, that you turn to look at her fully, and in doing so, realise she’s speaking to you.
“… Hi,” you parrot back, awkwardly and a beat too late.
And then it hits you.
Auburn hair, pretty smile. You couldn’t smell the honeysuckle that night because, well, you weren’t exactly working at full capacity, what with your incoming breakdown and all. But you recognise her face now that you’re looking at her properly.
“Himari,” she supplies, not perturbed in the slightest. “I’m Himari, we met at Kuroo’s for the opening match the other night, I don’t know if you remember…” she trails off.
“Yeah, I remember.” Burned into your memory, more like. “Thank you, by the way.”
She waves off your gratitude as the elevator finally deigns to arrive. Both of you step inside, you first, with Himari behind you. “Which floor?” you ask, punching in fifteen for yourself.
“Eighteen.”
…Where Kuroo and the rest of the JVA work. Huh.
You suppose it makes sense. She was standing by Kuroo at the time, had offered to clean up the mess, which strongly suggested she was familiar navigating their home, either a close friend or their–
“You um, you and Kuroo?” you ask. With the sweater, skirt and boots combo she’s wearing, you can’t spot any claiming marks, but omegas aren’t always about flaunting those things. “You’re their mate?”
She blushes a darling pink. “Well, kind of. Almost. But I’m actually really glad I ran into you.”
The elevator climbs.
“You…are?”
She laughs, “Yeah, I am. I think we should go get coffee.”
The invite, if you can call it that, isn’t the strangest thing she could’ve come out with. People in elevators probably get asked out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Doesn’t make this situation any less bizarre.
“Coffee?”
“Or boba, or matcha, tea. Milkshakes. The beverage isn’t really the important bit.” She may as well be speaking French for how you blink uncomprehendingly at her. “Here, pass me your phone, let me give you my number.”
She holds out an expectant hand, and without conscious thought you dig through your purse and pass it to her, unlocked.
She hands it back a few seconds later, right as the elevator arrives on the fifteenth floor and the doors slide open.
“We’re gonna be good friends, I’ve got a sense for these kinda things.” She winks at you, “I’ll tell Kuroo you said hi.”
—
Back in high school, your best friend was an omega. She’s on the other side of the country now, all packed up and happily mated, but every now and then either she’ll reach out or you will, and it’s like no time’s passed at all. They can be finicky about odd things, and they get a little weird around their heats, but overall you’ve never had issues with omegas.
You don’t even have an issue with this omega. You’re just… a bit bewildered.
It has to be pity, right? The chances that watching you spin out in a giant overreaction to an alpha striking up a conversation endeared you to her in any way are slim to none, you can’t understand what else it could be if not pity.
There’s no denying you’re a mess – last week proved that – you’re working on it, but you aren’t some broken doll for anyone to fawn over and fix.
And yet, in spite of those misgivings, here you are. Standing outside the cute little brunch spot she’d messaged you about, wondering, not for the first time, whether you’re overthinking things. There is a slight possibility, you can concede, maybe, that there is no ulterior motive. That Himari’s genuinely interested in being friends, terrible first impressions notwithstanding. You’re afraid a lot of the time. Overwhelmed and easily panicked, but you aren’t a coward.
What’s the worst one over-friendly omega can do, you muse, dithering on the doorstep before you take a deep breath, force your shoulders to loosen and walk on in.
The universe, ever giving, is quick to provide you an answer.
In the cozy, well lit cafe, it’s easy to spot the auburn haired omega, and the tall, bespectacled alpha sitting beside her.
The sudden nausea that yanks deep in your belly, the panic sawing raggedly through your chest, those are familiar to you. Familiar, and deeply unpleasant.
He’s the one who catches sight of you first, a faint smile as he raises a hand in greeting.
You consider running. Well, running might be a bit dramatic. You consider ducking your head and sneaking out the door you just walked through, pretending you never saw them, never left home this morning, never responded to Himari’s messages at all. Much more rational.
Himari follows the alpha’s gaze and lights up when she sees you, beaming like you’re old friends.
Too late.
Mechanically, your legs jolt you forward. You work with alphas. You live and breathe and exist with alphas. You can handle coffee with one.
“I’m so glad you came,” Himari gushes when you reach the table. She’s already standing, leaning in to give you a hug. From your experience, omegas aren’t usually all that touchy feely with strangers, but she pulls you close enough that you swear she’s trying to scent you. “You remember Akaashi, right?”
Akaashi. He hadn’t told you his name that night– no. Sakai had interrupted him before he had the chance. Now, he’s watching you with the same placid expression, seemingly unbothered by his almost-omega’s overt affection towards you.
“Yeah, we only spoke for a minute, though.”
Akaashi hums, but chooses to say nothing. Fine by you.
“Anyway, don’t mind him,” Himari breezes on through. “If I’m out on my own for too long they get antsy, even if it’s just coffee with a friend. Trust me, if the other two weren’t busy, they’d be here, too.” She says it with an eye roll and a sigh, but there’s no real irritation there. Her hand’s resting on Akaashi’s, her chair tilted towards his. She thinks it’s dreamy. It sounds like the beginnings of a horror story to you.
For her sake, you hope they loosen up a bit after they bond. If they bond.
“You haven’t eaten, have you? This place does the most amazing pancakes. I know we said coffee, but you’ve got to try them. We can share if you’re not feeling all that hungry…?” she trails off with a hopeful expression.
“Uh, sure. Sounds good.”
“Don’t. She’ll order the matcha mochi ones. No one deserves that.”
Himari turns on him, mouth agape in mock offense. “What’s wrong with matcha mochi pancakes?” she demands.
Akaashi doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Tea doesn’t belong on pancakes.” His voice carries no heat, only a familiar sort of exasperation that makes you think this is an argument they’ve had before. To you, he says, “The strawberry one they do is pretty popular, you should go for that instead.”
You do, in the end, order the strawberry pancakes. Not because you particularly want them – the thought of eating could not be any less appealing right now – but because it is easier than picking up a menu and trying to parse it out when your brain won’t cooperate with you, and not ordering food will only make this whole thing more awkward than it already is.
“So,” Himari begins after the waitress leaves with a promise to return shortly with your drinks, “Kuroo’s only told us the basics. You started at your job a few months ago, right? Were you already living here, or did you move to the city for work?”
And so it begins.
You tell them bits and pieces. Nothing that comes close to touching your damage, nothing that you wouldn’t share with the friendly girl from your weekly, beta only yoga class.
You like your job just fine, but it wasn’t what you planned on doing career wise, you just sort of fell into it. No, you grew up in a smaller town down the coast, you’d be surprised if they recognised the name of it. You’ve been in the city for about a year now. A few of your cousins live here too, which is nice.
Only child, though you always wanted a big sister. Yeah, your parents are both betas, too. Most of your family is.
No, not really a volleyball fan, or a sports fan in general, but seeing the game was kind of cool, you guess. Your hobbies? Well, you’ve been getting into baking lately, um– stress baking. You’ve found a beginners yoga class nearby you like, even though you’re not great at it.
When your food arrives, you take it for the blessing it is.
You aren’t in the least bit hungry. You bite and chew and swallow, and all you can taste is the cloying sickliness of your own discomfort. But, with your mouth full and a stacked plate in front of you, there’s a temporary reprieve from the rapid fire interrogation, which means you’ll eat and be thankful for every bite.
Himari pouts at your pancakes like they’ve personally wronged her, and you wonder why Akaashi bothered to order at all when he spends less time eating than he does staring across the table at you. You can’t decide if there’s too much going on behind the blank affect, or if he’s genuinely bored out of his mind listening to his girlfriend/omega/almost-mate pepper you with questions.
To be polite, you ask a few in return between mouthfuls. How they met, whether she was a volleyball fan first, or if that came after, and while Himari answers each happily enough, it inevitably swings back to–
“What about you? You seeing anyone?”
“I’m married.”
You don’t know why you say it. You aren’t and never have been, and as far as jokes go, it isn’t particularly funny. It becomes even less so when, in an almost creepy synchronicity, Akaashi and Himari’s expressions drop and they snap their attention down to your left hand. Your bare left hand.
Made you look.
You chuckle awkwardly. Himari laughs, too, after she realises you’re joking.
Akaashi doesn’t.
—
Late Tuesday, Kuroo strolls into your office.
It’s well after six, which means the girls who work reception either already left for the day, or they took one look at the handsome alpha and let him pass regardless.
You spot him from the corner of your eye, scanning the floor, and assume he’s there to corral some of his friend-slash-drinking buddies into heading off somewhere. Your plans involve the spreadsheet on your screen, and staying put at your desk until your boss finally finishes up for the night to head home. Four-ish months in, you don’t yet have the goodwill the others take for granted.
Ino left twenty minutes ago. Her workspace is neat and tidy, a few post-its stuck to the monitor, chair tucked in – until Kuroo pulls it out and collapses into it with a dramatic groan.
“You gonna stare at that thing all night?”
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I have a deadline,” you manage to say.
Kuroo grins. Stretches his long legs out into your side of the desk, fingers laced over his lap. There’s no attempt for subtlety or discretion. Your boss’ in his office, door open, and while some of the office had left, plenty of your coworkers remain. If they weren’t watching this, gawking at the two of you, you’d eat your laptop.
God, you’d give anything to just disappear right now.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to spring you. I need you.” When you don’t immediately jump to your feet and start gathering your things, he adds, “C’mon, it’s for Himari. Please?”
Himari. Why else?
She’s messaged you a few times since pancakes. Without her alphas hovering around, you find you actually kind of like the omega. She’s sweet, if a little… intense.
You aren’t sure you like her enough for whatever this is, though.
“I can’t, I’ve got–”
“A deadline, yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. Thing is, I need your help, and it absolutely has to be tonight.”
“Kuroo–”
He rolls Ino’s chair closer. Your pulse ratchets in response. “Don’t make me beg. C’mon, you don’t want to be here for the next three hours pretending to work, do you?” You open your mouth again, and he cuts you off, again. “Your boss won’t care. It’s one night, help me out. Please?”
He takes you by the wrist and urges you to your feet, and though every cell inside you recoils at his touch, you let him, well aware of the audience the two of you have attracted. There’s a weight to the stares burning into the back of your head, the pindrop silence growing louder from the moment he sat down beside you.
“I’ll– meet me downstairs. I need a few minutes to finish up,” you mutter, every word pulled from your teeth with hooks.
“That’s my girl.” He raps his knuckles against Ino’s desk, satisfied in spite of the fact you resolutely won’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be out front.”
Kuroo stops briefly at your boss’ door on his way out, winking back at you and heat suffuses all the way to the tips of your ears.
Mechanically, you gather your things, refusing to look up, to meet anyone’s stare or find out if they’re watching at all, now the show’s over. No one would’ve blinked if it were Ino, or any of the other betas in the office, but because it’s you, the new girl, the weirdly skittish one no one’s quite sure about yet, they’ll be whispering and giggling about it in the break room come morning, you’d bet money on it.
Your boss’ office is situated between your desk and the front door, there’s no option but to walk right by, and with glass partitions, there’s no sneaking past. He glances up from his screen long enough to call out a friendly goodnight, and your shoulders drop another inch.
Kuroo’s waiting for you by the elevators.
“Shall we?”
Biting back a sigh, you offer a resigned nod. The ride down is near silent. You put as much space between you and him as the small confines of the metal car allows, as much as you think you can get away with without it coming across as rude, and Kuroo leans against the opposite wall and watches you do it with a stupid, irritating smirk.
You’ve yet to meet the volleyball player, and Akaashi’s decidedly unsettling with all the dead-eyed staring, but Kuroo’s fast becoming your least favourite of Himari’s almost-mates.
“Where are we going?” you ask when you finally have the space to breathe. And when can I leave?
“Kuroo.”
It’s an echo of another night, another alpha too close when you were stripped down. Though the voice is much deeper, you turn half expecting to see Sakai by the door again, that same leery frown. Silly, because Sakai hadn’t been in these past two days, thanks to her omega’s heat, and the voice wasn’t calling for you.
You both turn, and it’s Kuroo’s expression that drops. You recognise the alpha approaching. He looked bigger on Kuroo’s TV. Not physically – roughly the same height as his fellow alpha, the jacket he’s donned for the late autumn chill doing the bare minimum to mask his build – just… more, somehow. Possibly because of the scolded puppy expression on his face.
Bokuto, though Himari only ever calls him Bo.
Kuroo’s hand clamps down around your wrist, not tight, but firm, like you’re an errant child about to sprint blindly into traffic. “What happened to training?”
Bokuto shrugs, eyes shifting guiltily between you both. A non-answer. Eventually, he says, “We’re doing the thing, right?”
“The thing?” You tug at Kuroo’s grip, pulling back, but he doesn’t let you go. Not at first. Not until you make a strangled sort of noise, tugging harder, and his attention snaps like a rubber band back to you. He releases your wrist, plastering an easy grin on his face.
“You haven’t met Bokuto yet, have you?”
You don’t particularly want to.
“What thing?” you ask again, ignoring the other alpha.
“Are you this prickly with everyone, or am I just lucky?” He doesn’t sound all that put off by the prospect. “The polite thing to do is say hello. He won’t bite.”
He’s joking. Of course he’s joking, Kuroo hasn’t wasted a single one of your interactions being serious, that doesn’t stop the ice that drips through your veins, the echo of abject terror slicing away at your insides.
Without his hands on you, there’s nothing keeping you from stumbling a step backwards, and then another.
“I–” you swallow, something sharp lodged in your throat. You remember your manners long enough to glance in Bokuto’s general direction, “It’s nice to meet you, really,” you lie. “But I can’t do this tonight. Sorry,” you add hastily to Kuroo.
“Relax. We’re going shopping, it’s nothing nefarious, cross my heart.” He isn’t smiling anymore. Reaching out to stop you, a hand in the dark–
gripping your hair, blood dripping down your face
– “I– I can’t do this. I can’t,” you gasp out, jolting backwards.
