call of duty I a court of thorns and roses I avatar
welcome to my little corner of the internet! i sometimes write sad, fluffy and spicy stories about my favorite fictional characters - come join me and lets giggle about these men together.
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summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?
a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!
»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.
»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.
drop some headcanons about the tf141 catching two lower level troops making out??? or perchance even fucking in the barracks??? PLEASE???
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
- Gaz would probably not care all that much about the making out, unless it is happening during a mission. If you don‘t put your focus in 120% at all times while out in the field with Gaz, he will give you a verbal lashing that rivals any drill sergeant.
- If he comes across two newbies fucking in the darkness of an empty barrack, he‘d clear his throat loudly.
"That‘ll be all for today, thank you."
- I think he‘s much too busy doing his own thing to notice at first, but damn. All the young recruits drool over him. He‘d be the target of more than one bet, with people hoping to get a shot with the hot Sergeant. Even just for one night.
- Looks blankly at the ones that do approach him, then asks if they are mistaking him for someone else, because surely nobody would be dumb enough to hit on their superior officer.
- "No, sir! Of course not, sir! Apologies!"
Captain John Price
- Recruits scamper like mice when the Captain‘s heavy boots are heard in the corridors, the library, the courtyard.
- He‘s infamous for his creative punishments! Scrub the grime off the kitchen tiles with a children’s toothbrush. Sweep dust piles from one side of the basketball court to the other and back. Memorize military cadences backwards and sing them to him…
- If he catches you more than once, you‘re actually in trouble. No more family correspondence for several weeks, physical exercises until your soul is crying. (It‘s for their own good, he‘d told Gaz once. If they have the energy to couple on base, they have the energy to run.) (Soap and Gaz had laughed themselves hoarse at the word choice afterwards.)
- John was a good soldier, and an obedient recruit himself. He‘d heard the stories though, and seen four-on-one "parties" more than once. Had seen how relationship dramas unfolded, with pregnancies and cheating and unrequited love… all the while the girl of your dreams is getting railed by two other guys three beds down the line. Not his girl of course. Nope. He‘s not bitter at all, he‘s over that particular memory, no-
John 'Soap' MacTavish +
Simon 'Ghost' Riley
"Swap yer fackin‘ spit sumwhere else," Soap growled, pissed off at finding yet another couple fucking in the showers. Blocking the stall when he, and Ghost, had just returned from a mission. Covered in dust, sweat and some enemy connective tissue.
Ghost was methodically removing his clothes, he‘d left his gear in the proper place in the landing bay already - their Lieutenant was a good boy like that. Disassembled and put his gun back together in the back of the pick-up helicopter, while Gaz and Price had taken the piss out of Soap. Another reason for his temper.
He left his balaclava on for now, but Soap‘s eyes trailed lower over his exposed stomach and thick thighs, the scars everywhere, just as a mortified female squeak let them know that he‘d been heard.
Simon never showered in the communals unlike Johnny, but he couldn’t be fucking bothered to wait around for his superior and friend. They had agreed to grab a late dinner and break into the kitchen, it‘s not breaking in, when you have a key, Johnny, and maybe round out the night with some cards. All that, getting pushed back because some punk was getting his dick wet in a public shower.
The water turned off abruptly, but no one came out. Hushed whispers started up, and Soap ground his teeth together.
"Hey man," a male voice piped up, forced casual. "Give us a minute, yeah? Plenty of space-"
Ghost’s hand shot out quick as a viper would strike as Soap approached the flimsy brown curtain with murderous intent. His superior was well acquainted with his short fuse by now.
"Piss poor performance if yer goin‘ to finish in a minute anyway." Ghost said, voice calm but icy. "Get out. Now."
Scrambling, cursing, then a red-faced youth poked his head out. He froze, mouth open to curse at them no doubt.
Soap‘s eyes were like glacier shards as a mean smile spread across his face.
"Go on then, lad. Got somethin‘ ter say?"
"N-no. No Sergeant, sir. I mean, Lieutenant, sir!" He stuttered, even saluting them stark naked as he was once the curtain fell open wider.
Ghost just stood there, arms crossed over his wide tattooed chest while Soap still had blood caked into the side of his mohawk. It was starting to itch like a motherfucker, and he was getting more irritated by the minute.
"Move it."
At his LT‘s command, the fresh recruit scrambled out, groping for his clothes and hastily hopping into his pants on one leg before grabbing whatever else was on the floor.
"Gonnae leave yer missus behind like a true gentleman?" Soap asked, corner of his mouth twitching up despite his irritation. At his question, the girl in the stall hissed at the boy, and he hastily came back for her, red-faced. Little shit really forgot his date at the sight of them. He supposed they should take it as a compliment.
Ghost met Soap‘s eyes as the girl stepped out, hastily wrapped in one of the army-issued towels and running past them. He saw only desinterested amusement there, not even a peek at the exposed legs and cleavage. Good man. Someone to look up to.
"If I catch you again, Gomez," Ghost called after them. "It‘s six weeks of 5AM suicide runs for you. Same for her. Got that?"
"Sir, yessir!" Was his reply, but Ghost didn’t even bother to watch them go as he stripped completely, Soap finally doing the same.
"Ever fucked in the showers as a recruit, LT?"
"Once or twice," Ghost shrugged, voice far away. "Not worth repeating."
"Shame," Johnny grinned.
Dark brown eyes shot over to him, but he was already turning away, whistling as he slung a fresh towel over a hanging rack and turned the tabs on one of the open space showers.
He watched as the water turned red, then brown, how bubbles chased his day down the drain.
Summary: After rescuing you from the RDA, So’lek is forced to fight instincts he can’t afford to lose control of.
Disclaimer: I haven’t played AFOP (yet) so forgive me if things aren’t as…cannon so to speak. But @zestys-stuff and I have been brain rotting over So’lek non-fucking-stop. He’s lowkey so Ralak coded, but obviously very different in his own way. I hope I do him justice honestly. Yes, this is a collab (we have been blessed), and the illustrations created by this amazing and talented artist — @zestys-stuff — will be linked!
Content Warning: smut, !MDNI!, drugging (?), physical violence, murder/death (lightly described), an ungodly amount of sexual tension, age gap (reader’s around 20 & he’s almost 40), power dynamics, heat cycle, scenting, blowjob, gagging, forced proximity, dubcon, cliffhanger I’m so sorry
Author’s Note: Guysss. When I tell you how excited I was to do this collab with zee…i’ve been feral this entire time. Y’ALL THE ART IS INSANE. I stare at it regularly before bed. Jesus, help me. Anyways, this man is my new fixation. My new obsession, if you will. Naturally when I have a new one of those my immediate reaction is to write a heat/rut fic. So yes, there will be a part two to this, and possibly more.
W/C: 7k
You never gave it much thought. Being bait, that is. You’ve been everything up until this point—a pawn in this sick war, a subject for their experiments, a punching bag for their anger, an object with no value other than the war machine they could train you to be.
But bait? That’s a new one.
They like to call him the ‘Dog Tag Warrior’. That’s the name they’ve been using while you’ve been imprisoned between four glass walls, confined to a metal bench by chains that grow heavier by the minute. Days pass by like a thief in the night—silent, unknowable. With no windows, there’s no way to tell if it's night or day—to see what the great mother has created. No reminder of life or hope.
What’s worse is that every so often one or two of the pink skinned storm inside with their assault rifles and handguns concealed in their boots, threatening you in an attempt to drive fear into your heart. But no matter how much they torture you, whatever the punishment inflicted, the pain doesn’t come close to what you feel when they speak of him.
And your biggest mistake is letting them figure that out.
“I should’ve blown off his head while I had him.” The male shouts angrily, huffing as his loud footsteps pace up and down the concrete floor.
You keep your gaze fixed to your bruised ankles as your heart pounds from the terrifying, yet oddly comforting, confirmation that So’lek is alive. You can’t allow them to see your fear.
No fear, Sarentu, is what he’d say.
“Then next time, don’t fuck around.” A rough female voice. Next time? “You’re lucky you still have your tag, corporal.”
Your ears flick towards the distinct sound of metal and glass dinging together. You’ve heard this before—the sound alone is enough to bring you back many years ago, to the experiments, to the trauma you endured in TAP.
You peek up through your lashes, careful not to make any sudden movements, and see her holding a familiar large, glass syringe a foot away from her face. She flicks the tip with her middle finger until some thick liquid spurts out.
What are they going to do to you now?
“We’re just gonna have to treat these fuckers like the animals they really are.” She says in a sick, twisted tone. “Let’s see how long he can hold out after he gets a whiff of her.”