“Alright, okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “But we should take you home. Neither of us,” he shares a look with Bokuto, “would feel good about leaving you on your own in this state.”
They’re tracking you, both of them. Every twitch, every inch you put between you, caught and catalogued. Kuroo’s palms are up in front of his chest placatingly. Bokuto looks like he’s a hairsbreadth from lunging at you, a fervent, frankly unsettling desperation bleeding through the loose, lax, ‘non-threatening alpha’ pose he adopts.
Pretending they both aren’t trying to hem you in.
Around you, the street hums with activity. Office workers heading home, off to find somewhere to eat and drink the hours away. Friends catching up. Date night. Shoppers and tourists milling about. Plenty of bystanders and witnesses. If any of them spares the standoff between you three a second glance, they decide it’s not worth intervening.
From the outside looking in, the alphas aren’t doing anything untoward, they aren’t threatening you, they aren’t even touching you. You’re the one falling to pieces over nothing.
“I-I’m fine.” Neither of them buy it. Wide eyed, trembling like a fawn, you suppose it isn’t all that convincing a performance. When it comes down to it, though, you don’t need them to believe you. You need them to heed it. “I can get an Uber.”
“What if– what if it was just me?” Bokuto offers. “Kuroo stays here, and I could take you home.”
As if Kuroo is the sole problem here.
From the corner of your eye, you spy an empty taxi driving along the road, and you don’t think, your body moves with a will of its own, hand shooting out to hail it down.
Your legs are steadier now there’s an escape route in sight. “Thanks. I’ll take the cab.”
There’s more you should say. Another apology, probably. The feigned politeness you hastily toss out in your bid for freedom won’t win you any favours. Tomorrow, later tonight maybe, you’ll curse yourself for it, remember the reason you walked out with Kuroo in the first place, and stew over what he might tell your coworkers. Your boss.
Emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Bitchy. A few carefully placed words, and it all goes up in smoke.
For now, you side step the two of them and slip into the cab with as much dignity as you can claw back.
You don’t properly exhale until they’re specks in the rearview mirror.
—
Blood drips from your face onto your forearms, onto the gravel beneath.
You can’t breathe through a busted, bloodied nose. You wail instead; choked, animal. Fingernails scrabble for purchase. Break. You can’t drag yourself away. You can’t move with the heavy weight draped over your back.
The pain like a hot knife thrust into your insides.
And then–
exponentially worse.
The taste of warm copper heavy on your tongue. You thought the bite would be the worst of it. The knot.
‘Rookie, where the hell did you–!’
Four of them, featureless in the dark, obscured by tears. Arguing. Rough hands pulling at you both, yanking him away far, far too soon.
A shriek ripped from your lungs. Snarling. A warm splatter on the ground, seeping red.
The haze of rage and fury, pounding in your head. Not yours.
More swearing. Snapping of teeth, fists meeting flesh.
‘D’you wanna fuckin’ help me with him?!’
One hangs back. Watches you attempt to lift yourself up, crawl – but the agony swallows you whole. Spits you back out.
‘Shit, shit, shit! Fuck– uhh, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll send for help. We’ll… we’ll– Fuck!’
And he runs.
—
There’s no gasping breath as you wake.
You don’t shoot bolt upright, clutching at your chest. Your eyes open, adjust to the dim confines of your bedroom, and you wait for the paralysing dread to balefully relax its claws and slink back to the shadows it inhabits.
The scar on your neck’s long since healed, fading into nothing as the bond did, but on nights like tonight, it throbs and itches and aches beneath your skin. A wound that never healed right.
There’s no chance you’re going into work once the sun rises and the day begins proper. The reserves have bled dry, there’s nothing left in you to cobble together a convincing enough performance for your boss, your coworkers, Kuroo – any of them. You can’t even call it a decision, there’s no reality in which you roll out of bed in a few hours fully functional and go about your day like normal.
Your normal is already a struggle.
When you grab your phone, intending on setting an alarm to message your boss in a few hours’ time, an unopened notification from Himari catches your eye.
kuroo said you left upset :c whatever they did, they’re idiots.
And then, ten minutes after that:
can i come over? i think we should talk, no alphas just us girls <3
Being that it is the very, very early hours of the morning, you don’t respond right away, but you will. She’s right, after all – the two of you do need to talk.
The second time you wake, sunlight’s beginning to creep through the gap in your blinds.
The third time, when you finally drag yourself from bed, bleary eyed and bone weary, it’s well into the morning.
You make coffee, eat breakfast. One of your cousins messaged you about catching up for dinner soon – a thin veneer for what is essentially a check in – you respond to her and then shoot a reply back to Himari as well.
A few hours later finds her at your door, the brightness of her expression dimming when she takes in all that the long, scalding shower couldn’t wash away.
The air goes thick, redolent with her honeysuckle scent.
“Oh, honey,” she sighs, and wraps you up in a hug.
Loosely, you return it.
After messaging her your address, you’d gnawed at your lip and picked at your cuticles, pacing about and wondering how to broach it, what you’d tell her. In some ways, you’re strangers to each other. There’s something there, though. Fledgling and fragile, and you’re about to take a hammer to it.
And to do that, you have to tell her the truth. Problem is, you don’t know how.
But before you can open your mouth, she’s drawing back, a soft crease between her brows, lips downturned.
The words, “I feel like this is my fault,” are the very last thing you expect her to say.
“What do you mean?”
She takes your hand in hers, soft and warm, and smiles a little sadly. “Come sit,” she says, which is a little weird when she’s not the one who lives here. Even so, you find yourself following along when she leads you to the couch, settling down beside her.
“Have you ever been in love?”
You blink at her, surprised by the sudden left turn the conversation’s taken.
“… No. Never.” Love always seemed like one of those things you’d get around to eventually. Once you finished school, once you figured out who you were, once you had a bit more life experience under your belt.
And then the goalpost shifted.
“Omegas don’t always have that luxury,” she says. “We get a choice with an invisible timer attached to it, counting down to an unknown point in time where our bodies turn on themselves and our heats eventually kill us.”
None of this is news to you. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s a simple, brutal truth that every child learns at some point. One of the reasons you grew up thankful for your own boring beta biology.
“We have a limited time to pick alphas who will treat us right, take care of us during our heats, provide for us, be good fathers to our kids, and once we do there’s no taking it back. Sometimes…” Himari breaks off, her eyes dropping to where your hands are joined. She sighs again, “They told me they wanted a beta mate.”
The quiet admission hits you in a delayed sort of reaction, the crack of a slap registering seconds before any pain does. Your eyes widen, but she misinterprets your shock, laughing gently.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I knew pretty much from the get-go, no surprises, no rugs pulled out from under anyone. I could’ve walked away if I wanted to, I just,” she shrugs, “didn’t want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter. They’d bite me, we’d bond and fall in love, and if one day they met someone, it wouldn’t take away from my own happiness. I’m not a jealous person. I want my alphas to have everything they want.”
Her eyes are beseeching when she squeezes your hand and delivers the final blow.
“But Kuroo came home one day, and he had this look on his face, and I thought– I thought if they liked you, and you liked them, we’d finally be able to bond. We’d be a pack, all of us. I gave them my blessing, and then I met you and–”
“I can’t,” the words slip out without you meaning them to. “… It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”
Himari flinches, a tiny, likely involuntary response, but you catch it all the same. “You can’t give them a chance? Give me one? I know they came on a little strong, and that’s partially my fault, but–”
“In my first year at university, I was walking home from a friend’s place one night when I was attacked by an alpha in a rut.”
She falls silent, frozen and wide eyed. Whatever she thought you were about to say, it wasn’t that.
You tell her how you were jumped from behind and wrestled to the ground, how it was so dark that you never got a good look at him. You tell her about the other alphas that showed up after he’d raped, bitten and knotted you – his friends, presumably – the damage they did prying him away.
You tell her that they promised to send help, and they ran, and no one came. For hours.
You tell her, briefly, about the months you spent in recovery, hindered by the bond sickness that quickly and brutally set in.
By the time you’re finished, Himari’s got streaks of tears running down bloodless cheeks, gripping your hand so tightly you’d think she was the one clinging to a lifeline.
There isn’t much to say after that.
She hugs you on her way out, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.”
It isn’t her fault. Some things just are the way they are.
“Me too.”
And then she’s gone.
The silence in your apartment feels louder in her wake.
There’s a few hours of daylight left yet, but you were exhausted when you woke up, and more so now. An exposed nerve, dredged up in the muck of your past, that leaves you feeling raw and deeply uncomfortable, now that you try to settle back on the same couch you spilled your guts on.
TV might help, you eventually decide. You don’t particularly care what, anything to fill the silence, give you something to stare at rather than wallowing through the last two days.
A knock at your door sounds just as you reach for the remote.
The only reason you get up at all is because you assume it’s Himari, having forgotten something. Your phone’s been on silent all day, left on the kitchen bench – if she’d messaged you after leaving, there’s every chance you wouldn’t’ve heard the notification go off.
Either Himari or a delivery driver with the wrong address.
Only, when you flick the lock and crack open your door, it isn’t the auburn haired omega standing on the other side, but one of her alphas.
“Bokuto?” You step back on instinct, fingers tightening on the doorknob. You force yourself to smile, to soften the image, grim as it may be. “Are you looking for Himari? She left like ten, fifteen minutes ago.”
For a split second, you think he’s just going to stand there, all six foot whatever of him, looming in your open doorway like a sentinel, and then–
A smile like wonder breaks across his face, “Fuck, say it again,” he groans out.
He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to it. A foot in the doorway first, stopping the door from slamming on him when you shove it with all your might, and then he’s in your apartment, catching it on the rebound and swinging it shut himself.
Your mouth opens on a scream, but you never get the chance. Two steps, and he’s on you. A hand fisting through your hair, parted lips crashing into yours. “Say it again, baby. Please?” he groans lowly, attacking your lips again with a near feral desperation.
You can’t answer him even if you wanted to.
Fear floods through you. There’s no kick of adrenaline to spark your feral resistance – you plummet into a pit. Sapped of what strength you have, a slow acting paralysis. Rather than the pilot, you’re demoted to a passenger, and it is all you can do to draw your palms up to his chest and shove ineffectually back while he wraps his free arm around your back to haul you closer.
Your elbows fold. You collapse against him wholly, every part of you entangled with him. His tongue hot in your mouth, the scent of him suffocating.
He loosens his grip on your hair fractionally. Draws away from your lips only to mouth openly and suck at your jaw and the tender flesh beneath.
You remember how to scream as an old, poorly healed wound throbs at the junction of your neck–
And his teeth dig in.
It’s lightning. The bond burns you from the inside out, robbing you of thought, of sight, of control. You are alight and in pain, clutching at him blindly, lips parted on a strangled whine, and he uses that disorientation to move you into your bedroom and onto the bed.
“Missed you,” he pants, laying you down and caging you in from above. “Missed you, missed you, missed you so fuckin’ much.”
He rips through your clothes like they’re paper, treating each inch of exposed flesh like territory he needs to map and stake a claim upon. It’d strike another cord of terror if you weren’t half out of your mind with fear already, reckoning with the foreign and familiar sense of alpha forced into your chest.
Bokuto.
Tears brim and spill, and your eyes fall shut. Himari’s words echo in your head, over and over in a never ending loop. They wanted a beta mate.
An alpha in a rut is mindless and ferine. This is a conscious choice.
Rough hands glide over your breasts, pinching and flicking at your nipples ‘til they peak under his touch, a low appreciative growl leaving his throat. “I know, baby, you missed me too. You shouldn’t’ve left.”
W-what?
Your eyes fly open of their own volition. Golden irises, sharp, focused, predatory, flit from your tits to the oozing bite on your neck to your tear stricken face, like he can’t decide which he likes looking at best. Somewhere between the door and now, he’s shed his hoodie. His own chest heaves above yours, not with tears or exertion – he’s barely broken a sweat so far – or terror like yours is, but quivering with excitement. Even without the waves of lust assaulting you down the bond, the strain of his erection pressing against his jeans is evidence enough.
And you remember the feel of it, splitting you apart.
“Please, please, Bo,” you beg, adopting Himari’s nickname for the hulking alpha. Your alpha. Your mate. “You’ll hurt me again. I can’t,” you draw in a sharp, ragged breath, “I-I can’t–”
A quiet tearing sound, and cotton scraps of your underwear are shoved aside.
“‘Course you can. We’ll take it nice and slow. It’s been a while, huh?” But his voice is thick and roughened, dripping with excitement, and he either doesn’t realise his hips are already jerking clumsily against yours, desperate for the friction, or doesn’t care enough to stop. His hands tremble when he settles back and fumbles for his belt buckle. “We love each other. We’re mates,” you whimper at the word, and the bond goes liquid between you, “This is how it’s s’posed to be.”
A year or so after you were attacked, your parents pushed you into taking self defence classes. On a rational level, you understood that what happened was a freak occurrence. The chances that anything similar would happen to you again were next to negligible.
But you weren’t thinking rationally when you’d accidentally bump carts with an alpha while doing your groceries, or when one would take the seat next to yours on a busy train.
Your parents were under the impression that if you had confidence in your ability to defend yourself – at least to the point of being able to escape – being around alphas in public wouldn’t be so hard on you.
It was too early, maybe. The instructor was a beta, and the class split between betas and omegas, mostly women, but not all. That wasn’t a magic fix, though. The second anyone got too close, it didn’t matter their designation – you were right back in the alley.
No one ever said as much, but the truth became obvious fairly quickly. A thrown elbow might be enough to wind the slow moving omega trying to ‘overpower’ you. It wouldn’t stop the alpha twice your size, with a hold on you from inside yourself.
Metal clinks, the hiss of a zipper sliding down. Bokuto’s low, throaty groan sounds as he works at his own cock. He shifts forward, large, calloused hands sliding down your trembling thighs to push them further apart, all whilst his heavy cock bobs threateningly between you. Your tears come quicker, choked, frightened little sobs. You shake your head back and forth, pleading wordlessly with him – your alpha. Your mate.
“Hold onto me, baby–” he grunts a little, moving your arms so they stretch over the back of his shoulders. “Yeah, like that. Good mate.”
Maybe if you sink your nails in, claw at his back. If one of your knees comes up, if you can just–
“Ready for me?” His cock slides along the seam of your pussy, a testing push at your entrance.
“Please,” you beg, your voice pitched and frantic. “Please, Bokuto, don–”
Sharp, blinding pain. The shriek that replaces panicked pleas is smothered under another hungry, demanding kiss as he pushes his cock deeper.
Reality fractures. Gravel digs into your skin, the mattress springs creaking beneath your combined weight. You taste blood on your tongue, you taste him, his scent. It wraps around you. You’ve never been colder, exhausted in the darkened alley. Never burned hotter. Battered under a barrage of emotions that aren’t yours, held down, clawing at the ground, nails splitting, breaking, twisted in your own bedsheets, gasping, crying out. The panting in your ear. Snarling. Moans and grunts, the slick sound of your pussy squelching around him and his heavy balls smacking against the back of your thighs.
Agony, ricocheting like forks of lighting. He doesn’t let up, won’t give you a second to adjust or squirm away.
No matter his promises to take it slow, he fucks like it’s the only chance he’ll ever have to do so, like he’ll die if he can’t bury himself deep enough to reshape your insides around him.
You don’t think it can get any worse, and then you feel the unmistakable swelling at the base of his cock, notching at your entrance on each downward stroke; his knot.
There aren’t words for the visceral wave of terror that ripples through you, but you must clench down around him, because Bokuto moans loudly above you, cursing as he picks up the pace.
“My mate, all fucking mine,” he pants in your ear, hunched over you like an animal.
Carried along with the motion of his thrusts, helpless, just a ragdoll tossed about beneath him. “You ca-n’t–” you cry out. “Bo, your kn-ot, pull out! You’ve g-gotta pull out–”
“Gonna knot you so fucking good,” he slurs out, “gonna keep you right there on the end of my dick all night. My mate.”
It all becomes too much, the force of Bokuto’s cock punching into you, the deluge from the bond, your memories, the pain and the sudden, stark terror.
Pushing, pushing, pushing, and then–
Unbearable fullness.
—
You come to some time later.
The light in your bedroom’s different. Golden, now. You blink blearily, a confused noise slipping out as you register the strange sensation between your legs. Stinging, an ache that throbs, and…
Warmth suffusing your core.
Hands on your inner thighs, keeping them spread. A drag of something wet and hot along your pussy–
Bokuto appears in your eyeline, naked, loose, a dumb, satiated grin wide across his face. “Stay down, baby. ‘Kaashi just wanted a taste.”
You scramble back immediately, ignoring the sharp burst of pain moving so suddenly earns you.
Laid out on his stomach between your spread legs, hair lightly mussed, glasses gone, mouth and jaw glistening with– with you, Akaashi’s lips twitch faintly upwards.
“I don’t think I was done, angel,” he remarks with a dry laugh. “Not very good with instructions, are you?”
Your stomach churns, heart pounding sickly in your chest.
It isn’t the sight of the bloodied mark on your thigh that can only have been another bite, or Bokuto’s resumed pawing. It’s Akaashi’s eyes. You always thought them flat, cold and lifeless. Shark-like. Serial killer-esque if you were feeling particularly unkind.
Nosing along your thigh, nipping lightly just to hear the catch of your breath, they shine with an unsettling fervor, too bright. Too much.
“I-I don’t think–”
“You don’t need to,” he tuts. He rises smoothly from his elbows and stalks up your frozen body. His lips, wet with the remnants of you and Bokuto, hover mere millimeters above yours.
You think he’s going to kiss you. You’re close enough to count his long, dark eyelashes, and every breath you take he shares.
The hand that takes you by the throat is gentle, the touch dare you say loving in its caress – right up to the point it tightens. Not harshly enough to restrict your airway, not enough to bruise. Just enough so as to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his fingers, watch your eyes widen in instinctual fear.
Into your lips, he whispers, “That’s what you have your alphas for.”
—
Kuroo arrives a few hours later.
The three of you are still in bed. You’re nestled between Bokuto and Akaashi, sweat slicked and shivering. The front door opens and you don’t even have the strength to flinch. There’s a soft thud, something heavy being set down, shoes kicked off and toed aside. A coat flung over the back of one of your chairs.
Seconds later, he’s walking through your bedroom door like he belongs there, making a beeline for your bedside.
Ignoring for the moment Akaashi propped up between you two, he leans down and tilts your chin up for a languid, simmering kiss. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”
The noise that leaves you is a wounded, confused thing, but Kuroo just laughs. “They really wore you out, huh?”
“Might’ve waited if you’d showed up when you were supposed to,” Akaashi taunts with that half grin of his, a stray kiss pressed to the crown of your head, resting now back on his shoulder.
Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the division head to sort his own fucking problems?”
Akaashi raises a brow and Bokuto makes a half-hearted grunt, sprawled face down over your chest and clearly more interested in napping.
“Ugh, whatever.” He waves them both off with a huff, straightening up to start taking off his clothes.
There’s no dread, no flash of panic. There’s nothing but cold numbness inside of you, an echo of pain washed out by the contentedness of the two alphas you’re already bonded to.
Soon to be three.
And though he doesn’t say anything to them, Akaashi kicks at Bokuto, and after a little grumbling from Bo, they both begin to withdraw, shifting you like a doll between them to make space for Kuroo to kneel on the mattress and crawl to you. You never thought of your bed as small before – it’s a double, and it’s only ever been you. With three alphas added into the mix, it feels claustrophobic.
Your whole apartment does.
You wonder how much of it shows on your face, because Kuroo snorts, cupping your tearstained cheek in his palm. “We can handle a bit of close quarters cuddling for a night, beta. We’ll have you back home in the nest tomorrow.” His smirk grows ever so slightly, “Could’ve picked out some new pieces just for you, if you hadn’t run off on us.”
“What… what about Himari?” you manage to croak.
If you expect him to be bothered in any way at the reminder of his almost-omega, you’re sorely disappointed. Kuroo shrugs and drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “Home, I guess. Poor thing learned some hard truths today. Needed the space.” He presses down ‘til your they part and accept the digit.
Thumb resting on your tongue, Kuroo appraises you with a tilted head. “She’s not gonna help you, little beta. You’re all ours tonight.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements, abuse, trauma, neglect, kidnap, including non/dubcon. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Loki Laufeyson
Summary: you are torn from a life and put into another. (aka Loki buys a wife)
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Odin holds the door for you. You step out and he waits patiently for you to gather your wits. He offers his hand.
You stare at his lined knuckles and palm. You put your hand in his and let him take you down the hall. He pauses right before you reach the dining room.
He leans over and whispers. "I do not expect you to forgive my oafish son." He glances at the doorframe. "I wouldn't recommend it either."
He squeezes softly and guides you into the dining room. "Ah, there we are. You know, I've decided," he takes you around to a chair and pulls it out for you. "Today will be your day, dear. We will not have you serve us, no we've come to meet our new daughter. Not work her to the bone."
Loki sighs. "I only requested less milk in my te--"
"Her day." Odin stands between you and his son, and claps his shoulder harshly. "Not yours.”
“Her…” Loki begins.
“Yes. We’ve come to meet your wife. We know you well enough.” Odin retorts as he guides you to your chair. “But perhaps, you still have a deal of getting to know her to do yourself.”
“Father. I only requested my tea–”
“Are you not clever enough to get your own tea? I do hope I taught you better.” Odin gently pushes in your chair as you sit.
“Thank you,” you say.
“See, your wife is much more charming than her ungrateful husband.” Odin chides.
“I warn you again to not disrespect me in my own home,” Loki slithers.
You chafe in your seat. Odin’s hand lingers on the back of the chair then gently touches your shoulder. “I will not persist in riling you. For her sake. She does not deserve it and you have the sense to see how your behaviour affects her. To seek her content over your own.” Odin squeezes softly. “It is never too late to rethink, dear.”
Loki sighs and flutters his long fingers. He clucks in his throat and bends his elbow to rest his chin on his knuckles. Odin retreats and sits with Frigga on the other side of the table.
“Well, I think the lady of the day is in need of some tea…” Odin declares.
Silence wafts up around the table. You look at the others then lean forward to stand.
“Ah,” Odin shows his palm then points at his son. “A lady as wonderful as your wife should be pampered.”
Loki sits up straight in his chair and drops his hand. You sense him look at you but you’re too nervous to return his gaze. He pushes his chair back and stands.
“Of course. Darling,” the turns and buttons his jacket. “What do you take in your tea?”
“Just tea, please.” You murmur as you wring your hands.
He reaches for the tea pot at the centre of the table and fills the cup by your plate. Odins runs his fingers back and forth beside his cutlery.
“Mother… father,” Loki intones. “Tea?”
“I’ve yet to have any of my own,” Odin grips the handle of the dainty tea cup. “Though your mother is in need of a top up.”
He leans across and fills Frigga’s cup then adds milk from the small porcelain jug. He sits down stiffly. You cautiously take your cup and sip.
“Thank you, husband.” You eke out.
“Mm.” Loki hums.
Odin shakes his head. As your eyes meet his, his expression softens. He smiles.
“I heard tell of some ducks. You haven’t seen any around?” He asks.
You can’t help but perk up. You glance over at Loki and shrug. “Um. By the pond I think.”
“Ah, wonderful. Would you show me them after we eat? I do have a soft spot for small creatures.”
“Erm. I… suppose I could.” You look over at Loki as his posture remains rigid and his thin lips locked.
“Do not let his petulance spoil the day. The winters are grey enough.” Odin says. “Perhaps some longing will fix his attitude.”
🦆
You help Frigga clear the table but she insists upon the rest of the tidying. You feel wrong letting her do it all. Should you, as the host, at least help? You hadn’t even the sense to begin breakfast yourself. It didn’t even occur to you for all the times you skipped meals for one reason or another.
Odin waits in the front hall, mulling over a frame on the wall. You near him and peek at it. It is a forestscape etched in ink lines. He turns to you.
“My father drew that. It used to hang in my office. Loki always had an eye for it. I thought it would be a kind gesture to pass it on. Well, I suppose he expects more for his inheritance.” Odin explains.
“Oh?”
“Far more than he deserves.” He resigns. “Like you. You realise, my dear, you are far above him. Your kindness is unearned from him.”
“Sir.”
“Odin,” He gently touches your sleeve. “Please. Now, you require a coat and boots before we venture out. It is as frigid without as my son’s spirit.”
He leads you to the entry way. You pull on the same coat Frigga brought you that morning. You put on the shoes in the wrong size and wait patiently behind Odin.
As you go out, he hooks his arm through yours. You take him around the house and across the backyard to the sparse trees along the pond’s edge. The ducks are there, dipping their heads and shaking their feathers.
“They know you,” Odin muses.
“Hm, maybe. I come to watch them. They are peaceful.”
“And peace you deserve. I can see in you that you’ve not had much of it.” He stands close and shivers. “I only regret that you’ve chosen a rather turbulent husband to seek it in.”
You frown. If only he knew it was not you who made that choice. Yet how can you say it? Who would ever believe it? Even with all the ill harboured for his own son, you’re not sure Odin would accept such an outlandish tale. You can hardly believe it yourself.
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Arthur Shelby, (short)maid!reader
Summary: you’re employer proves to be the most difficult mess to tend to.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Prudence never did anyone poorly. It would be impractical to resist the four brutes sent to curtail you. Even if impossible, you do not bristle any less at their accostment. Your head itches with the urge to take the pin out, then again, it's a poor match for a bullet.
You are no stranger to obstinacy but no less unfamiliar with common sense. You sigh and hold your sewing hoop to you middle and step into the aisle of the train. You glare down the men in their caps and suits.
“Well then, are we to stand and gawk at each other?” You challenge.
One scoffs. The one closest to you tilts his head. He lets his jacket fall over his pistol.
“Donny, get her bag,” he grabs your arm and you recoil.
“There is no need to touch me. I will go along.” You grit.
Another snort.
“She's snappy,” one says.
“Aye, shut up,” their ring leader lets you go. “Art won't like the talk.”
“And who's gonna tell?” The other sneers.
“Good not to make a habit,” the leader huffs and beckons you with his thick fingers. “C’mon then, miss.”
You keep your eyes from rolling back in your skull. This is rather dramatic, all for a maid, all for fragile pride. You are led by two men, the other two at your back. The doorman stands, gaping at the intimidating party, and nods at you grimly.
Weak. All of them. They carry guns to mask it but you see it clearly. They've not an ounce of intelligence to rub together to spark a thought.
The first man jumps into the dirt, the second staggers after him. You're helped down by the leader as the third brings down your bag. Your heels sink into the flatland.
The leader whistles and the train door closes. You're herded away as the tracks whine and the locomotive grinds away. You grip your sewing hoop as your handbag hangs on your wrist.
“Is this going to take long?” You ask dryly.
The leader grins and shakes his head. “You know, the big man isn't happy.”
“Drunk, no doubt.” You mutter.
This time he can't help but laugh. “You best keep that tongue in line, eh. You've left him quite ornery.”
You blow out between your lips. The tail of the train disappears in a cloud of dust. An abrupt honk draws your attention across the rails. A truck waits on the other side.
“This way, lady,” the leader offers his hand. You ignore it.
You put the hoop in your hand bag and set off across the ground. You watch your feet as you step along the wooden slats of the tracks and lift your toes over the iron frame. You come to the other side, chin high, and march to your fate.