The male’s finger settles on his trigger as he moves in front of her, towards the door to your enclosure. Your chains drag against the concrete beneath you as you ready your stance. If you could manage to take the gun from the male, you could get out of here.
You could find So’lek.
The plan comes to you quickly. Once they’re close enough, you go for the male's mask, then take his gun and shoot the female.
Easy, right? So’lek’s voice echoes in your head.
You watch intently as his hand swipes across the biometric reader, causing the seal on the thick, reinforced door to break. Human air gusts in and the pressure in the room changes, briefly disorienting you. Before you can focus, the male aims, pulls the trigger and you feel the impact in your chest.
The room spins and you look down to see a bright feathered dart lodged into your right breast. You’ve never seen that before. Suddenly, you have to command your lungs to work, your eyes to stay open—your heart to keep beating. But despite it all, you feel yourself slipping away, vision blurring, sounds muffling together.
Is this death?
“What…What is this?” You slur your words as you reach for the dart, only for the female to slap your hand away.
She leans in, her face level with yours—her head impossibly large, her body impossibly small—and thrusts the needle into your thigh. You wince, just barely, trying to maintain what dignity you have left as you inhale, then exhale, and inhale again.
“Ah—d-don’t…touch—What are you…w-what the fuck…is that?” Your low voice echoes in your ears, your vision splitting into two.
“They said it’ll take effect in about two hours.” She speaks with feigned innocence, emptying the syringe into your spasming, burning muscle, “but we just don’t have that kinda time.” She withdraws the needle from you and steps back as your head lulls side to side. “So I gave her double.”
“Fuck you.” You garble the incoherent words, commanding every muscle in your body to stay upright, to keep your chin up.
“Brutal.” The male chuckles, his vile, pink hand laying softly against your cheek. “Such a shame, she really is a pretty thing.”
A hiss erupts from your throat, only to sound weak and small. Your body feels like dead weight, as heavy as these chains, dragging you down. You can’t move, you can’t get up.
“Tranq her.” She gives the order, using her scrawny finger to shove your swaying frame until you make contact with the floor.
“Are you sure? Didn’t they say one is enough?”
“And what? You want to keep her awake enough so she can be your personal toy when we’re finished with her? I said tranq her, Corporal. That’s an order.”
Another silent shot and your eyes roll to the back of your head.
“Good. Load her in.”
–
So’lek has been tracking you down for what feels like months. After a close call with the RDA that left him wounded, he was able to get a good idea of your location from scent alone. He wasn’t going to let anything, not even his own injuries, stop him from finding you.
Branches whip past him as he prowls through the forest, his bare feet making harsh impact with the flora beneath him. Every dash, every step is precise, measured. He’s been tracking your scent for a little over an hour now, yet it’s leading him off course. Why does your scent become almost overwhelming the deeper he goes into the forest? His pace lags when the realization dawns on him.
They’ve moved you.
But why?
He takes a moment to think, to calculate. To make sense of it all. Why would they relocate you? To throw him off? Is this a decoy? What if you aren’t really there? But, what if you are? He won’t take that chance. Your scent is too strong. You must be there.
So, how could they have acted so quickly? That means there’s less time than he thought. He scowls, frustrated, conflicted. It’s a trap. Exactly what kind of trap, he’s unsure. But it’s one that requires you to be bait. Just the thought ignites a fire inside him. You, out here, possibly alone, injured and weak.
Easy prey for a hungry predator.
So’lek won’t allow it. He quickly weighs his options—track your scent into a potential trap, or abandon the mission to regroup. What else can he do? He can’t gather his thoughts, he’s overwhelmed. Your scent is blinding—it’s grown stronger and he’s barely moved. You need him, he senses this in a way he’s never been able to before. He breathes you in, filling his lungs to capacity, letting himself have this one thing, just for this one second.
There is no choice.
So’lek wastes no more time, making quick, tactical strides in the direction of your scent. The horrifying, looping thought of what they’ve done to you, or worse, doing to you, drives his feet forward. He’s crouched low, keeping out of sight, camouflaging himself as best he can. He has to approach this perfectly, he can’t afford to make a mistake. He won’t. Not when you’re involved.
When his nostrils almost burn from the scent of you, he slows his tracks once more, observing, plotting. Silent, and lethal. He counts at least ten RDA troops, scattered sporadically amongst the trees. No, never sporadically. They’re in position. He stalks through the shadows of the approaching eclipse, recounting and revising. They’re surrounding a clearing, which is suspiciously empty. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus.
Then he sees you.
Oh. You. Naked. With what looks to be a strange, miniature arrow—a dart, impaled into your breast. Your head and body slump forward, arms limp behind you, bound to the tree. The flame inside him roars. You look dead, but your welling scent and heaving chest tell him otherwise.
These pink skinned will pay, he thinks as he decides who will die first, and who will follow in what particular order.
He unsheathes his knife, preparing for the most meticulous, silent melee of his life. He swallows, forcing himself to regain focus, to chase the lingering, savoury taste of you from his tongue. It’s imperative he isn’t distracted.
Is that a part of their plan?
Focus.
He makes his first kill. Clean, and silent. But not satisfactory enough. The fire inside him is hungry for more. He moves quickly onto the next, cutting deeper for his Sarentu. He takes special pride and joy in killing your foes. He steals a glance at you and notices your ankles, how the shackles have eaten away at your supple skin. He snaps another thin neck like a twig—easy. His inner fire flares, pleased with the sacrifice.
But it’s never truly satiated.
So’lek moves on to the next offering, smothering him as he pins him to the ground, watching as he writhes. He doesn’t look away as the struggle fades. The flame curls, pleased, and despite himself, a grim satisfaction pulls at his lips. This is the part that he can’t always fully control. The part where the fire consumes him, too.
It’s when he’s most dangerous. Most distracted.
But for you, it’s almost natural. It’s like a switch flipping. One second he’s here, and the next, he’s somewhere far away. An observer in his own body, watching himself finish off the next six soldiers in a blur of violence and pure instinct.
It’s not the hushed sound of the shot, no, it’s the heat pooling in his shoulder that brings him back momentarily. The same bright feathered dart, comically tiny in comparison to his arm, lodged in his upper bicep. A menacing growl rumbles from his chest as he looks in the direction of where it fired from. In the shadows, the silhouette of a metal suit stands in front of him, in front of you.
Wrong bullet of choice.
So’lek plucks the dart from his arm, his two fingers effortlessly snapping and crushing the frail glass into mere fragments. The metal suit immediately fires another dart straight into his chest. So’lek pants, his ears flickering as he releases a guttural hiss, heated by the flame itself, before he pounces on his prey, unleashing the rest of his wrath. By the end of it, all that’s left is unrecognizable.
All except for you.
So’lek’s vision clears once he sees you again, granting himself a moment to take in your condition. When his eyes rake over your bare body, he can’t help his thoughts no matter how hard he tries. The thoughts of admiration.
“Tamtey.” He breathes heavily as he stumbles back, his head spinning.
He glances down and rips the dart from his own chest with a grunt, before falling to his knees to pluck the dart from yours. He forces himself to look away from your puckered, dark nipples. It’s off limits. These thoughts, these feelings, are. off. limits.
The sound of oncoming machines and the buzz of electricity solidify his self-discipline, and So’lek moves fast, cutting you free and hoisting you over his shoulder. He takes off into the thick foliage, using it to his advantage to keep you both out of sight.
So’lek pushes himself to his limit, stride after stride, getting you both as far into the forest as possible. As far away from those demons as possible. Until he can no longer ignore the falter in his step. Whatever they shot him with, it’s slowing him down. He’s losing momentum—focus, and he’s losing it fast.
No. This won’t do. At this rate, he’ll collapse before he can make it to the mountains and that won’t be good for either of you. He ponders his next move, but there’s this cloud in his head that he can’t clear. Double vision sets in and he blinks a few times in an attempt to fix it. He shakes his head from frustration and readjusts you on his shoulder.
With a deep breath, he starts scoping out the nearest shelter. He spots a rather large rock not too far off, half swallowed by the roots of nearby trees. If he didn’t look hard enough, he would’ve missed the broken mouth at ground level, just big enough for him to fit through. It’s a chance. It could be nothing. Or it could be everything you both need right now.
Warily, So’lek approaches the cave, carefully tucking you among the safety of the roots. Now that you’re hidden, he can focus on scouting out the cave. Rifle in hand, he enters the darkness, discovering that it slopes gently downward, putting you out of his sight. He feels a sense of unease and looks back up at you, hesitating.
He doesn’t like you out of sight.