The leader catches up to you as the other men grumble. He points you around the cargo of the truck and once more offers assistance. You don't even look at him as you grab the side and haul yourself up with a foot on the bumper.
“Sharpe, miss.” He says from behind you. “Just so you got a name…”
“I don't care. Same as all the rest.” You sit on the wooden bench mounted in the cargo.
He climbs up and sits beside you. You rest your purse on your lap and stare off into the vague horizon. They've not earned your wrath so much as their boss.
🥃
You arrive at a rather dreary house. It reminds you of your upbringing, less about nine children and a hollering patron. You stare dully ahead. Surely your fate is not the same as your origin.
You smell a fire, see it puffing grey from the chimney. You watch the furls and chew on your temper.
Sharpe is the first out. Again, you ignore his kindness. You nearly pay for it with a twisted ankle.
Your heels sink in the muck and you yank each step from the soft, wet ground. Can a Shelby not afford better than a crooked hut in the ether? You march for the door only to be drawn back by Sharpe. You shake him off your sleeve.
“Let me knock,” he urges and steps ahead of you.
He taps on the door rhythmically. You don't hear much. He backs up and nods.
“You go in. Boys, have a smoke.”
He turns and waves you past him. You're irked at how he commands you but you haven't much of a choice. You pass him, wary of how close he remains.
You push the lever down and the door creaks inward. You feel only agitation as you enter. This is not a fine house in Oxford where you should be but some ramshackle house where this equally ramshackle man has dragged you.
The fireplace glows amber. The glass in the iron door is cracked. A single oil lamp burns beside a chair. Arthur Shelby lounges in it as he swigs dark liquor from a bottle. It's not so lofty a sight as he might assume.
“What do you want?” You snip.
He chuckles, covering his mouth as he puts the bottle next to the lamp. He wipes the dribble of liquor.
“Fine day to you too,” he snarls.
You note your misstep. He is far too amused by the effect of his disruption. You clasp your bag and clear your expression. You stare.
“Not too cold but those eyes do chill a man,” he taunts.
You remain silent.
He groans and grips the arms of the chair. He pushes himself up. You don't move.
He slowly traipses toward you.
“You know what I want as you seem to know everything.”
You blink.
“I get it. Ladies. Needa play a game. Keep the men biting at the hook. Ya know, not much of a fisherman myself.” He stops before you. “I don't like waiting on a dead line and yanking out nothin’ but bait.”
You nearly yawn. You twist slightly to look around. The place is dusty and the furniture a bit mildewy from neglect. It was once a welcoming home you're sure.
“Are ye gonna fuckin’ talk?” He snaps in frustration as he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.
You slap your hand around his wrist. He snickers as he squeezes. “See, you don't know me. Not what I can do to ye, miss. And ye don't want to find out so you best just let me on the hook.”
You drop your purse and reach for your hat. It falls off your head as you slide the pin free and you ram it up and forward. You feel it pierce the layers of his jacket and sleeve, lodging firmly in the muscle of his shoulder.
He retracts with a yowl and you stumble back. He grips the pin and whines as he bends over and tries to pull it free. He gnashed his teeth as he wiggles it and you grab your purse by the strap.
He tosses the pin with a clatter. You reel back. He turns his blazing eyes on you, the firelight flickering over him. You swing your purse as he charges you.
You hit him in the face. The metal clasp bounces off his cheekbone and he growls. You swing again and get his wounded shoulder. He yipes and catches the third assault in both hands.
He tugs the bag so you stagger forward. You let go and he throws the purse away. He reaches for you and you recoil.
You'll have to try a shoe next.
“Sharpe. Get yer arse in here!” He blusters as he grips his shoulder and pants. “Ah, bloody piss. Bobbin,” his voice wobbles at the end, “why'd ya have to be so mean? I wasn't gon do nothin’. Just… messin’...”
He retreats as the door opens behind you. Sharpe enters, his shadow pooling over you. You fix your posture and tidy your jacket.
“Art,” Sharpe says.
“She needs to calm down.” Arthur grimaces. “And I need a fuckin’ drink.”
He turns and reaches for his bottle. His arm shakes as he tries to lift it. He drops the liquor and snarls.
“Take her to the room. She gonna act like a dog, tie her up like one,” he kicks the chair then stomps. “Ey, Bobbin, you gotta be nice if ya want me ta be.”
Sharpe grabs your arm. This time he doesn't let you pull away.
“Who said I ever wanted that?” You spit. “Or you.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: A typical work assignment turns into something less than usual.
Characters: Walter Marshall, Curtis Everett
Note: blame @stargazingfangirl18
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
'No signal'.
Out in the farmlands, it isn't too rare to see those two dire words. You always keep a map in the car just in case. As it is, you've never quite got lost. These rural roads don't have many turn offs to do so.
The farmhouse is just ahead at the end of the dirt path curling to the left. The owner said something about a red post and you're fairly sure the one with the peeling coat you just passed is the one. You idle right before the branching lead off to check the map one last time.
The fields are so endless and the back roads so empty that you hear the car coming before you see it. You lower the map and look in the rearview. An iron grey truck spits up dust as it follows the subtle up and down of the unpaved lanes.
You wait for them to pass but they don't. Instead, they signal and pull up behind you. A large hand signals through the windshield. You squint and check the locks on the door.
The driver gets out and approaches. You roll the window down and inch before he can tap on the glass. You lean over to peer up at him.
Dark curls, a dark beard, some silver laced through both, and two bold blue eyes above the thick bridge of his nose. He wears a long-sleeved cotton pullover with sweat around the collar. His forearms are exposed under the rolled sleeves as he grips his hips and bends to see you.
"Lost?" He asks.
"Not really," you crinkly the map.
"You sure?"
"Um, yep. Pretty sure the farm I'm looking for is that one right over there." You nod to the north east.
He scoffs. "Hard Top."
"That's the one." You fold up the map.
"Uh huh. Well you just follow me on." He reaches to tap the roof of your car. "It's mine."
You flick your brows and his mouth slants.
"Walter Marshall. You were talking with my partner, Curtis." He explains.
"I was."
"No use keeping him waiting." He drags his hand away. "He's a bit of a grump."
He turns and struts away. You watch him in the mirror as you roll up the window all the way. That's lucky.
You wait for him to get in his truck and pass you. You follow him slowly, crawling along the curve and the subtle incline of the road. You glance over at the fields as you let your foot hover on the brake.
He leads you to the dusty clearing in front of the farmhouse. You park next to him and get out. You open your back door to take out your bag, your water bottle clinking against a buckle as it hangs from a carabiner on the strap.
“Curt!” Walter cups his hand around his mouth as he booms toward the house.
You uncap your bottle and drink as you wait. He turns to you as you twist the top back on. You let it dangle again and rest your hand on your bag.
“I told him to wait outside for you. I had to run into town and get some wire.” He clucks.
“No problem.” You assure him as you turn to take in the expanse.
“We bought this place off a family. Been passed down for decades.” He explained. “We’re thinking vegetables, herbs, some fruits. Buddy has an organic juice business….”
“Hey.” The front door snaps on its hinges.
You turn to the man that stands in front of it. His black shirt is smeared with dirt, the emblem of some metal band mostly obscured. His thick arms and sides are completely exposed by the cut of the fabric. His dark hair is buzzed short, his beard only slightly longer. More stubble than anything.
“I was dealing with the pipes.” He says as he wipes his hands on a rag. His attention darts between Walter and you. “You must be… I’m Curtis.”
“That’s me.” You assure him. “I got everything ready to go.”
“Cool. So, we’re thinking veggie patches—”
“Already gave her the breakdown, bud. Maybe next time, you won’t be late,” Walter interjects.
“I was here.” Curtis growls.
You shift awkwardly.
“What was planted before?”
“Wheat? Grains. There’s a few pear and apple trees still around and healthy strawberry patches we’ve kept going.” Curtis comes down the steps of the porch and tucks the rag in his pocket.
“Mm. Well, today I can do a quick test. I have a few kits in my bag. I’ll need to take samples back for more intensive testing and compare to the topology of the fields. Do you have a map of the plots that belong to you?”
“Huh, she’s thorough,” Walter comments.
You barely twitch. This is your work. You know what you’re doing. If you really wanted to be complicated, you’d speak like you do at the lab.
“Have to be. You’re paying for it.” You assure him without a look.
“Well, let us show you around. It’s a pretty big place so no use wasting time.” Curtis says and gets a snort from Walter. “I can get you a map of the plots. Might have to draw it out but I’ve got the deed here. There’s some coordinates on there…”
“No problem.” You nod.
“Here, it’s a bit of a walk,” Walter startles you as he grabs the strap of your bag.
“Oh, I got it.”
“Looks heavy.” He tugs and you cling for just a moment before you let go. “Come on. It’s only gonna get hotter out here.”
You repress your irritation. It wouldn’t be the first time the old-fashioned type treated you like ‘a lady’. Sometimes it can be endearing, mostly it’s demeaning.
Walter waves you ahead of him as Curtis points to the east. “We’ll start over here.”
You follow him around the house and along the strips between the patches of turned soils. When you come to the border of their holding, you turn to Walter and ask for your bag. His hand twitches on your water bottle then slides up the strap. He hands it over.
You dig inside for a quick kit. You put on some gloves and start the process. You’re overly aware of them watching, standing side by side just to your right.
“This will mostly check the PH of the soil,” you explain. “It’s typically easy enough to balance it out or at least plant according to the results. Once I have the lab results back for my other tests, we can determine anything that isn’t viable this season. Unfortunately, it can take a lot of time to revive arable land.”
Curtis hums. Walter shifts in his boots.
“You been doing this a long time?”
“Almost fifteen years.” You put in the neutralizer and wait for the results.
“Fifteen? You don’t look that old…” He muses.
You ignore that. Comments like that also aren’t unusual. You’re surprised he hasn’t commented that he expected a man but then again, you think your name might have spoiled the surprise.
You continue around the farmland. It’s tedious work. Quick tests then scooping up soil to deposit in your labeled vials. At points, you dig down deep into the sediment.
You pause to grab your water bottle and gulp. Sweat stains your scalp and dampens the insides of your gloves. You put the cap on and press on.
“More water in the house if you need it,” Curtis offers.
“Thanks. It’s a big bottle.” You counter.
As you make your way around the strips of land, the sun beats down, ringing in your vision. You try to blink away the glare as even your lashes feel sweaty. You squat down to get another sample but as you stand, you sway and stumble.
“Woah, you good?” Walter asks.
You flick your lashes and look at him. “Fine.”
You fumble to seal the sample and tuck it in your bag. You take another swig from your bottle. It’s empty. You put the cap on again and sigh. You’re almost done.
You try to lift the bag and the weight tips you over before you can stand. You fall onto it and groan. You shake your head. Something’s not right.
“Hey, you okay?” Walter asks as you’re pulled back.
Curtis lets you fall onto your back in the dirt. You grumble as your arms fall limp at your sides. You can’t move. What the hell is going on?
Curtis stares at you, touching your cheek then your forehead. Your eyelids flutter and he holds his fingers under your nose to check your breathing.
“How much did you put in?”
“Enough.” Walter answers as he unclips your bottle and shakes it. “I didn’t think she’d drink it all.”
Curtis sighs.
“We need to get her out of the sun.”
🌼
Black lightens to grey. Your mind slowly grinds back into motion as your body comes back into being. You climb out of the pit of your unconscious up into the gloom of your current predicament.
Your finger twitches. That effort alone aches. You bend two, then three, then curl up a whole fist. You raise your hand and let it fall as the weight thrums in your forearm.
You smell dirt and sweat. Your mind flashes with your last memories. Laying in the dirt, writhing and weak, the sun beating down, two shadows looming above.
You open your eyes and quickly close them again. It’s not real. It has to be a dream. These things don’t happen like this. It was a job, not…
No, it was a trap.
You look again. You stare at the wooden slats of the wall. The dark stain is faded and a few scratches mark the passage of time. You turn your head. The space is typical of an old farmhouse, but not airy as you would expect. The small room is stagnant and damp.
You know that scent too. A basement. You shudder as your chest locks up. Breathe.
You press your hands down and sit up with a grunt. The effort is enough to make you dizzy. You fall onto one elbow before you can keel over the side of the bed.
You take in the space. A wooden wardrobe, the bed, a night table with a lamp on top, a threadbare rug. There’s a small sink in the corner and a mirror. It’s all very simple.
You push yourself up again and angle your legs one by one over the edge. You’re not stupid enough to stand. You hunch forward and hug your middle.
You remember Walter taking your bag, walking behind you. You never heard a thing. He was quick.
But why? Why all of this?
You don’t see any chains or torture devices but maybe they’ll bring those out later. You doubt these things are as dramatic as those dismal Netflix miniseries. It’s not all aesthetic, it’s just a woman locked in a sad room in a basement.
You wallow in the silence. Your breath is the only sound until the grind of metal scrapes from the door. You wince and peek over as the hinges whine.
You grip the edge of the mattress. Walter tuts and shuts the door.
“Try to stand up and see what happens.”
You lift your chin and scowl at him. There’s no point in asking what or why. You look at his hands. No knife, nothing. Well, he’s big enough to kill you with his own strength.
He closes the door. You watch him. He faces you and stares.
“Well? Questions?” He prompts.
You glare at him. He waits. You don’t say a word.
“Alright, well, I suppose we’ve all waited long enough.”
He turns and goes to the wardrobe. He opens it. He takes out a dress with a dandelion pattern. It’s cut in an old farm style with buttons down the front.
He offers it to you as you stare. You don’t move. He steps closer.
“You’re in no shape to fight.” He warns.
You tilt your head up and grimace. “What is wrong with you?”
His lips curve slightly.
“I’m just like every other man. I’m just honest about it. I know what I want and need.” He bends and places the dress on your lap. His nose almost touches yours. “You can deny it in yourself but you’re a woman and women need men.”
You swallow tightly. His hands spread over the dress and feel your thighs through the fabric. He leans in to drag the tip of his nose up yours.
“I’m the nice one, sweetheart, so do yourself a favour and get changed.”
He squeezes then pushes away. He turns and marches to the door, not looking back as he leaves. You huff and bite the insides of your cheeks.
You drop your head and touch the dress. Your hands hurt. Your veins are tight but hollow, tendons strained. You feel the cotton and shiver. You know he’s right. You don’t have a choice; well, you have one. To make it worse for yourself.
You slowly unfold the dress. The effort alone is enough to make you shake. Or maybe that’s the fear.
You put the dress aside and undress. Your boots are already gone; your jacket too. You strip down to your plain cupless bra and high-rise panties. You take a deep breath and let it out as you stand.
You sway and remind yourself not to lock your knees. You grab the dress and unbutton it. You pull it on and pull through each button one by one. It’s tight and the buttons pull against the holes. When you finish, you sit again.
What do you do now but wait? You feel useless and helpless and stupid. Are you just accepting this? Everyone has a plan but how do you really plan for this?
When the door opens again, you don’t react. The shadow approaches you and grabs your arm. Walter sighs.
“You need help?” He asks.
You shake your head and stand. You try to shrug him off but he clings to you. He takes you through the door.
It’s brighter in the next room. The aromas in the air make your stomach grumble. You’re hungry. Something’s cooking.
There’s a dining table on a patterned rug; a kitchenette along one wall; fridge, stove, sink, cupboards. You notice the locks on all of them. Curtis has his back to you as he uses a spatula to transfer food from a skillet to a plate. Walter makes you sit in one of the wooden chairs and stands behind you, his hands on your shoulders.
The details start to tweak in your head. Curtis wears a black button up and slacks. Walter has changed too; a grey button-up and dark shade of pants. They’ve both cleaned themselves up.
Curtis turns and brings over two plates. He places one before you on a crochet dish mat and another at another seat with the same setting. Walter lets go of you and sits. Curtis returns and takes the third plate. He joins you at the table, his hands framing his plate as he looks at you.
“That dress is nice on you.” He says.
“Bit small.” Walter remarks. “Tight.”
You grit your teeth.
“Bit older than I expected too…” Walter adds.
Curtis sniffs. “Shut up. She’s… beautiful.”
You look away. Stolid silence roils around you. Walter is the first to move. He picks up his fork and stirs the penne on his plate. Curtis taps his fingers on the table.
“Eat,” he commands.
Your eyes meet his. His jaw is set. Walter eats without pretense.
“I’m not hungry–”
“I can hear your stomach. Eat.” He demands. “No use drugging you again, is there?”
You stare at him and take your fork. You poke a piece of zucchini and lean forward slightly. You push it into your mouth. He picks up his own fork.
“You really do look good,” he snarls as his eyes narrow, his lip twitching. “Doesn’t she?”
Walter hums and swallows. “Tits are nice.”
Curtis sighs. “Jesus.”
🌼
Your hunger is replaced with unease. Your stomach churns around the meal as you remain in the chair. Curtis gets up and gathers the empty plates. Walter stands and slaps his stomach. He nudges you.
“Come on.”
You hesitate then stand. He takes you back to the small room and shoves you inside. The door shuts heavily behind you.
You go back to the bed and sit. You climb up into the corner and fold your arms over your knees. You slump and close your eyes.
You stay like that until the door opens again. It’s Curtis. He has a zip-up bag in his hand.
“You need to get ready for bed.” He says as he shuts the door.
You stare. He goes to the sink. He puts the bag down beside the faucet and unzips it.
“Get over here.”
You stay. You’re annoyed. You’re not a dog. He speaks to you like one.
He sighs. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You don’t move.
He pulls his hand out of the bag and marches over to the bed. He grabs your ankles and drags you across, the blankets rumpling beneath you. You cry out as you try to kick free.
“One last chance to get on your feet or I will drop you on your ass.”
He lets you go. Your ankles throb. You let your feet dangle and stand.
He grips your shoulder and walks you to the sink. He pulls out a tooth brush and tooth paste. He wets the bristles then puts the paste on. You reach for it and he slaps your hand down.
“Open.”
Your lip curls before you force yourself to obey. It’s so strange. He brushes your teeth as you try not to gag. He finishes and fills a plastic cup and tells you to rinse. You do.
Next, he pulls out a jar of face scrub. He tells you to wet your face. Then he applies the exfoliant. You flinch. His large hands linger on your cheeks. His eyes dip.
“You really do look… good.”
You avert your gaze. He rinses his hands then grabs the back of your neck. He bends you over the sink and splashes water over your face. He rinses off the beaded wash and hands you a towel. You pat dry as he squeezes moisturiser from a tube.
He rubs his into your skin and down your neck. His hands circle your throat and linger loosely, he hums. He exhales a hot breath over you.
“Change.”
He lets go and crosses to the wardrobe. He opens it and pulls out a linen night gown. It’s about long enough to reach your knees; plain white with straps.
He brings it to you. You reach for it and he shakes his head. “Take the dress off.”
You swallow and look around. “I can do it–”
“Stop. Do it.”
His voice sinks into like an anchor pulling you to a halt that nearly upends you. You lower your chin and close your eyes. Your hands shake as you unbutton the dress. It falls open and reveals the cushion of your chest, stomach, hips, and thighs.
You twitch as his fingertips brush down your neck to your chest and trace the top of your bra.
“Everything.”
You gulp as he takes the dress away. You unhook your bra and he tugs it off your arms. Then you push down your underwear until they fall to your ankles. He bends to snatch them away too.
He looms close then throws the night gown over your head. You bring your arms up to poke through the holes. You open your eyes as he pulls the sheath down your body. It’s tight too, hugging your tits and ass.
His breath scrapes audibly. His hands hover around your sides then drop. He gathers up your clothes and heads for the door.
“Lay down.”
He slams the door behind him.
🌼
You lay in bed but don’t sleep. The lamp is on. You can’t bring yourself to face the dark.
You watch the door. Reality skews as time passes without notice. No tick of the clock, no numbers to count, only those walls and your fear.
The door jars then opens. You sit up. A figure fills the frame.
You stare at Curtis as he tilts his head. He’s naked. You brace yourself.
“Please…”
“Hey…” another voice comes from behind him. “Starting without me?”
Curtis winces and turns. You look away from his naked ass as he faces Walter. The other man snickers.
“Couldn’t sleep, big boy?” Walter taunts.
Curtis shakes his head and turns back. He enters the room. Walter follows and sheds his tee shirt. The door shuts with a loud click.
You push yourself against the wall, curled up as you hold up a hand in defense.
“Please, don’t–”
“Shh,” Walter hushes you as he shoves his flannel pants down his thick legs. His dick bobs up shamelessly as he stands and stretches.
Curtis approaches the bed and latches onto your ankle. You whine as he jerks you away from the wall. You flail as he drags you to the edge. The night gown rolls up above your thighs, exposing you.
“She looks good,” Walter praises as he strokes himself. “Give me her mouth.”
“Take it.” Curtis says as he drops to his knees and pushes yours apart.
You whimper. He grips your knees then slowly kneads up your thighs. Walter climbs up from the foot of the bed and strokes your cheek. You sway him away and he catches your hand. He snickers as he pulls it toward his pelvis.
“Stop! Please–”
“It’s not going to hurt if you’re good,” Walter chides.
You gasp as Curtis’ touch crawls between your thighs. His breath grazes your pelvis and you flinch. You reach down to stop him but once more, you’re slapped away.
Walter pumps himself with one hand as his other grasps your chin. He turns your head and you lock your jaw. He squeezes until your entire skull pulses.
“Don’t be bad.” He warns.
Curtis frames your pelvis, his thumbs stretched down the creases of your thighs.
“Listen.” Curtis growls. He leans in and his breath plumes against your cunt. He nuzzles you and purrs.
Walter presses his tip to your lips as his grip gets even tighter. You open your mouth and whine. He pushes inside and you close your eyes.
Curtis’ tongue grazes along your lips and you shiver. You sink into yourself as he tastes between your folds. The coolness of his mouth flows through your veins.
You tell yourself, beg yourself not too feel. But you feel it all. As Walter dips deeper into your mouth, smothering you, sliding down to your throat. As Curtis flicks his tongue up and down, swiping circles around your clit.
Your body vibrates as they violate you. Curtis reaches up your body, groping and grabbing at your stomach, then your chest. He fondles one tit as Walter grabs the other, still guiding your mouth up and down his length.
Your muscles spasm as you gag. Curtis tickles along your cunt with his fingers and teases your entrance. Walter pushes past your reflex and your eyes water as drool stains your lips and cheeks. Curtis pushes two fingers into you and you squeeze both of them as they invade your body.
They work in tandem, licking, lapping, tugging, thrusting. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, you can’t do anything but let them use you. For all that you can’t do, you feel it all.
Your insides twist and tie up. The tension coils around and around. You press on Walter’s thigh as he dips deeper and deeper and Curtis’ tongue swirls around and around.
You arch your back, toes curling, and the pressure bursts. You whine around Walter as you spasm and cum. Your orgasm dominates you, conquers you, and shatters the last of your resistance.
Neither stop. Walter fists your hair as he fucks your mouth and Curtis rams his fingers in deeper and hard. He sucks on your clit as you clasp at the tangled blanket and choke. You cum again.
He eases you through and drags his wet mouth across your pelvis and hip. He growls.
“Get her up.” He snarls.
Walter pushes in one last time then slides out of your mouth. He pulls you up by your neck and moves you off the bed. Curtis angles around to sit on the edge as Walter guides you onto his lap.
You push back against Walter and he grabs your hip. He leads you down as Curtis’ hand grips your other side. They force you onto Curtis’ dick as he groans. His hand slips to your rear as your walls clench him and you push on his chest.
Walter shoves you down until you cry out. He chuckles and moves your hips. You whine again.
“Is she tight?” Walter growls.
Curtis groans. He leans forward as the night gown droops below your chest and he takes a nipple in his mouth. Walter moves his hand up your back and pushes lightly. Curtis lays back, taking you with him.
Walter keeps your motion. He rubs your ass as guides you up and down Curtis’ length. He steps closer and bends over you.
Curtis reaches down as he nibbles at your chest. He frames his intrusion with his fingers, opening you up as Walter presses against your entrance. You twitch and try to move away.
They hold you in place as Walter pushes into you. He stretches you so much it burns. Just his tip has you trembling and pleading. Curtis hushes you and pets your head.
Walter inches into you, crowding your cunt as it strains around both of them. He presses against your back as he plants his knees between Curtis’ to kneel on the bed. He bends over you and snaps his hips, bottoming out.
You squeal and Curtis grunts. He hisses. “Fuck, she’s… fuck…”
“You’re right,” Walter rolls his hips and kisses the back of your head. “She’s fucking perfect.”
Warnings: dark and possessive Yoongi, kidnapping, captivity
Masterlist
Three weeks into captivity, Yoongi finally made a mistake.
Until then, he had controlled everything carefully.
Too carefully.
That was what made living with him so psychologically exhausting.
He anticipated problems before they happened. Thought through consequences. Avoided unnecessary conflict whenever possible. Even when she screamed at him, insulted him, refused food, ignored him for days, he rarely reacted emotionally in the moment.
He absorbed it.
Adjusted.
Adapted.
Like he was trying to build a life around her resistance instead of crush it outright.
Which was exactly why she hated him so much.
Because some traitorous part of her kept noticing the effort.
And she did not want to notice it.
Did not want to see the way he came home exhausted at three in the morning and still checked whether she had eaten dinner. Did not want to notice him quietly replacing the tea she hated with the one she liked after overhearing her complain once under her breath.
Did not want to think about how carefully he maintained physical distance from her after realizing sudden touch made her panic.
It would have been easier if he were cruel.
Instead, he acted like a man trying to earn affection he had no right to ask for.
And that made everything uglier.
More confusing.
More dangerous.
Especially because despite all his self-control, Yoongi was still possessive.
Terribly possessive.
She discovered that slowly.
At first, it was subtle.
A female maid began bringing her meals instead of one of the older male staff members after Yoongi noticed him lingering too long during conversation.
One afternoon, she mentioned an actor she found attractive while watching television.
Yoongi went quiet for the rest of the evening.
The next day, every drama featuring that actor had disappeared from the streaming recommendations.
Another time, one of the security guards smiled at her sympathetically after she dropped a glass in the kitchen.
Yoongi replaced him within twenty-four hours.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped one night after realizing yet another male staff member had suddenly vanished. “What, are you worried someone’s going to steal me from you?”
Yoongi looked up from his laptop calmly.
“Yes.”
The immediate answer stunned her silent.
He didn’t even sound embarrassed.
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“You don’t own me.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “But I am responsible for you.”
The phrasing made anger flare instantly inside her chest.
“I’m not a fucking pet.”
His jaw tightened faintly.
“I never said you were.”
“That’s how you treat me.”
“No,” Yoongi said softly, closing the laptop carefully. “If you were a pet, this would be much easier.”
Something uncomfortable twisted in her stomach at the exhaustion in his voice.
He looked genuinely worn down lately.
Not regretful.
Just tired.
Like loving her had become something painful and relentless.
Good, she thought bitterly.
He deserved it.
The knife incident happened on a Thursday.
It started badly from the beginning.
Yoongi had been gone almost the entire week because of schedules, leaving before sunrise and returning late into the night. She barely saw him except during exhausted late-night dinners where he looked half-dead from lack of sleep.
And despite herself she had started waiting for those dinners.
Not because she liked him.
Because they broke the silence.
Because after weeks trapped inside the house, Yoongi had become the only real constant in her life.
She hated that realization violently.