He huffs a sigh and grits his teeth, hauling himself further into the cave. He understands it’s the most logical choice. The air shifts, it’s cooler, and a little damp. He scans the cave, even through the haze, checking sightlines, listening for echoes. The deeper he gets, the more the darkness shifts into color. The bioluminescence of the glowy moss and small creatures bloom, revealing a thin stream that trickles from a narrow crack in the rock. A small waterfall that pools shallowly before disappearing into the stone.
Good, he nods to himself. Water to drink.
But more importantly, it's empty.
It's safe. For now, at least. It’s somewhere to disappear for a few hours and let his body fight its way back. Immediately, So’lek turns back, entirely too uncomfortable with the fact that he can’t see you. Had your scent not followed him into the cave he probably wouldn’t have even gotten this far. When he resurfaces, that same scent floods his senses. It’s overpowering. To the point that he’d be a fool not to acknowledge what it really is.
Your pheromones.
You’re in heat.
He breathes hard, eyes closed, trying to push back that fog creeping through his limbs—his body. Your pheromones are only aggravating his state of mind. He scoops you into his arms, using what strength he has left to carry you inside the cave. He’s careful of your head—of your entire naked body—taking his time as he navigates through the cave.
Once he reaches the soft moss, he is satisfied enough to put you down. He drops to a knee as he does, gentle with his touch, ensuring your head is cushioned by the thickest part of the moss. You curl into a fetal position on your own, the beads of sweat beginning to ball at your temples, your face screwed with discomfort.
So’lek takes a moment to gather himself, to gather the strength to move away from you and towards the thin stream. He cups the water, splashing it over his face, letting it run down his jaw and neck. It’s there, in the way his blood stained hands tremble as he pulls them from his face, that the realization settles.
In here, he might be the danger.
If he can’t get a hold of himself now, what will he do when you wake up? How will he resist…you? He exhales, long and shaky, eyes half-lidded now. He retreats to a nearby ledge, far enough from you, but not too far. His instinct won’t allow it. He lowers himself onto the rock, acting as the shield between you and whatever’s outside of this cave. His back presses against the cool cave wall, and he positions his legs just enough to keep himself steady. He settles his rifle on his lap, head slumping back against the rock, finger near the trigger.
Even in this state, he’s ready for whatever may come. No one will ever take you from him again. He lets himself rest, for now, stealing glances at you every time your sweet scent wafts towards him. Being in an enclosed space certainly doesn’t help the effect it’s having on him. But he can only hold his breath for so long.
He’s got no other choice but to breathe you in.
It feels like he’s got the reins in his hands but he can’t grip them tight enough. Like they’ll slip through his hold if your pheromones get any stronger. And they are. They most definitely are. Especially now that you’re starting to wake up.
Your groans start low, and small. More like little whimpers, but they’ve got him watching you none the less. Those glances are no more. He simply didn’t have the discipline to look away at this very moment. He feels ashamed to stare, and he knows it’s the last thing he should be doing. You’re bare. And he’s your mentor. You trust him implicitly. This would be a breach in that trust. But your nipples are puckered so beautifully, dark and flushed. So’lek’s gaze moves downward, your legs are so tightly closed, yet your arousal is so pungent he can practically taste it.
His tongue swipes his bottom lip before he swallows, his eyes daring to wander a little further down. Heat pools in his stomach and his brows jump when he sees the single, glistening drop of slick slowly roll down your inner thigh, onto the green bed of flora. He shuts his eyes, a harsh breath expelling from his nostrils, his jaw tight.
In all honesty, he’s never felt jealousy toward moss before, but there’s a first for everything. So’lek bites his tongue, tasting blood. Anything to snap himself out of this trance he’s in. This is a line he won’t cross—can’t cross. No matter how much he may want. He can’t bring himself to turn his head, so keeping his eyes shut will have to do.
“Mmmn…”
The groggy sound dislodges from your throat before you can even register it came from you. It’s like there’s a lag between your body and mind. You know you want to open your eyes, but they don’t listen to your command right away. You need to see, or how else will you know what they’re plotting next? You force them open and things are a blur at first.
Blobs of colors sprinkle your vision and you try to blink them away. Soon enough they merge and things sharpen until you see that you’re in a place you don’t recognize whatsoever. Panic blooms in your chest, and adrenaline pumps through your veins at a frightening rate. Your eyes, once heavy as sandbags, bulge from your head as you spring into a seated position.
You scramble back until you hit something rough and hard, and reach for your knife which isn’t there. The worst comes to mind. They’ve dragged you to this place where no one will ever find you and left you for dead. And even worse, they’ve found him and killed him. You look down in horror—you’ve got no top on, no tewng, nothing. You begin to hyperventilate, clutching your chest with one hand and hugging your knees with the other.
“Mawey.” A familiar, comforting voice coos, and when you look up you realise it’s So’lek. Relief cascades over you. “Mawey, Tamtey. You are safe, I have you. Breathe.”
He’s towering over you, hand cupping your cheek, concern etched into each wrinkle and scar on his perfect face. But his eyes—they’re hazy and glossy.
“So’lek? Ma’So’lek!” You sob, fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you throw yourself into his arms.
“Breathe, Tamtey.” He coos as he cradles you close to him, counting down the seconds he has to savour how you feel in his clutch before he reluctantly lets go.
You look around, and you’re so, so confused. But if So’lek is here, that means everything will be alright.
“Where are we?” You ask, chest heaving, body burning. “What…what happened?”
So’lek’s expression hardens as he skitters back, away from you. His eyes flick down to his feet. “I am…not entirely sure.”
Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of yourself. The sweaty hair stuck to your neck. Your hard nipples. The faint throb between your legs. What’s happened? You close in on yourself even more, embarrassed. He probably doesn’t even want to see you this way, yet you’ve thrown yourself on him.
Silence passes. The air is thick with tension, an awkwardness filling the space between you and him. You wrap an arm around your chest and cross your legs. You feel utterly exposed, even though he refuses to look at you.
If anything, that actually makes it worse.
So you turn inwards, to your own muddy thoughts, trying to run through the last memories you have. They shot you, twice. And gave you an injection. And then…that’s it. That’s all you can remember. An unsettling feeling blankets over you. Why are you naked? And…what did they do to you? Worry cramps your stomach, and suddenly you’re nauseous and clammy.
“You live, Sarentu.” So’lek’s sarcastic tone brings you back from that dark place. He’s finally looking at you now, eyes filled with concern, a light smile on his face.
You laugh and wipe your tears with a trembling hand. “You came, chicken.”
“Hmm.” So’lek hums weakly. He looks spent. Like he can barely keep his head up. Like when they shot you.
“What happened…to you?” You ask quietly, you’ve never seen him like this before. “You look like shit.”
So’lek’s head rolls towards you and his brow bones jump, one side of his mouth curling into a smirk.
“Me?”
“Ha-ha.” You say faintly, a soft smile pulling at your lips. Yeah, you do probably look like shit, all things considered. At least you feel that way. Like you’ve been caught in the middle of a titanothere stampede.
But in the same breath, your body feels…strange. Similar to when you’re sick with a fever. That sort of sluggish, air-headed feeling.
“My head…mmm—” You mumble to yourself as your eyes flutter shut. There’s a muffled ringing in your ears. “…I don’t know.”
“Tamtey?” So’lek’s calls for you, but he sounds far away. That ringing in your ears is getting louder.
A bead of sweat crashes onto your chest, and it’s enough to make you look down. Your skin glistens, your tahnìs blinking haphazardly in the dark. There’s a heaviness down there, a pull that makes your legs open to get more comfortable.
In a flash, a fog claims your mind as you hazily watch your knees part, exposing how swollen and flushed you are. Your puffy folds glisten, and you go to touch them, curious to see how it feels—how it would feel. Your fingers touch, parting slightly, playing with the stringy, clear slick.
Just as quickly as the fog comes, it clears. And you’re left with this mortifying sense of clarity of what you just did. Of the fact that he’s just seen you, spread wide. Your legs snap closed and you look up, meeting the glowing eyes of your mentor.
“I…I don’t know—I don’t know why I just did that. ‘m sorry…” You stumble with your words, looking away in shame, further retreating into the wall. He must be so disappointed in you.
So’lek doesn’t move. He can’t. If he does, it won’t end well. He just holds his breath, embracing the way his lungs scream for air, focusing on that tight feeling instead of the tightness of his tewng. He acts as if it did nothing to him, like his cock isn’t as hard as it was during his first rut. Like he’s entirely unbothered.
But the truth is…
Your pussy is perfect. She’s more beautiful than he’s ever imagined. Shiny with your arousal, so inviting. As if she’s calling for him. And he’d cut his own tail off so he could answer. But he doesn’t entertain the thought. Instead, he reminds himself not to breathe. Because if he does, then he’ll really taste you on his tongue.