So when he came home especially late that night smelling faintly of expensive perfume that wasn’t hers, something ugly and irrational twisted sharply inside her chest.
A female stylist had apparently hugged him after a recording.
He mentioned it absentmindedly while loosening his watch.
“She got foundation all over my jacket,” he muttered, annoyed.
And somehow that was enough.
“Poor thing,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “Must’ve been so difficult for you.”
Yoongi looked up immediately.
The hostility in her tone surprised him.
“What?”
“You seem very close.”
Realization flickered across his face slowly.
Then something warmer followed.
Dangerously warm.
“Are you jealous?”
Her expression hardened instantly.
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Yoongi noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A small smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth for the first time all week.
“I barely spoke to her.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m trapped in a house against my will,” she snapped sharply. “Of course I’m upset.”
The warmth disappeared from his face immediately.
Right.
There it was again.
The wall between them.
Yoongi exhaled quietly and stood from the table.
“I’m going to shower.”
“Have fun.”
He paused slightly at the bitterness in her voice before leaving without another word.
The moment he disappeared upstairs, guilt irritated her immediately.
Not because she felt bad for him.
She absolutely did not feel bad for him.
She was just frustrated.
Restless.
Angry all the time lately.
Angry at him. Angry at herself. Angry at the way isolation had started warping her emotions into something unrecognizable.
And worst of all, angry because she had felt jealous.
The realization made her feel sick.
Yoongi found her in the kitchen twenty minutes later.
She stood barefoot near the counter cutting fruit aggressively with one of the kitchen knives the staff had apparently forgotten to lock away after dinner prep.
The second he saw the knife in her hand, his entire body tensed.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.
His voice stayed carefully neutral.
“Baby.”
She looked up sharply.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have that.”
Humiliation burned hot through her instantly.
Of course.
Of course he didn’t trust her.
“You think I’m going to stab you?”
“I think you’re upset.”
“So?”
Yoongi approached slowly.
Calmly.
Always calm.
“It’s dangerous when people are emotional and armed.”
Something in the wording pushed her over the edge.
Weeks of captivity.
Isolation.
Confusion.
The constant psychological pressure of him always being there.
Always watching.
Always understanding too much.
She snapped.
“Do you know what’s dangerous?” she laughed sharply, gripping the knife tighter. “Being kidnapped by a fucking psychopath!”
Yoongi stopped moving immediately.
Not angry.
Alert now.
“Put the knife down.”
“No.”
Her breathing had quickened hard and uneven.
She suddenly felt trapped all over again.
Trapped in the kitchen.
Trapped in the house.
Trapped inside his life.
“You don’t get to control every single thing I do!”
“I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“You’re keeping me prisoner!”
His expression tightened slightly.
“Please lower your voice.”
The calmness shattered something inside her.
“Fuck you!” she screamed, tears burning suddenly down her face. “I hate you! I hate you so much!”
Pain flashed across Yoongi’s face before disappearing behind control again.
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay like this is normal!”
“You’re distressed.”
“No shit!”
She hurled the cutting board violently across the room.
It crashed loudly against the cabinets.
Yoongi didn’t even flinch.
That only made her angrier.
“You think you know me so well?” she cried. “You think this is love? You don’t love me! You love controlling me!”
“No,” he said quietly. “I love you.”
The certainty in his voice made her chest ache with frustrated fury.
“You don’t even care that I’m miserable!”
“That’s not true.”
“Then let me go!”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
“No.”
The word broke whatever fragile restraint she still had left.
Before either of them fully realized what was happening, she lunged forward and shoved him hard.
Yoongi stumbled backward into the counter, genuine surprise flashing across his face for the first time that night.
Then everything unraveled at once.
The knife came up between them in one frantic movement. Not planned, not deliberate, not even fully conscious.
Just panic. Rage. Fear exploding all at once.
Yoongi reacted instantly.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist before the blade could reach him.
A sharp sound cut through the kitchen.
For a second, neither of them understood what had happened.
Then Yoongi’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
Her eyes dropped.
Blood welled across his palm in a thin red line where the blade had sliced into him during the struggle.
The sight ripped the air from her lungs.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
The knife still hovered inches from his chest.
Yoongi’s bleeding hand remained locked around her wrist, blood slipping between his fingers and dripping steadily onto the floor. Crimson streaked across his skin, spotted the front of his shirt, slid down the edge of the counter.
If his reflexes had been even a second slower, the knife would have gone into his chest instead.
The realization hit her so hard she nearly stopped breathing.
The kitchen fell completely silent except for their uneven breaths and the soft drip of blood against tile.
She stared at the knife in horror.
At his blood.
At her own hand still holding the weapon.
Yoongi stared back at her.
Not angry.
Not frightened.
Devastated.
That was somehow worse.
Slowly, carefully, his grip loosened around her wrist.
The knife slipped from her numb fingers and crashed against the floor.
Without taking his eyes off her for long, he pushed the knife farther away across the tile with his foot.
“You could’ve hurt yourself,” he said softly.
Not you could’ve hurt me.
Her throat closed painfully.
“I—I didn’t mean…”
The words shattered apart before they could fully leave her mouth.
Tears spilled down her face instantly, hot and humiliating.
Not because he was hurt.
Because she no longer understood what she was becoming.
Yoongi finally glanced down at his bleeding hand as though he’d forgotten about it entirely.
When he reached toward her with his uninjured hand, she flinched backward automatically.
The reaction landed visibly.
Like something inside him cracked quietly under it.
But his voice remained painfully gentle.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, broken.
Yoongi stopped immediately.
Silence swallowed the kitchen again.
Then, after a long moment, he said softly:
“I’m going to lock the knives away from now on.”
The shame hit harder than any punishment ever could.
And from the exhausted sadness in Yoongi’s eyes, it hurt him too.
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. DEAD DOVE, 227 NON-CON. delusional stalker seonghwa x fem reader, dacryphilia, drugging via paralytics, spit, cunnilingus, clit stimulation, fingering, tongue-fucking, forced orgasm, unprotected p->v, creampie despite readers begging, 205 ddlg themes, use of "daddy", pet names (baby, angel, good/little girl, sweetheart)
-> two requests in one ! "noncon with seonghwa" and "227 + 205 with seonghwa". enjoy it ya nasties <33
♡masterlist + navigation !♡
If you're too shy, let me know.
Is what Seonghwa had written in your comment section after months of gathering the courage to interact with you.
Much to his surprise, he found a hidden message in your next post.
A peek of your pastel panties showing in your seemingly innocent pose, showing because your skirt has been blown slightly by the wind.
Surely. It has to be. It's your way of responding to him.
You hadn't ignored him.
You really are just that shy, he knows it for certain now. You haven't interacted with him because you're shy, that's it. You must just need to be guided.
Which is exactly why he's broken into your apartment, a syringe held tightly by his side as he stands by the side of your bed; watching you sleep.
You feel the charge in the air through your sleeping state, stirring under the blankets restlessly for a moment before your body urges you to peek your eyes open.
The shadow that looms eerily on the wall makes your heart drop into your uneasy gut.
You turn quickly to face the source, lifting yourself onto your elbows and staring with wide eyes at the man. Your body doesn't know what to do. You don't know what to do as the man leans and cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours briefly before whispering against them, "you weren't supposed to wake up yet. I'm sorry, baby."
You yelp as a quick pin-prick stings your neck, hand flying up to it before he grabs it with his free hand and laces your fingers together; holding it down to your lap despite your struggle against him.
"Shhh," he coos as he quickly presses the plunger of the syringe. A burning sensation spreads through the area, making you whimper through your quivering lips. Tears are quickly forming a pool against your waterline, blurring his semi-familiar face.
"No-" You groan out weakly as he pushes you to guide you to your back, kicking at him with all your might as he climbs over you. You land a few good connections to his thighs, but it doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest.
By the time he's straddling you, whatever drugs he'd injected into you are taking effect — and you find it increasingly difficult to move your limbs. They feel heavy, like the world's heaviest weighted blanket has been draped over them.
"Please, no," you can manage to move your mouth just enough to whisper, and your eyes are able to flick from his face to his hands beggingly as he peels the blanket away from you.
"It's okay, angel," he hums at the sight of your pajamas, something so simple making his cock stir to life. "I know you want this. You've been sending me all these hints, like we're playing a game." He huffs a chuckle, pushing your top up to expose your chest. "I really wanted to wait for you to come to me first, but now I know you're just too shy to."
Your head moves heavily as you attempt to shake it, tears now streaming down your temples. "Don't worry, Daddy will take good care of you."
You squeeze your eyes shut as he leans over to kiss you again, willing your head to move away but only getting caught in his palm as he cradles your cheek and holds you in place.
He moves his lips against yours for a good few long moments before he kisses his way down your jaw and toward your neck.
You can feel everything. But you can do nothing. Not even as his hand sneaks down your pajama pants and cups your most intimate parts.
"Stop." Your voice cracks under the weight of the drugs that settles over your entire body now.
"Why would I do that, sweetheart? We're finally together, let's make the most of it, yeah?"
"I don't want t-"
"I'll make it feel good for you, don't worry your pretty little head about it... I'll stretch you out nice and slow before I fuck you." To him it's a sweet promise. To you? A threat.
"Please- please don't." You keep your eyes shut tight as he starts circling your clit over the fabric of your panties.
"I know, I know," he coos again, "my little girl is just so shy. It's okay. Let Daddy do all the work. You just relax, baby."
Is he serious? Is all you can think as he slides your pants and panties down in one smooth tug, abandoning them at the foot of the bed before he spreads your heavy legs wide.
He stares down at your bare heat for a long beat, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. Laying down on his stomach to be face to face with your core, he spits right on it.
You almost want to gag as the warm spit dribbles down your slit, and you can only whine as you put all of your energy into trying to close your legs.
It's all for nothing, because his tongue comes out and slides its way up your slit slowly. "Fuck, baby," he moans, giving a kiss to your clit before he continues, "this is what you've been hiding from me? So amazing..."
You cry out weakly as he starts eating you out like a man starved, sucking and licking every inch of you that he can reach.
His tongue slips its way into your growing wetness, curling and swirling every which way it can.
You're still crying, though your tears have slowed — not because of the unwelcome pleasure, you assure yourself.
When his tongue slowly pulls away, you let out a breath of relief. The feeling of him licking at you is bad enough, and the feeling of any part of him inside of you makes your gut clench.
The relief is short lived, however, because two fingers push their way into you and make you squeal as he quickly starts curling them right up against that special spot inside of you all the while his tongue rolls against your clit.
"That's it baby," he pants softly against you, "you're going to cum for Daddy. Be a good girl, now."
It's too fast building, it's too intense. All too much as he abuses both of your most sensitive spots — inside and out.
You let out a wobbling scream as your orgasm breaks over you in violent waves, your legs twitching with your cunt as you cum around his fingers.
He watches the way your face contorts like a hawk, eyes trained up your body as he continues to flick his tongue on your sensitive nub.
He only stops when sobs start to wrack your chest, a satisfied grin on his slick lips as he removes his fingers.
"Didn't that feel good, angel? Hm?" He licks his fingers clean while awaiting your answer, but one never comes; only your sniffles and soft cries. "Hey," he turns stern, gripping your face in his hand and smooshing your cheeks together, "answer me."
"Y-yes." You tell him what he wants to hear, and you don't lie despite everything. It did feel good. But you didn't want it, and you think maybe you'd prefer if it actually didn't please you at all.
"Yes," he hums, pleased, "I knew you would come around, sweetheart."
The sound of his zipper fills you with dread, and you don't have time to think about it — because he's immediately rubbing his hard member against the mess he'd made of you.
"Wait- fuck!" It's a real, proper scream despite the drugs holding your body captive. Because he'd just plunged his thick, overwhelming inches into you in one smooth thrust.
"Oh, shit, baby," he moans deeply, bending to nuzzle his head against your neck, "you're so fucking tight. So warm..."
"Don't move, please," you stutter, "too big-"
"Awe," he coos well and proper, "is Daddy too big for his little girl?" He presses his forehead to yours as you force a weak nod. "Don't be scared of it," he presses his lips to yours briefly, "I'll be gentle."
Gentle he is, at least for the first few slow, rolling thrusts.
But then your cunt clenches around him and he's suddenly pummeling into you. Rough, hard, and fast. So much so that you can hardly breathe.
"I'm sorry sweet girl," he groans, hands going to hold your waist tightly, "I need to cum- gonna cum inside you."
"No-" You gasp, "no, no! Not on birth control, please-"
"Keep begging, baby," he urges with lust coating his voice, his breath heavy against your face.
"D-Daddy, please-" Your idea backfires immediately. Calling him Daddy to get to his soft side doesn't work. Instead, he's buried balls deep inside of you the second you utter the name, pumping his warm seed straight into your guts.
He nearly falls ontop of you, making it even harder to catch your breath as you cry.
"Shhh, baby, shhh."
His cooing works in tandem with your exhaustion and the drugs, luring you to a deep sleep.
Summary: Reader is a ballerina who has a personal stake in politics for the working class. Having come up from poor roots, she hasn't forgotten the struggle of the working class and uses her spare time and influence to try to push agendas for them. Her efforts catch the eye of Tommy Shelby. And once he sees her dance, he is eager to preserve that beauty for himself.
You swallowed sharply, looking over at the maid, electing to stay quiet.
Ada looked even more confused at that. She shifted for a moment, looking unsure, but then to the maid, she said, “I believe we are going to need tea.” To you, “Do you mind staying here or would you rather go in the parlor?”
“Here is fine.”
“Here then,” she said to the maid.
The maid looked hesitant and Ada gave her an irritated look which set her to curtsy quickly and leave the room.
Ada came over to your small table near the window and placed her traveling bag by one of the chairs. Sitting, she said, “I need you to explain this more to me. Please, come sit.”
You got out of bed, grabbing your robe, and wrapping it around yourself as you came to sit in the other chair.
“I made him angry last night. I used the phone to call to check in with one of my best friends. He had told me I couldn’t do that. But I haven’t been able to speak to her since my birthday.”
“You used the phone. And he locked you in your room?”
“It sounds absurd,” you admitted.
“Because it is,” she returned. You stiffened, afraid she was mocking you and would tattle to him that you had tried to go behind his back. She noticed though and told you, “I don’t mean that I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I did just find you locked in a room with a maid that was clearly lying about why.” She clicked her tongue. “Has he done it before? Was he drunk?”
“Yes, until I started sleeping in his room, he would lock me in here at night. He didn’t want me leaving. And last night, yes, he was quite drunk. We almost tumbled when he was bringing me back upstairs. I don’t believe he was drunk – or that drunk – the other times.”
“Why would he expect you to leave during the night? Do you sleep walk?”
You shook your head. “No. And…”
“And?”
“Because I don’t want to be here.”
“What do you mean?” Ada asked slowly, looking very much like she was apprehensive to get an answer.
Quieter, you started, “I didn’t ask to come here. I—”
You cut off as a knock came on the door. The maid entered with a tray for tea. You stayed quiet as she placed it down, not wanting to say anything in front of her.
“Sugar, miss?” she offered to Ada first, picking up the tea kettle.
Before she could pour, Ada held up her hand, stalling her movement. “Actually, I believe the tea is no longer necessary. Y/N and I are going to go have lunch.”
The maid blanched, stammered, “G-go have lunch? The cook can certainly prepare some—”
“I don’t want to eat here,” Ada interrupted. “And I would love to take her to my favorite place. She’s never been. It’ll be a girl’s trip.”
The maid looked at a loss, floundering to figure out how to debate. But she did not, because she knew that would be inappropriate. Her distress was evident though and Ada went on ignoring it.
“I trust you have a day dress you can put on quickly? No need for too much fuss on makeup and hair. Do you have a headscarf?” You nodded and she stood. “lovely. I’ll wait downstairs. Do be quick, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will,” you affirmed, standing as well to go to your wardrobe.
Hands shaking, you opened the doors, eyes scanning quickly to find the one you were looking for. You were going to be leaving. And Ada seemed to believe you. Could this be an escape?
“I—should I help? Elsie went to the butcher,” the maid asked from behind you.
Shaking your head, you pulled the dress down. “I’m perfectly okay to dress myself. Thank you.”
Elsie being absent was good news. She was not there to try to stop you and Thomas could not fault her for that.
“Miss, Mr. Shelby is not going to like this. He won’t approve. He gave specific instructions!”
“It’s just lunch,” you said, brushing her off and taking the dress behind your dressing screen. With some harshness to get her to drop the conversation, you said, “I will deal with it later.”
<><><>
Ada was waiting downstairs like she said. You tried to hold back your jitters of escaping the mansion without Thomas breathing down your neck. You slowed your pace as you approached. The servants nearby were watching uneasily and you turned your gaze away from them.
“Shall we?” Ada greeted.
You felt the staff’s eyes on your backs as you went out the front door. Crossing the threshold made your heart flutter. Settling into the passenger seat, you prayed Thomas would not pass the pair of you on the long driveway and put a stop to your endeavor before it started.
When Ada turned off the driveway in the opposite direction of London, you relaxed. This way meant Thomas would not discover you by chance.
Ada’s hands wrung gently on the steering wheel. You could tell she was as uneasy as you.
“You said you didn’t ask to come to Arrow House,” she began. “So how did you end up there?”
Honestly, you told her, “I don’t know. I… woke up in my – that – room. The day after my birthday party. I fell asleep at home. I briefly remember being woken by someone’s hand at my mouth with a cloth. But… then I was at Thomas’. Hours away from my flat in London.”
The air was thick with tension.
Ada finally spoke, “You’re saying Tommy drugged you… and brought you to Arrow House?”
“I don’t know if it was Thomas himself. He wasn’t alone when I left the hotel.”
“Hotel?”
“He had a room for us to stay in after my party.”
“Why didn’t you stay there?”
“We got into an argument. I came down to the courtyard to fetch him to go to sleep. He was drunk, talking to Johnny, Arthur, and John. I overheard him insult my friends. Call them slags. He was irate I would even entertain the idea of joining them in Italy for a smaller production. Consider leaving him. I… threw my water in his face and left.”
Ada sucked her teeth, “That was bold. But can’t say I wouldn’t react the same.”
Fiddling with your hands, you gave a light laugh. Slowly the smile faded and a lump formed in your throat. Telling someone who seemed to have concern about what had been happening to you was welling you up with emotion. You had felt so alone.
“Everything had been going so well,” you said gently. “We were having a good time.” Tears brimmed as you looked down at your hands. “Come to find out it wasn’t so well… he’d done an awful thing even before bringing me to the house…” You moved on to talk about what he had threatened you with.
<><><>
Ada rang the doorbell twice quickly. She stepped back, her jaw flexing in impatience even though it had only been a second or two. You watched her out of the corner of your eye, feeling a sense of guilt for putting her in this position. She had no reason to trust you, she barely knew you. But she was doing it all the same. And learning awful things about her brother in the process at your expense.
She noticed you looking and you offered gently, “I didn’t mean… to drop it all on you.”
Shrugging, she said, “It’s better that we know. So something can be done about it.”
The door swung open and you straightened up. Polly looked surprised to see the two of you.
“You’re a little far from home, Y/N,” she said lightly, before narrowing her eyes, noticing the look on both of your faces. “What’s going on?”
“Can we come in?” Ada asked.
“Course,” Polly said, stepping back to allow the two of you to come into her townhome. You followed Ada timidly into the sitting room.
“Too early for whiskey?” Ada asked over her shoulder, tossing her bag down next to the couch as she flopped down. She patted the spot next to her for you, and you did as she asked.
“Not for me,” Polly said slowly, moving to go towards her small bar.
“Double or more for me,” Ada requested, causing Polly to only pause for a second, tossing her a concerned look. Her eyes slid to you, and you told her a single was fine. You gently placed your bag on the ground, placing your hands in your lap. Having one of them believe you was already a miracle. You wondered if Polly would follow suit.
She held out the glasses to the two of you and Ada downed half of hers in one swig. You elected to just take a sip of yours. Polly cocked an eyebrow at Ada before going back to fetch a glass for herself.
“The suspension is killing me,” Polly said, sitting in a chair across the coffee table from the pair of you. “Never see you drinking like that this early in the day… or maybe ever, Ada.”
Ada tapped her fingers on her glass, looking deep in thought. “We have a problem,” she finally said.
“I’ve gathered that much,” Polly drawled.
“With Tommy.”
Now Polly shot you a look and you downcast your eyes, suddenly feeling embarrassed for some reason.
“What kind of problem?” she demanded.
Ada let out a strangled laugh, “I don’t know how else to say it, so I’ll be blunt. Apparently, my fucking brother is into drugging, kidnapping, and caging up women now.”
Polly looked shell shocked for a moment, looking between the two of you quickly. She closed her eyes, trying to gather herself.
“My exact reaction,” Ada clipped. "I found her locked in her room. Maid lied, said she was very ill. She's clearly not. She'd been in there since last night. All for using the bloody telephone."
Now it was Polly’s turn to take a large drink. When she swallowed, she leaned forward, pinning the two of you with a hard stare. “I’m going to need you to explain this to me. From the beginning.”
Ada gestured for you and you sighed heavily before retelling the trauma you had been going through for the past month. You kept stealing glances to see how Polly was reacting by her facial expression. It was a mixture of being dismayed and stunned.
“And I’m afraid of why he went to London this morning,” you said, coming to a close. “He must know where Henry lives if he’s already attacked him. Or if he’s gone to do something to Florence. Or something else entirely. Or all three things.”
You finished shakily, bringing your glass up to your lips and taking a swig.
Silence filled the room as it sunk in for Polly. You stared at the ground, wiping at your eyes quickly.
Ada broke the silence. “I can’t take her to mine. The staff know she left with me and Tommy’s got a key to my place.
“Now why would you go on and let him do that?” Polly questioned irritated.
“He owns the place.”
Polly snorted. “Doesn’t mean he needs to keep a copy of your key.” Ada looked less than amused at this sidebar conversation. “Say he stops to see you. What are you going to tell him? She’s not with you. And that you dropped her back off at the house and somehow she’s not there?” Ada shifted uncomfortably and Polly snorted again. “Let me guess. You didn’t think that far.”
“No,” Ada admitted.
“Grand.”
Exasperated, Ada told her, “I wasn’t about to just leave her there.”
“You should have,” Polly snapped and you flinched. Polly added quickly, “Because it was reckless. You need time to fucking plan things, Ada. I’ve taught you better than this.”
“How else would I have gotten her to have this conversation alone with us? Tommy apparently never leaves her alone and if he does, she gets locked up in a fucking room.”
Polly had nothing to say to that. Instead, to you, she said after a moment, “That does explain how bloody clingy he is. And how he barely lets you speak.” She sighed and said gravely, “You know Thomas. He doesn’t give up. And he’s got the whole fuck all of Birmingham at his beck and call. And has claws in London.”
“Ada, love, he won’t leave you alone. You’ve seen him when he gets into one of his states. The temper of that man is a force to be reckoned with.” Polly paused, a pensive expression on her face. Exhaling loudly, she said, “Can’t say she escaped Ada and put her up in a hotel room. He’ll have a Peaky posted outside each watching to see if she comes in or out after shaking down the front desk staff. You can’t go home. Can’t stay here because he’ll ask to come in. And it’ll look suspicious if I tell him no.”
You had a feeling you knew where her train of thought was heading.
“You’ve got to go back,” Polly told you. She said louder, cutting Ada off who was about to protest, “For now.”
Tears welled, “He’s going to be so upset I left.”
“I’ll take the blame,” Ada stated, sounding downtrodden at the turn of events.
“That maid heard me tell you I made him angry.”
Ada shrugged, “And? That was the truth of it. She didn’t hear you say anything else on the matter. It won’t be a bad look if I bring you back. And… I act… normal.”
It looked to pain her to say that.
Polly said gently to you, “Just need some time, love. We will figure it out. Promise.”
synopsis; Some distances are small enough to cross only once. What begins as surveillance spirals into something uglier—fantasies that leave him shaken by how far he’s willing to go for someone who still has no idea what he truly is.
pairing; stalker yoongi x female reader
genre; psychological thriller, angst, smut
warnings; +18, dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, stalking, psychological manipulation, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, power imbalance, predatory behavior, yandere themes, yoongi is just being insane, creepy/disturbing/disgusting behavior, fear of heights, masturbation (m)
notes; yoongi the creepy neighbour is finally here! i forgot how fun it is to write him. i love coming up with the weird unhinged shit he does for y/n. just wait till he realizes y/n has more chemistry with seokjin than him. i'm sorry for the delay </3 but i had my friends birthday party on saturday and i got a huge hangover. i keep writing something everyday before bed but i just end up deleting everything... but i hope you'll enjoy it <3
wc; 3.3k
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Charlie Parker’s saxophone drifted through the apartment, notes fluttering like startled birds against the rain-lashed windows. Yoongi barely heard them—he sat slumped deep into the couch, one arm slung loosely over the backrest, fingers twitching once before falling still again.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He pressed the button with a soft click. Folders opened one after another—class notes, archived files, old projects. Harrington’s Obedience to Authority assignment. Research sorted neatly into subfolders. Weeks spent studying coercion. On how sweetly people knelt. It taught him how one was equal. They could lie about it all they wanted—society, friendship, love—but equality was a myth. People were either beneath him or above him. Never beside him.
He still couldn’t decide where she belonged.
Yoongi scrolled past the older files without interest until he reached the most recent one. The Excel sheet opened, rows of timestamps crowding the screen with his next project. Dates. Sounds. Patterns. Entire weeks of her life reduced to cells and observations.
11:47 p.m.—Returned with Bianca + unknown male. Laughter sounded forced. Door closed at 12:03 a.m. Went to sleep alone.
His eyes caught on that final sentence and stayed there. Slowly, he leaned back, two fingers settling against his lips. At his feet, Rat curled tighter into herself, tail flicking once against Yoongi’s ankle. The spreadsheet had started innocently. Just small things at first. What time she usually left for class. Which days she skipped breakfast. How often she ordered takeout.
Yoongi refreshed the file out of habit, eyes drifting to the unfinished row he'd started the night before. The cursor blinked against the empty cell. Waiting.
It was supposed to be a regular Friday.
He had timed it perfectly. 7:49 a.m. Her door would open. Three seconds later, he would step out—jacket already on, keys in hand—and offer to walk with her. Maybe drive her if the rain got worse. She would hesitate first, lips parting just enough to betray the argument inside her. She always hesitated before accepting kindness. Like she expected it to be taken back at any moment.
But the lock beside him clicked at 7:13 a.m.
Too early.
At least twenty minutes early. Wrong rhythm. No jangle of frantic keys. No muffled curses bleeding through the walls. Instead, steady footsteps faded down the hallway.
He was moving before the thought caught up. Shoes were shoved on untied. Door shut soundlessly behind him. He followed the fading trace of her perfume down the stairwell—floral cut with something sharper, almost bitter. It didn’t quite belong to the girl who had trembled beside him two nights ago.
Yoongi kept half a block between them, the distance a fragile lie he told himself made him invisible. Even from that far away, he noticed the difference immediately. The skirt riding high with every step, offering brief flashes of skin catching beneath the streetlights. The gray turtleneck that strangled her throat. Hair styled carefully, loose strands brushing against her cheeks whenever the wind shifted.
This wasn’t for class. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t for him.