“It cannot be helped. It is fine.” He manages to get out of his screaming lungs, inching further away from you. But there’s something inside him that’s physically stopping him from completely leaving your side.
“It’s not—haaah…” You moan shakily as you feel the fog seep back in. You burst out into a shiver, tiny bumps sprinkling your skin. “It’s coming…again. Th-they gave me…something. I don’t—I’m, I feel weird, So’lek.”
His head snaps towards you, ears tall and alert. “What did they give you?”
“I don’t know. S-Something.” Your lungs tremble as a wave of heat covers you like a sheet. “An injection.”
You moan again, that heavy sensation in your lower tummy grows into a sharp ache and you can’t help but cradle that part of you.
So’lek growls, displeased by the mere thought. And your body responds to the sound alone, producing more of that slick between your legs. His nostrils twitch and you swear his eyes darken when they fall on you protecting your empty womb.
He will protect it once it’s full.
“It’s hot, it’s so fucking hot…” You mumble, smacking your dry tongue.
“You and that mouth.” He rasps, finally taking in a deep breath and immediately regretting it. It’s like the air has gone straight to his head, a pressure swelling there until he can’t form a rational thought.
You’re dangerous like this. No. You make him dangerous.
The wave passes and some sort of coherence settles, leaving you feeling the most vulnerable you’ve ever felt in your life. Not only that, but the daunting realization dawns on you that this is entirely out of your control. Like there’s something wrong with your body. Anxiety flashes across your face and sympathy floods So’lek’s.
“Hold still.” He’s speaking to you like your mentor as he makes cautious, calculated movements towards the small pool of water. He cups it in his hands and brings it to your lips, and you drink from them fervently. It’s more than refreshing, it’s reviving.
“Better, now?” His voice rumbles, his face just inches from yours. When you’re finished, he drags his calloused, wet hands down your throat, cooling you off.
The feeling is divine. His touch is right. And he’s so close to you that you can feel his hot breath against you. You can smell him. You hadn’t noticed until now, exactly how good he smelled. And it seems to be coming from somewhere a little further down. You don’t realize that you’re looking there, but there's a notable bulge in his tewng.
“Eyes up, Sarentu.” He rumbles. “Focus.”
“So’lek…” You moan as that formidable fog looms back over your entire body. “Ma’Solek.”
“Do not say it…like that.” His brows furrow and his jaw flutters.
“Ma’So’lek…” His name drips from your lips again, thick as tree sap, your hand brushing against your heavy breasts. Your nipples tighten, a tingly sensation zinging through you like electricity. You’re an open nerve, all of you. And it makes you squirm.
“I said, rä’ä rikx [do not move].” He bares his canines as he speaks, his voice is deep and thick with restraint.
“Don’t think I…can—I can’t…” You pluck at your nipples, over and over, it’s annoying how itchy they’re getting. You feel blood rush to your face as another wave of heat crashes over you, leaving you panting and clammy. “Oh, Ma’So’lek…Touch…touch me, please.”
“You are not in your right mind.” So’lek strains his words as he stumbles back, his head turned away from you, yet his eyes still locked on your every move.
He scorns himself for the lack of discipline he’s showing, for looking at you in your most vulnerable state. He mounts the ledge with a gruff grunt, slightly spreading his legs to make space between his thighs. He leans back, abs tensed, his body unbelievably heavy.
Then your womb throbs. A yearning sensation, something instinctual flares inside you. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not unpleasant either. It’s just different. An entirely new feeling. You clutch your belly, curling over yourself, trying to understand this all.
“What’s happening?” You whine, crossing your legs tight to quell that bothersome pulse.
“They put you in heat.”
“H-Heat? I’ve never…I really, I-I don’t like it.”
“You never…?” So’lek hisses softly, sinking his head into his hands.
Of course you’ve never had your heat cycle. You’re half his age. Between that and cryo, it makes complete sense as to why you’re so confused. It’s why you’re so innocent to him to begin with. You’re young, and a little naive. Inexperienced. Untouched. Oh. You’ve never been touched, which means…he’d be your first.
No. No, he won’t.
His fingers rake through his hair as he breathes hard and fast, his hands covering his ears to muffle your sounds. It’s like listening to an ikran in distress. He wants to help, to make it better. But he can’t, so he won’t. Not like this.
“Nggh–h-how…why’d they…why?” You can barely speak, just let these humiliating sounds come from some primal part inside you.
“So I will come.” Constraint tenses his deep voice, but it's laced with something else, too.
Hunger.
You don’t understand, you just want. You crave, you need, you yearn. For him. It still doesn’t make sense to you. There is no point in trying to understand, to fight this. It’s going to happen no matter how much you resist it, so it only makes sense to just let go. To let it happen, right?
“Would it be…haah…s-so bad?” You ask hazily, settling on your knees, letting your hand slip down between your thighs.
“Yes.” He’s sharp with his answer, giving you that tone he usually does when ‘it’s final’. Dismay bursts through your ribcage.
“But why?” You let out a frustrated sob, sounding like a child who didn’t get their way. “Why not!”
“Tamtey.”
He uses your name like a warning, finally looking at you, just to meet his biggest temptation yet. You’re touching yourself, your inexperienced fingers fumbling, your eyes half lidded and cloudy. Inside, he burns with shame—the internal battle of conflict ensuing.
“I have lived nearly twice your life already.” He sounds weak. He is weak. Whatever they shot him with is still coursing through his bloodstream.
“Ke tare [it doesn’t matter].”
“It does.” He snaps at you, overwhelmed by a new, stronger wave of your pheromones. Your heat is peaking. So’lek narrows his gaze on you, his mouth turning downwards. “You are still young. It is your first heat. I will not hurt you.”
The tears come, and you can’t stop them. They’re only confirming what he’s said. “…it’s already hurting.”
“Shushh…Mawey. I do not like when you cry.” His breath shakes from restraint, from the struggle between what he wants and what he should do. “You are strong enough for this, Sarentu.”
You whimper as you fall forward on your hands and knees, sinking your chest into the moss until your hips lift into the air—your tail swishing wildly behind you. This position feels better, it dulls the ache, it satisfies the pull. It’s the position your body should be in.
So’lek watches you through lidded eyes, groaning when you rock back and forth a little. He wants to come behind you and settle on his knees. He can see himself so vividly, curving over you, his pelvis flush to you, pressing into that soft, sticky slit you're presenting to him. Instinct rides him, and he shifts his hips.
He wants to take this bait.
The scent of your pussy is driving him mad, he can’t take it. He can smell how ripe you are from where he sits. He wishes you’d move to the side a little so he can get a better look, like you did earlier when you mindlessly played with your puffy folds. He craves to know how it feels inside.
You don’t mean to move. It just happens. Your palms press into the moss, one in front of the other, your knees following effortlessly behind. This distance between you and So’lek feels wrong, his scent isn’t strong enough anymore.
Why is he so far away?
So’lek doesn’t dare take his eyes off you, every muscle in his body is flexed—eerily still. Because you look like a palulukan stalking him, hunting her prey. He’s yours. And it’s doing something to him, something dangerous. He presses his pelvis forward, chasing the throb down there that he can’t ignore anymore.
You start at his calf, nudging at it with your cheek. You drag your flushed face up his muscular leg, past his knee. You're inhaling his musk, deep and long, pressing your nose into his thigh.
“Sarentu…” He exhales shakily, his hands gripping relentlessly onto the stone. “What are you doing?”
“It’s coming…from here.” You mutter into his inner thigh, rubbing your face against him as you breathe in his musky scent. It’s stronger the further up you go.
“You are scenting me.” He whispers through gritted teeth, “…like I am yours.”
“Yes, ma’So’lek.” You moan, your hands wandering up his thighs. You push them further apart, your face burrowing right between them. “You belong…to me.”
So’lek’s restraint is palpable. It’s in every loud breath he heaves, to each small spasm of his muscles.
“Tamtey.” He warns longingly, his throat tight. “You are going to send me into rut.”
“You want me.” It’s not a question, it’s defiance—insistence. You know it in your bones. You feel it radiating from him, his containment, the way he’s peering down at you between his legs.
So’lek’s jaw tightens. His lips press thin as he intentionally slows his breath, each movement measured.
“Yes.” He speaks through his teeth, quick and breathless. He will never lie to you, not even about this.
“Then let me.” You breathe open mouthed against his inner thigh. Your sensitive lips drag upwards, right across that bulge inside his tewng.
“No…Sarentu.” He speaks quietly, brows tensed, ears slicked back.
“Smell s’good.” You mumble, rubbing your face against it. It’s hot, and it strains hard against the fabric. You want to see what’s inside.