A figure stepped out from a side street. Tall. Loose-shouldered. Effortless in the way attractive people often were without realizing it. The man called her name once. She turned immediately, her face lighting up in a way Yoongi had never managed to pull from her himself. He brushed a hand against her shoulder in greeting. Casual. It lingered half a second too long, his thumb brushing the seam of her turtleneck.
“…still haven’t started the Harrington thing,” she admitted with that familiar thread of worry in her voice that Yoongi drank like wine. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Seokjin smiled. “If you want, we can go over it at lunch. My notes are actually decent.”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” she murmured, though relief had already begun to bleed through. Gratitude, warm and unguarded—the same tone she'd used with him when he fed her soup or when he comforted her after the bar.
“You’re not wasting anything.” Seokjin said, guiding her around a muddy puddle, his palm sliding lower along her back. “Besides, Bianca would kill me if I let you fail corporate law.”
She laughed, small and bright. “I’m pretty sure Bianca needs your help more than I do.”
“She does,” he nodded. “But you at least pretend to listen when I explain things.”
Yoongi’s nails pressed crescents into his palms inside his pockets. Eight meters. Five. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to imagine snapping Seokjin’s wrist like dry kindling. Yoongi swore her laugh was forced—it came too easily and too loud. It couldn't be real.
“Seriously, though,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her coat lower. “I opened the assignment and immediately closed my laptop again. Harrington genuinely hates students. There’s no other explanation.”
Seokjin snorted. “No, he hates weak arguments. He values confidence more than being right.”
“That sounds like something someone says right before becoming morally bankrupt.”
“I already am morally bankrupt,” he replied with a smile. “That’s why I got an A.”
She laughed harder this time, her head tipping back slightly.
“So your entire academic strategy is manipulation?”
Seokjin shrugged. “It’s worked so far.”
“You're awfully good at this.”
He tilted his head. “At law?”
“No,” she shook her head, smiling despite herself. “At sounding confident even when you're bullshitting.”
“But it's making you smile.”
She rolled her eyes. “Out of pity.”
“Mm.” Seokjin glanced sideways at her. “You say that now, but give it one year. You’ll be weaponizing tears for extensions like the rest of them.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s a horrible accusation.”
"Trust me, I've been there before."
Their pace had slowed without either of them seeming to notice. The backs of their hands brushed together between steps. Her hand twitched at the first touch, but then she seemed to reach for it.
A pulse throbbed slowly in his jaw.
Yoongi imagined stepping forward. Imagined grabbing Seokjin by the collar and driving him face-first into the wet brick wall beside the alley. Imagined the sharp crack of bone. Her scream. The stunned confusion on Seokjin’s face right before fear finally replaced that calm expression.
Instead, he stayed where he was. Starving.
“You know what your problem is?” he continued.
“I have several.”
“You assume asking for help makes you annoying.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” His voice softened. “It makes you human.”
A branch snapped under Yoongi’s shoe—sharp as breaking bone. Seokjin’s head turned. Their eyes met. Recognition flickered across Seokjin's face. A slow tilt of the head, eyes measuring the distance Yoongi had closed. Then something worse. Amusement. The corner of Seokjin’s mouth curved slightly, like he understood something Yoongi didn’t. He hasn't acknowledged Yoongi aloud. Instead, he leaned closer to her and murmured near her ear, which pulled another laugh from her throat.
Yoongi stopped walking. Rain slid cold beneath the collar of his jacket, connecting with his sweat. He watched them disappear farther down the street.
Fine.
If she insisted on walking toward wolves, he would simply have to become the better one.
Back in his apartment, the record still spun. Yoongi rested outside on the balcony with a cigarette hanging between his fingers. The space was barely large enough for the plastic chair and a narrow round table. Some mornings he sat there with coffee hot enough to burn his tongue while the icy air chewed through his clothes. The contrast kept him awake. Below, the city stretched in long grey lines. Roads slick with old rain. An endless forest of concrete blocks.
His gaze drifted automatically toward the balcony beside his. Same cheap flooring. Same black railing spotted with rust near the bolts. A tiny table pushed against the wall. One chair. Nothing special. Except it belonged to her. That changed everything.
The balconies sat closer together than they should have. Yoongi leaned on the railing, eyes narrowing as he measured the gap. One careful step over the bars. A grip on the divider. Shift his weight slowly. It was manageable. Only two floors below him. If he slipped, he’d probably survive. Probably.
Same door handle as his. If she forgot to lock it—
His thoughts stopped abruptly.
No.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Breaking into her apartment wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It wasn’t harmless. If she found out, everything he’d built with her would collapse instantly. Every careful conversation. Every moment she’d softened around him. Gone.
Still…
He wouldn’t steal anything. Wouldn’t touch anything. Just look. People visited each other’s apartments all the time. He simply happened to be doing it differently. That wasn’t dangerous. Was it?
He imagined the smell inside first. Vanilla candles. Maybe dusty textbooks scattered over the couch.
Yoongi exhaled through his nose.
No.
Absolutely not.
If he wanted something real with her, he needed boundaries. Trust. Self-control. Breaking into her apartment like some fucking psychopath was not a good start.
A moment later, he realized he’d already swung one leg over the railing. He froze. Cold metal dug into his palms as his grip tightened instinctively. Half his body leaned out into open air now, one foot balancing uncertainly against the narrow concrete edge outside the bars. Then he moved the other leg over. Now all of his weight depended on that narrow edge and the balance of his heels. The height hit him. From inside the balcony, the drop had looked manageable. From here, it looked endless. Wind rushed upward between the buildings, threading beneath his clothes and licking the sweat gathering along the back of his neck. His thighs trembled from the strain of holding himself steady.
Yoongi swallowed and stretched his right leg carefully toward her balcony. The tip of his shoe scraped concrete. For one hopeful second, he thought he had it. Then his foot slipped. His stomach dropped so violently he nearly puked. Yoongi jerked backward on instinct, clinging to the railing hard enough for the pain to explode through his wrists. A hot flash tore through his body before fading just as quickly, leaving him cold and shaking.
The railing had gone slick beneath his palms. He glanced down once and instantly regretted it. The pavement seemed farther away now. He squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see static. Then tried again. Left leg first. The sole of his shoe landed against the floor with a dull scrape and held steady. He stopped breathing. Carefully, he reached outward with his left hand until his fingers wrapped around the second railing. His body stretched painfully between the balconies now, muscles shaking violently from the effort. One wrong shift of weight and…
Don’t think about it.
With one sharp movement, he dragged himself fully across. Both shoes slammed against the solid concrete. For several seconds, he could only stand there, bent forward over the railing while his lungs struggled to catch up.
“I did it.”
A laugh burst out of him unexpectedly.
“I actually fucking did it.”
“Excuse me?”
The voice nearly stopped his heart. A middle-aged man stood on the sidewalk below, plastic grocery bags hanging from one hand as he stared upward with open disbelief.
“… What exactly are you doing up there?”
Yoongi blinked once, suddenly looking far closer to death than he had dangling between the balconies.
“Hah—funny story,” he called down, forcing out a strained smile. “I locked myself out. Left my keys inside.”
The man frowned immediately, head tilting to the left as suspicion settled across his face.
He doesn’t believe this shit.
Then, unexpectedly, the man barked out a laugh.
“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “One slip and you’d crack open like an egg.”
Yoongi laughed weakly with him, though his knees still felt unstable.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Realized that halfway through.”
“Be careful, kid.”
The man disappeared inside the building lobby, still muttering to himself. Silence settled again. Yoongi looked up and carefully climbed through the last barrier and finally touched safe, steady ground. He held onto his knees, taking a deep breath before straightening and turning toward the door.
Up close, he could see faint fingerprints clouding the handle. Tiny scratches in the paint. His heartbeat picked up again. This was real now. Yoongi wrapped his hand around the handle and pushed down.
His stomach sank.
She locked it?
He tried again, slower this time. The handle shifted slightly before catching halfway. Relief flooded him so quickly it almost made him dizzy. Not locked. Just stuck. Yoongi planted one hand against the glass and shoved his shoulder into the frame.
“Come on,” he muttered, pushing harder.
Muscles strained. Heat burned across his palms. The door suddenly gave way with a sharp crack. Yoongi stumbled violently forward, losing his footing as momentum threw him into the apartment. His elbow slammed against hardwood. Pain exploded up his arm instantly—white and electric, all the way to his shoulder.
“Shit—”
He curled, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Then the smell hit him. Her.
A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
Yoongi pushed himself upright, steadying his weight against the couch beside him. He moved like a ghost through her small life. Smaller than he’d imagined. The studio stretched in an awkward T-shape, every section bleeding into the next without real separation. To the left sat the kitchen—narrow counters, cream-colored cabinets painted, and an ancient stove with scratches near the burners. A fridge hummed unevenly in the corner beside a sink crowded with dishes. Near the outlet sat a kettle surrounded by scattered tea packets and a half-empty jar of sugar. Yoongi stepped closer to the fridge. Sticky notes covered the door.
wash the dishes!!!
buy oat milk
meet seokjin at 7:30
bake something for bianca
His eyes stopped on Seokjin’s name. The note had been written quickly, letters pressed too hard into paper. When has she planned this?
Across from the kitchen sat the living space. An open textbook rested beside the cushions, highlighted paragraphs bleeding neon pink across the pages. Beyond it, the sleeping area opened quietly into view. Makeup products crowded the floor around a tall mirror—foundation left uncapped, mascara tossed sideways.
Then came the bed. Yoongi moved toward it slowly. The duvet lay twisted near the center. One pillow still carried the faint impression of her head. Another textbook rested near the edge beneath a mess of charging cables and folded notes. Carefully, Yoongi sat down onto the mattress. The springs groaned softly beneath his weight. His hands moved over the pillow, and one long strand of hair caught on his finger. He wrapped it tenderly around his knuckle until the skin beneath it paled. The image came easily—her curled against his chest, half asleep while rain pressed softly against the windows. His fingers moving through her hair.
A faint vibration startled him. His head snapped up. Another buzz. Somewhere inside the apartment. Yoongi stood up, pulse jumping against his ribs. The sound led him into the bathroom. It barely had enough room to turn around comfortably. Skincare bottles crowded every inch of the sink. Half-used lip balms. A toothbrush left carelessly beside the faucet. A phone lit faintly beside it.
Bianca
how was the meeting with seokjin
8:32 a.m
did you survive novak’s show
9:24 a.m.
yooo
hello??
9:30 a.m.
where the fuck are you
did seokjin kidnap you or something
did you even go to class???
9:33 a.m.
Yoongi stared at the message before forcing himself to look away. The shower curtain hung partially open beside him. It was too easy to imagine her here. Steam clouding the mirror. Water sliding down her spine. Her hair darkened and clinging to bare skin while she hummed softly to herself, unaware. Him behind her. Both of them squeezing in this tiny space, accidentally elbowing each other while showering. Or pressing her against the wall, taking, owning—while she gasped his name like prayer or terror.
The bathroom suddenly felt smaller. Hotter. Yoongi dragged a hand down his face hard enough to burn. He looked away, on the floor, to think about—
Clothes. From last night. Or today. A t-shirt. Shorts. Black lace tangled between them.
It was ridiculous. Just clothing. Fabric. Nothing more. Just some material soaked in her smell.
The scent rose the second he brought it to his face—warm skin, faint soap, the ghost of her. Something strained escaped his throat. He was already aching. Shame and need crashed together so violently his vision blurred. His jeans dropped with a soft click of the belt hitting the tiles. Cock heavy and leaking. The first rough stroke pulled a low groan from his chest.
He closed his eyes. In his mind she was there with him. Pressed against these tiles but looking at him. Eyes soft and hazy. No hesitation this time. She wanted this. Wanted him. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear.
“Yoongi…” she breathed against his mouth, half-laugh, half-plea.
He imagined kissing her slowly at first, then deeper, hungrier, tasting the small sounds she made when his hand slipped between her legs. He’d drop to his knees if she let him, worship every inch Seokjin had only been allowed to glance at.
His strokes turned faster, almost punishing. The lace dragged against sensitive skin, already soaked with him. He pictured her thighs tightening around his hips, her head falling back against the tile with a soft thud as he pushed inside her—tight, wet, his. She’d moan his name like she meant it. Like she’d been waiting for him to break. To finally stop pretending. Her nails digging into his shoulders, legs locked around him, hips rolling to meet every thrust because she needed this too. Needed him.
He could almost hear the way her voice would crack on a shaky “please”—not fear, just overwhelming want. The way she’d look at him after, flushed and ruined in the best way, whispering that she’d never looked at Seokjin like that. Couldn’t. Not when Yoongi saw her so completely.
The orgasm hit him hard and blinding. He came with a strangled groan into the black lace, pulse after pulse, knees buckling until his head rested against the cold tile. The pleasure ebbed fast, leaving only the wet mess in his hand and the heavy thud of his heart.
What the fuck are you doing?
He stared at the ruined fabric, sticky and warm. Hers. Now unmistakably his too. For a second the thought of leaving it for her to find flickered through his mind—dark and tempting. He crushed it. Stuffed the panties deep into his pocket instead.
At least he hadn’t smelled her socks.
Yoongi stared at himself faintly reflected in the dusty mirror. He looked insane. That thought should have stopped him. He left the bathroom and headed toward the balcony door. Halfway there, he paused.
The dishes.
Yoong hated dirty dishes. No—despised them.
Only two mugs. One plate. One fork.
He checked the time.
9:43a.m.
She would be back soon. Still…
The dishes bothered him more than they should have. Yoongi exhaled quietly and turned the faucet. Warm water rushed over his hands as he washed each dish carefully, drying them before placing them neatly on the rack. Once it was done, he peeled the sticky note from the fridge and crumpled it into the trash.
He stood in the center of her apartment for a long moment, breathing her air, listening to the faint jazz bleeding through the wall. His jazz. Playing for her, whether she knew it or not.
The balcony door shut more easily behind him than expected. And this time, crossing back didn’t scare him nearly as much.