“You…” He groans from the friction, his breath heavy as he fights the pleasure. “You do not know what you are doing.”
“Want…please.” Your tongue darts out for a taste, but it doesn’t taste like much. You need to get rid of this thing stopping you. Frustrated, your hand lugs higher, weak fingers tugging at the taut material.
He’s the male. He’ll help you.
“Help, Ma’So’lek, help.”
Hearing you plead for help triggers something inside him, that part that screams protect. Provide. His hand jolts, instinctively going for his tewng, but he stops it at the last second. He can’t think straight, not when your innocent, flushed face looks so perfect between his legs.
“You will regret this, Sarentu.” His voice is strained, his eyes closing.
“No, please. Please.” You beg, out of your mind, going for his tewng again, tugging it a little harder. “Want to see…what’s inside. Let me. It smells…s’good.”
“Eywa.” He hisses through gritted teeth, opening his eyes to see you nipping at his tewng with your little canines. “Give me the strength.”
“It's what I want…I need…I hurt, ma’So’lek.”
Well, that pains his heart. Heavily. He can’t have you hurting like this. His hand moves, guiding yours, hooking your fingers underneath the side of his tewng, shifting it slowly. He’s in a trance, moving on impulse as he watches your tail swish excitedly, your body vibrating with eagerness.
His chest swells with pride, he’s satisfying you, doing you right, as he should. It is right—whatever you want. His duty is to give it to you. Your ears flicker and then pin to your skull, your mouth seeking the source of his scent. You whine longingly, shifting your knees, shuffling closer.
Eager to see. Your hands slip to his thighs, holding them there so they don’t move, one hand gripping just underneath his muscle. Your fingers sink into his skin, your heart beating its way out of its cage.
So’lek’s breath is so heavy it’s audible, he’s never seen you so eager. His tewng finally shifts to the side, and his cock springs out, painfully hard.
Immediately, you rub against his length with your face, enjoying how hot it feels on your skin.
“Tamtey…” So’lek rasps your name in a haze, mesmerized by you entirely. His hand seeks out the ledge once more, gripping it with all his strength when your wet nose brushes against his tip. His cock twitches away from your face, slapping against his stomach.
“...what are you—?”
He watches as you shove your nose into that space between his thigh and cock, filling your lungs to capacity. Your tail thrashes wildly behind you as you shuffle even closer, your achy breasts brushing against his calves.
“Ma’So’lek…Ma’muntxatan….”
Yes. So’lek purrs at the sound of you calling him yours. He is your mate. He feels that is so. That’s also right. His hips buck, the tip of his cock leaking with slick, beading down his length.
You want to taste it properly, and your mouth opens, tongue lolling out, wet and inviting. You look up at him through damp lashes, dazed. He’s watching intently, like his life depends on it.
Glancing down, you really see it. It’s big, really big. And hard, so hard it’s straining. His tip tapers into a point, garnished with small spikes, his slit oozing and leaking. He’s throbbing too, just like you. You want to lick the veins protruding down his length, to the base of his cock that's turning deep purple.
You want to know how it feels against your tongue.
So’lek draws in a sharp breath when you rest his tip against your hot tongue. Sweetness bursts on your tastebuds and you moan, closing your lips around the head of his cock so you can swallow the taste. It pulses in your mouth, his balls pumping more of those delicious beads into your cheeks.
Your pussy tightens, slick dripping down your thighs—your belly swirling with anticipation. Your eyes flutter shut as you take more of him inside until that swollen, pointed tip hits the back of your throat and your shoulders heave when you gag.
A guttural groan rumbles from him, and his hips stutter, making you gag again. He’s never experienced anything like this in his almost forty years of living. How do you look so innocent doing something so filthy? He doesn’t know what to make of it, pleasure and guilt tighten his stomach. It feels too good, his body is reacting quicker than his mind.
His hips drive forward again, rougher this time, but you don’t gag—drool just oozes from the corners of your mouth, your nose getting snotty. His ears grow hot and his swelling balls pull tightly to his core. He’s going to shoot his load down your throat if he doesn’t find the strength to stop you soon. He can’t do that to you. He shouldn’t even be doing this with you now.
Fuck. He’s losing it, really losing it. He wanted to do this right, to ask you to be his mate.
But the little self control he had left is gone. Like it was never there to begin with. He’s on the cusp of it now, he feels it creeping up on him. Threatening to take the reins straight from his hands. That fire inside him is waking up again, and it’s not demanding spilled blood.
It’s demanding you.
That plump slit between your legs. It wants him inside, deep, touching the opening of your womb. The womb he’ll fill with his seed that you will bear for him. He’s longed for it for some time, to see you round and swollen, carrying a part of him inside you day and night. Now he can make it happen, he can make it real, right here, right now. He can hold you down as you squirm and breed your cunt, over and over. Then he’ll knot you, deep enough to hear your sweet sounds of pain and pleasure, keeping you stuck to him—from running away.
He’s staring at your expression, hot and bothered, your lips stretched around his fat cock perfectly. He thrusts his hips, driving his cock a little deeper down your throat. His hands fly to your head, fingers weaving through your hair, and he firmly holds you there as you gag repeatedly. With every gag, his knot swells and his cock throbs. He’s going to come down your throat.
Shit. He’s going to come down your throat.
The realization hits him like a punch to the face and he springs to his feet, his cock popping out of your mouth as you fall to your behind. You gasp for air, unable to catch your breath properly as you stare up at him expectantly. Your hands reach down for the heat between your legs, rubbing and tickling and the sight sends his cock frantically jumping.
“Tamtey.” He growls low in his throat, his rut riding him hard. “Run.”
Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff. I love her and all her art so much that when I saw Ralak I was so compelled to write a fic for him. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Teytey, you knocked it out the park with this one (as you always do, my love).
Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)
Warnings: shit ton of fluff, profanity, age gap, a lot of sexual tension, size difference, let me know if i forgot anything?
Word Count: 4.4k
Requested: Yes || No
Author’s Note: I hope I did this gorgeous man justice and wrote his character well. It was an interesting challenge to introduce his character and build a plot with it. Chapter two and three will be out shortly! I’m beyond overjoyed that you guys are excited for this 😊 I hope I don’t disappoint lool
Synopsis: Your family seeks uturu with the Metkayina in the village of Awa’atlu. You have a difficult time adjusting, and are assigned your own special teacher, Ralak.
Next ->
The Sully family adopted you from birth, taking you in as their own. They were more than patient with your delayed milestones, moving at the slow pace you set since childhood. You completed your iknimaya a cycle later than your siblings, despite your eagerness to prove your self-worth as one of the Sully’s. Being a late bloomer and smaller than the average na’vi never put a damper on your optimistic attitude, though. It only added fuel to the fire.
The news to seek uturu with the Metkayina came as a shock not only to you but the rest of your siblings, and soon became the leading topic of discussions at family dinner. Jake explained that this is what was necessary, and that you would need to ‘pull your weight’ and ‘make a real effort’. You knew he didn’t mean it as harsh as it sounded, but the words stung nonetheless, plucking out a couple heart strings when they pierced through your chest.
You’ll never forget the day of your arrival here.
War horns blew loudly, signalling your arrival to the village of Awa’atlu. All the members of the clan swarmed the shore to see what the fuss was all about. Even the little ones that could only toddle wriggled their way out of their parents’ arms to get a glimpse. It was overwhelming – to say the least – to have all these eyes on you, scanning every foreign feature of your body, walking around you to inspect you further. You’d never felt more objectified in your life.
When Tonowari and Ronal made their grand entrance on their skimwings, your heart thud furiously in your chest. Sure, the large, winged fish took you by surprise, but the man to Tonowari’s right shook you to your core. His head tilted in wariness, hunting knife secured cautiously in his right hand and the leather wrapped reign gripped tightly in his left.
Wet, long hair plastered to his chest; he eyed you down momentarily before averting his gaze to the rest of your family that calmed their ikrans. His eyes widened ever so slightly at the winged creatures, large with armoured skin, much like the beast he’s bonded with.
You couldn’t help but stare aghast at his sinewy, chiselled features – sculpted by Eywa herself. It didn’t take long for you to understand why he was Tonowari’s right-hand man. His expression of indifference remained fixed on his face. Embodying that of an akula, his presence brought an intimidation like no other.
But what you couldn’t understand were the butterflies that plagued your stomach.
Your gaze lingered for a moment too long, the akula himself now returning the leer. It sent shivers down your spine, turning your butterflies into knots. You looked away, gaze falling onto your toes that burrowed their way into the sand. You felt his eyes bore into you, taking in each dark blue stripe on your tiny body, your slender extremities and thin tail.
You peeked at him through the corner of your eye, to see his gaze locked on your tail as it swished side to side. You saw his ears perk up, and the minor curl of his lips, a sight only a person staring as intently as you would see. You watched as his expression morphed into one of confusion, just before he dropped his head all together.
You would later come to find out that he couldn’t quite understand his own butterflies in his stomach.
The giant stayed seated on his winged beast, as Tonowari and Ronal dismounted theirs and crossed the shore in only a few strides. Initially, they were wary of your arrival, thinking your family would bring war to their village. After your father reassured them, they were gracious enough to grant uturu for your family, and even dispatched their own children to teach you the ways of the people.
Naturally, you had a hard time adjusting to the new biome, water was never really your thing to begin with. You were slow in the water, slender body only holding you back more. The olo’eyktan’s son, Ao’nung, quickly grew agitated with you, handing you off to his sister, Tsireya, who was already overwhelmed with teaching your siblings. You felt like a burden, holding everyone back during lessons. There was absolutely nothing that you were getting the hang of, not even the ‘finger talk’ as you brother calls it.
For the first in your life, you felt completely defeated.
The sweet, determined girl disappeared, leaving nothing but her shell behind. You started missing lessons, making up reasons to stay back in your family marui pod. You often found yourself alone sitting on the shore in the height of the eclipse, dipping your feet into the warm water. Jake would always find his babygirl, demanding to know what was wrong. But you could never reveal the truth, not after what he said to you before your departure. Especially not now, not after failing so terribly for two entire months.
At this point, your siblings had passed their iknimaya, and you were the only one left.
----
Tsireya presses two fingertips right above your navel, resting her other hand on your chest, fixing your posture. “Breathe from down here. You must slow down your heartbeat, y/n.”
You’ve heard this a million times by now. You know this, but it didn’t matter. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t get it. Frustrated, you exhale harshly, gritting your teeth so you won’t speak the words flooding your mind.
“Look. I know you’re frustrated, but you are getting so much better. If we just keep –”
“No! I’m fucking tired of this. I’ll never get it. Alright?!” you shout, shuffling to your feet to.
You scan the circle of surprised na’vi, all of which are staring up at you in disbelief. You could see Tsireya’s face screw with hurt, which only makes your heart ache more. An apology brews in your chest, when all five pairs of eyes flicker to something behind you. Turning on your heels, you see what everyone is looking at.
Jake, Tonowari, and his right-hand man all standing in front of you, presumably listening to your every word. You stand there for a bit, eyes bouncing between Tonowari and Jake before landing on the giant. He stands tall, staring off into the distance with that same deadpan look on his face. His hair is tucked behind his ears, revealing the stud in his lobe, the freckles on his jaw – the deeper blue markings on his neck.
This is the first time you’re getting a good look at him, seeing the first time you two met things were... eventful.
His freckles are conspicuous, even in broad daylight, beautifully patterned and abundant throughout his body. Perhaps it’s his lighter-cyan coloured skin and swirls for stripes, but his freckles twinkled just right from the reflection of the water. They even seemed to trace his stripe pattern on his forehead and brow bones. A single tahni under each eye... his ocean, impassive eyes.
A sleeve of tattoos covers his right arm, a sleeve on his right knee to his ankle, and a tattoo of stripes below his navel that went underneath his – oh. Your brows lift slightly, tensed facial muscles relaxing.
That’s an interesting place for a tattoo.
This tattoo continued between his prominent v-lines, under the band of his loincloth. You begin counting the stripes.
One, two, three, four, five... six.
It takes the sound of Jake clearing his throat for you to reluctantly peel your eyes away from this poor man’s crotch.
“Right, babygirl. Ralak here is going to be your teacher from now on.” Jake motions his hand over to the Metkayina, who’s now visibly, and unsuccessfully, trying to appear friendlier.
You couldn’t help but scoff, frustration now bubbling over in your chest once more. “So what? I’m so shit at this that I need a ‘special’ teacher?” you glance over at Ralak and roll your eyes.
“Language!” Jake whispers harshly, giving you that look. The look he gives you when you’re embarrassing him.
“No. I’m tired of this. I want to go home.” you shrug, storming past him just for him to wrap his hand around your upper arm and drag you back.
“That’s enough.” Jake growls, bending over to meet you at eye level. “Tonowari has been kind enough to arrange for Ralak to help you. He was once a fisherman.”
“The best. At about your age.” Tonowari stands proudly as he utters the words, “And now he’s one of the best warriors. I hand selected him myself.”
Your eyes flicker over to Ralak, whose ears lay flat against his skull, brows slightly pinched, jaw clenched. It’s hard to tell what he was feeling, his mask of indifference fixed tightly on his face. Was he grimacing? Or maybe he was trying not to.
Regardless, it looked as if the words upset him. Maybe there was something more beneath this cold exterior. Something that maybe you can pry out of him. Something that intrigued you. The corners of your lips curl upwards, an expression that any outsider would perceive as happiness, but Jake knew you had something else in mind.
Something more mischievous.
“I apologize, sir. I am... just frustrated.” your eyes shift from one giant to the next as you bow before the olo’eyktan. “It would be an honour to have Ralak be my...” you glance over at him, “...karyu [teacher].”
Jake remains silent, pursing his lips as he watches the scene unfold.
“Ah. I understand.” Tonowari smirks, shrugging his shoulder. “It is decided, Ralak will teach you.” he looks at Ralak, giving the order, “Today.”
Jake raises his brows at you, as if he were telling you to behave and not cause any trouble. You tilt your head and subtly stick out just the tip of your tongue. Tonowari walks away, a large hand brushing against Jake’s back to signal him to follow. Jake turns around and joins the larger na’vi, two olo’eyktans now making their way back to the tall mangroves.
“Hey, karyu.” you sing, eyes fluttering as you stare up at the towering man.
He looks down at you for a moment, eyes flickering between your eyes and lips. His ears twitch as he swiftly turns around, walking away from you. “Come.”
So that’s what his voice sounds like.
It’s gruff, yet smoky. Deep and husky, thick with... nothing but his Metkayina accent. It was flat and monotone, revealing nothing of his true character. You follow closely behind him, already excited about how you plan to get him to reveal more about himself. He seems to be a man of few words, reserved and... composed. You couldn’t deny that there is a part of you that wants to poke at him, to see how far you can take things with him.
Before you know it, you’re standing in a secluded clearing on the shore, nestled far away where the fishermen tend to hunt. You look around, scanning your surroundings with curious eyes. You see a secluded marui pod, seemingly larger than all the others you’ve seen thus far. It's tightly woven with orange and red sturdy material, secured tightly to the thick mangrove roots around it.
“That yours?” you stick him with your first poke of the day, eager eyes trying to look inside the marui.
His gaze remains fixed on the fishnet that he’s gathering in his hands. “Yes.”
“Pretty big for...” you mumble, shifting your gaze towards him to be met with the sight of him unbuckling his cumberbund. “...just one person.” your voice dwindles in volume, fading out into a breathy whisper.
If your eyes could protrude from your head anymore, they would. You always had a hard time masking how you feel as your facial expressions were quick to give it away. His cumberbund falls into the wet sand, embellished razor sharp akula teeth piercing its surface. Your eyes trail up his body, settling on his bare chest.
“Today, fishing net. Tomorrow, ilu.” he mutters, putting his hair into a loose bun as he ventures further into the water.
“O-kay.” the word comes out broken and awkward.
Venturing out into the water, he settles in the spot he used to go frequently as a fisherman. Waist deep into the water, he looks behind him, chin meeting his chest to land his gaze on you, chest-deep in the water. He realizes that he's gone too far out for you, and walks towards you.
Your beaded top plasters to your chest, revealing your peaked nipples as your breasts bounce with the tide. His eyes quickly avert to the shore, eyelids fluttering a little faster than they should.
“Come.” he walks past you, prompting you to follow him once more. You bounce your way back to the shore until the water is crashing into your stomach. “Watch.” he says, fixing his stance to show you a demonstration.
You watch intently, focus being on the wrong thing, honestly. Your eyes had a hard time looking away from his chiselled body – from each dip and ridge of his muscles on full display. How could you focus? Especially now that he’s barely thigh deep into the water, loincloth clung to his bulge. You swallowed thickly at the sight, was that huge thing really his –
“Erm. Got it?” the sound of him clearing his throat snaps you out of your deep thought.
“Mhm!” you nod quickly, doe eyed and genial smiled.
He nods once, handing you the netting. You take it slowly, buying yourself sometime to figure out how to throw this thing. Standing with your left foot in front of your right, you bend your elbows out, holding the yoke of the net close to your chest.
He grunts in disapproval, settling behind you to fix your stance. He gently kicks your feet apart, putting your dominant foot in front. Large hands grip your tiny waist, shifting your stance slightly to the left. They slip up your sides, and run along the length of your upper arms, stopping at your elbows to tuck them in. He’s so focused on correcting your poor posture that he doesn’t even realize how he’s pressing himself against you.
“Like this.” he huffs, hand enveloping yours to shift it further from the yoke of the cast net. “Hold here.” his other hand grabs the lead line and plunks it into yours.
Heart pounding at a dangerous speed, you take a few deep breaths. Perhaps it was the nerves of casting your first net, or maybe it was just how this gentle giant is pressed against you. Either way, you can’t ignore the butterflies that flutter in your stomach again.
“Now throw.” he says barely over a whisper, backing away from you.
You twist your upper body, core tensing when you throw the net as hard as you can, only for it to clump together rather than spread out. Your shoulders drop and lips press tight, a wave of disappointment washing over you.
“Again.” he orders, pulling the net towards him.
--
Ralak had you throw the net half a dozen more times before giving you your first break. You prodded and poked at him, trying your best pry personal information out of him – to no avail. He remained unaffected by your persistent jabs, revealing nothing other than how he pined for the days of being a fisherman.
“Karyu. I-I’ll never get it.” you huff in frustration, gathering the fishnet from the surface of the water for a tenth time.
“Again.” he says patiently, unbothered by your frustration.
“Karyu. Please. It is not working. Can’t we try something else?” you beg, arms and back sore from throwing the fishnet so many times.
He looks at you for a moment, taking in the slouch of your back – the strain on your face. He felt bad for you, but he could also see that you were so close to learning the skill.
“No. Again.” he orders monotonously, taking note of your gaze drifting off to the mangroves nearby. “Focus. Eyes on me.”
“How am I supposed to focus when you look so, so –” you cut yourself short with a sigh.
“So, what?” he tilts his head and raises a brow.
You shake your head and roll your eyes, landing them right on that damn tattoo again.
Why was it so low? Didn’t that hurt? Why there of all places?
“Look. I see you –”
The words make your eyes snap up to his, heart thumping wildly in your chest.
“...staring.”
You didn’t realise you were lingering until he pointed it out. How could you not? Surely, he chose that spot for a reason. Perhaps his mate wanted it there, so she could trace the lines with her tongue, all the way down to his –
Am I... jealous right now? I don’t even know this man.
“Who did that tattoo?” you question harshly, green flame of envy igniting in your chest.
“This one?” he chuckles softly, tugging at the hem of his loincloth.
You drop your head, gaze locked on your hands fiddling with the net, hoping to hide the blood that’s rushing to your cheeks. “Yeah. That one.”
“Again. And I tell you.” he pulls the hem back up before crossing his arms over his chest.
Your gaze snaps back up to him, eyes wide with excitement. This is the first time he’d be revealing anything personal about himself. A smile splits your lips as you fix the net in your hands once more, burrowing your feet into the sand. Your eyes narrow on the target – a school of fish off in the near distance.
Twisting your torso, you cast the fishnet, watching it splay out perfectly and trap majority of the fish. You stare in awe, surprised that it even splayed out much less caught some fish. Once it registers, you jump up in glee, quickly turning to your teacher to see his pleased expression and slight nod.
“I did.” he utters, a smirk barely pulling at his lips.
Adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you’re perplexed by his two words. “Huh?” you huff, brows pinching together in confusion.
“I did the tattoo.” he says, holding eye contact with you.
“Oh.” your lips pucker at the words, furrowed brows now raising in understanding. Being so surprised by yourself – finally getting something right – you forgot about your little deal.
He breaks eye contact to look over at your perfectly casted fishnet. “If you ride an ilu, maybe I show you the rest of it.” he says through his thick accent, making his way towards the fishnet. “Since you are so... interested.”
“I-I’m not – it, it is just in a – an interesting spot.” you stutter, eyes locked onto your twiddling thumbs.
“Ah.” he gathers the fishnet in his large hands, bundling it together to call it a day. “If you say so... vultsyìp [stick; tree branch]”
“What did you just call me?” your leer snaps up, eyelids squinting at his tensed back muscles that flex and relax as he gathers the net.
A smile pulls at his lips, although you can barely see it from the angle in which he’s facing. It’s contagious, causing your own lips to curl, and soon enough you’re giggling into your hand.
----
Ralak became the light in the darkness, pulling you out of your shell and filling you with the purpose that you once lost. Things came quick to you, thanks to him. He was a great teacher, always patient with you, never showing his agitation – or any other emotion for that matter.
You learned how to hold your breath properly in only a week, due to his persistence and confidence in you. He’d always be quick to praise you after you accomplished something, whether that be with a quick clap, a gentle tap on the back, or – in bigger accomplishments – a hug.
The bond between the two of you strengthened. Overnight. You put a crack in his walls, and bits of his true self began to shine through them. And that was your biggest accomplishment yet. To see a person with the strength of five men turn into a little water puppy in front of you, and you only.
There would be moments where his façade of indifference would drop completely. The moments where he would chuckle a little too loudly, a little too long. Where that shy smile grew wide enough to flash his lengthy canines, and a primal part of you that you tried to supress, desired to know what they felt like sunk into your neck. Clamping down on you while you writhe underneath him, being tamed by his touch.
The moments where you’d tease one another about your differences. His stature in comparison to yours. Pressing your hands together, only for yours to be lost in his palm. And when you pulled away, your fingers intertwined ever so slightly, prickling the skin all over your body. He loved to tease you. Honestly a little too much, poking at your chest with a figurative finger about how you favoured that of a vultsyìp. It’s what got you riled up the most and soon it became your nickname.
Until the day you successfully rode your first ilu.
It was an exhilarating experience, nothing like what you had experienced prior. You glided through the water effortlessly, flowing with the movements of the blubbery creature. When you broke the waters’ surface, Ralak stood proudly in the shallow end, arms crossed over his chest with a smile on his face. It was a rare occurrence – that smile.
And when you laid your eyes on such a sight, the butterflies flew back into your stomach, fluttering and flapping harder than they ever have. They soon became plenty in number, filling your stomach to the brim until you can no longer suppress the way you feel. The flutter in your stomach radiated throughout your body, sending your legs fluttering too. You swam quickly to him, surprising yourself with your speed.
--
“You did it. Like I said.” he smiles smugly.
“Hope you didn’t forget about our deal.” you grin, wringing out the water from your hair.
“You would not let me.” he scoffs, shaking his head as he uncrosses his arms. “Ready?” he asks, cocking a brow while his fingers glide down his stomach, finding purchase under the under the band of his loincloth.
“From the moment I saw it, karyu.” you say, voice feigned with confidence.
He could see through your disguise, though. It only makes him chuckle, to see such a little thing act so big – so dauntless. He tugs his loincloth down, taut strings now sinking into his upper thighs, revealing not only the entirety of his tattoo but also the base of his length.
“H-how did you manage to do that all on your own? Didn’t it hurt?” you ask sheepishly, voice laced with concern.
“Bottle of fermented fruit and a rag to bite. No pain.” he answers, Metkayina accent thick.
You examine it a little closer, leaning in to have a better look. It’s raised, very slightly – invisible to anyone not staring as intently as you are. Most definitely because it’s hand poked, by himself of all people. An innocent thought floods your mind, so loud that you couldn’t stop the movement of your own hand.
How does it feel?
“Can I –” you glance up at him briefly, hand hovering over the tattoo, “Can I touch it?”
His brows and ears shudder for just a few seconds. He quickly regains his composure, swallowing silently before giving you a single nod. Fingertips experimentally graze over the tattoo, taking in its bumpy texture. Your digits trace each line of his tattoo, down to his pelvis. A sudden jerk of his hips causes you to yank your hand back.
“S-sorry, Ralak.” you mumble, feeling a little ashamed that you may have made him uncomfortable.
But in all honesty, your innocent, little touches were arousing him and he didn’t want you to know.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” he states, fixing his loincloth.
You straighten your spine, a foot stepping back to create space that you think he wants, only for him to pull you in for a hug.
“You did well today, vultsyìp.” he mumbles, hands resting on your head and back. “Tsurak [skimwing] next and you will be Metkayina.”
“Hmm. I’ll think about it.” you giggle, warm embrace and snarky commentary ebbing away whatever feelings of doubt tensing your chest.
It’s the way his huge arms engulf you that make you feel so protected and accepted. It’s something you always looked forward to after a big achievement. You lean into him, laying your head on his chest. The smell of sea salt mixed with leather hide wafts up your nose. You take a deep breath, holding it in your lungs until you feel light in the head. Releasing your breath with a loud huff, you smile widely.
It’s so enticing, so addictive.
“You always do that.” he chuckles breathily, swiping back a few strands of hair stuck to your temple.
“’ts not my fault you sea people smell so good.” you mumble into his chest, taking in another deep breath.
“Ah.” he exhales, hand cupping the back of your head. “My hì’i vultsyìp [little stick]” he almost grimaces at his words, it just wasn’t fitting anymore. Not for situations like these. Not when his chest feels so tight.
You lift your head and stare up at him with eyes of innocence. He looks down at you, ocean blue eyes searching yours. You’d never even noticed the little yellow ring around his pupils until now, how they shimmer when the light catches them just right. There’s an unspoken tension, thick in the air – so thick it makes you swallow the spit pooling in your cheeks. Your smile fades, lips parting as your breaths turn hot.
Eyes growing heavy, they almost close in anticipation that he might – just might – kiss you.
“Tanhì.” he mutters, eyes minutely shifting between each freckle on your forehead. He’s counts them, admiring how they embellish your supple, dark blue skin.
Your smile returns like it never left, except it’s wider – brighter. The last ray of sun shines through the sliver of a gap between your silhouettes, averting your attention to the oncoming eclipse.
“Thank you, karyu.” you whisper, reluctantly pulling away from his arms to make the trek back home.
“Tomorrow...” he watches your small figure shrink as you walk away. “...my tanhì.”
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | western!au | oneshot | a light AU to daughters with soft underbellies
After countless years of traveling, Simon Riley wanders into a small-town saloon owned by an old man who's quick to anger. His poor daughter seems to take the brunt of his berating for simple mistakes. As a favor to himself, Simon decides to buy the girl off of him as a wife.
cw: old west alternate universe, wayward outlaw! ghost, smut, dub-con, alcohol and intoxication, improper (or maybe too proper) use of spurs, blood and injury, historically typical views of women and purity, simon is a jerk but hey at least he's better than your dad
An old, fat dog lounges in the corner of the saloon with his eyes closed and belly facing up towards the smoke stained ceiling.
Simon’s been watching him for the last hour while he sips on his whiskey and chews on the butt of his cigarette, filter dissolving on the tip of his tongue. It’s as if he’s looking in a mirror. A washed up mutt with hardened skin finally reclining after too many years of work. Tapping his finger on the table, he keeps count of each respiration and breathes in time with the creature. He twitches in his sleep—tail wagging, cheeks puffing up with emphatic growls that hardly roll past his canines.
There’s nothing else of value to watch in the saloon besides the mangy creature. The poker game taking place three tables down is smothered with ancient men sporting white hair and liver spots who hardly let anything out of their lips except wet coughs, and the bartender has been muttering curses to himself for half the evening that Simon doubts he would make good conversation. Besides, he's a wayward man. Constantly on the move, traveling from place to place, refusing to linger for too long lest trouble finds him.
For now, he’s perfectly content on leaning back in his chair and enjoying his solitude—
—until you stumble in.
Pale pink fingerprints stain the cotton of your apron that you either didn’t bother to remove or forgot to hang up in the kitchen before bursting into the saloon with wild eyes and a heaving chest. As he takes a drag of his cigarette, Simon half expects some inebriated bastard to stagger in after you, caught in a drunken stupor trying to chase after some girl who he doesn't have even half the skill to catch in his maw. You are a sight for sore eyes. Certainly better than the half dead mutt keeping him company. Clad in a sky blue dress that seems all too common for women settling in the west and a gaze that can’t help but be magnetically attracted to the floor as you walk to the bar on lubberly legs, he nearly chuckles when you hold your hands behind your back.
“You’re late,” the barkeep berates.
“Sorry Daddy, I was finishing up chores, and the geese were pitching a fit again—” You’re tripping over your words worse than you do your feet. They spew between your teeth like water from a well pump that has too much pressure behind it.
“I don’t give a damn what held you up, girl. I tell you to be here no later than seven, and I expect that you listen to that,” the man—your father—snaps. Your apology comes so quiet that Simon can’t make out what you say, but he can tell by the curling of your shoulders that it exists. All you get in response is raised brows and a clenching jaw. “Well? Go on. I didn’t ask you to be here just to stand around.”
You slink away from the bar without another word before your gaze is cast out at the swathes of unoccupied tables around you. Simon flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the floor as he studies the way you mentally drink up the tasks laid out for you before you're springing to work. One by one you ignite the oil lamps that hang from the ceiling with precariously rusty chains. A curse hisses between your pursed lips when you burn your fingers on one of the matches, and you shove the raw pad against your tongue to numb the pain.
Simon doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you. His gaze is heavy beneath the brim of his hat, darker than the coal mines that line this pathetic excuse for a town and ten times more suffocating. You make the mistake of not carrying a canary with you as you approach his table—there is no sudden silence of a bird's song to warn you of the danger you're in—a meek smile graces your face as you light another match and reach up to ignite his lamp.
"Good evening, sir," you greet.
His fingers freeze against the table. Simon's lost his interest in keeping count of an old dog's breathing. "Evenin."
Your scent washes over him just as the oil begins to burn. Sweet like fresh strawberries, yet smothered by crude, unadulterated earth. Wet soil, the muck of animals. Simon studies the curve of your face as the flames illuminate your skin. Delectable flesh, pliable and soft—softer than him—yet the blemish on the apple of your cheek screams at him.
"Look at me, sweetheart." The pet name is kind, but his voice isn't. Jumping, the match burns down to your fingers again forcing you to yelp, but even through the pain you listen to him.
He's traded one dog for another.
When you question if something is wrong, Simon gives you no answer except for the beckoning of his fingers. Complying, you lean forward as he snatches your jaw in one hand and sticks his thumb into his mouth before smearing his spit across your cheek. It's wet like a kiss, and your skin drinks up his touch like starved earth yearning for any bit of rain the skies will bless it with. The dried mud flakes off with ease, and he wipes the remainder off on his stained jeans.
"O-Oh." When he relinquishes you, your hand flies up to your face where you begin to rub at your skin as if you can feel the mark he's left on you. "Thank you, sir."
Simon only hums in response before tapping the side of his glass. It rings like church bells on a bleak Sunday. "I'm dry."
Gruff. Short. Seemingly having no time for pleasantries. You awkwardly snatch his glass up before bringing it to your father where he berates you for not asking what was in it before you took it away. Luckily the saloon isn't too busy, and when you return his drink back to him Simon's happy to find that it's exactly what he ordered even though half of it is beaded on the outside of the cup from your blatant mishandling.
His night has become much more interesting now that he can watch you through the haze of his whiskey. Bent over on your hands and knees, sweat beading on your brow, you scrub the floor in the unoccupied areas of the saloon with a bristle brush. The view is nice. The curve of your ass presses through your dress like rising sourdough while you work, and when you're facing him your bodice cuts so low your cleavage glistens in the marmalade lighting.
John Price has always told him views like this were worth the money. His business partner has always been fond of the little thing he keeps locked up at home fat with his kids and sticky with the food he buys. Always got a fresh meal on the table for dinner and a sweet cunt to sink into for dessert. It's not half bad, Riley.
But he knows that type of life isn't for him. Always on the road, gloves tainted with blood turned russet from weeks of baking in the sun before he even bothers to rinse it off. The money in his billfold is far from honest, but men like Simon Riley don't leave the comfort of England to come to the American West for pure business. Face muddled with scars, thighs sore from years of riding, and back ruined from sleeping on the cold earth—he'll be dead long before he ever sincerely dreams of settling down with a wife and kid.
Still, the thought is tempting.
His daydreams shatter the moment you bucket spills, sending water and suds all along the floor, flooding the wood until puddles reflect both the oil lamps and your shame back into your face. Cursing, your father marches over to where you stare at your mess with watery eyes. You jump when he kicks the bucket, sending it flying across the room. Even the near-dead dog in the corner can't sleep through the ruckus.
"Useless daughter of mine! What are you good for besides making a damn mess of my work?" His disparaging cuts so deep Simon can see the quiver in your bottom lip as you stare up at your father, hands neatly folded on your lap despite the way the water soaks your apron. "Don't just sit there! Go fetch some rags and dry this shit up!"
When you stand to your feet, Simon is reminded of the fawn he slaughtered last spring. Wobbly legs, unsure feet, trotting out the door as if you're a fresh babe again. He only killed the small creature out of pity, not malice. Having shot its mother, it was left alone with without a teat to suckle on or any maternal guidance to raise it into adulthood. It didn't even flinch at the flash of his knife or the cut of the blade, it only stared up at him with soft brown eyes that reflected the whole world back at him.
The meat wasn't half bad, neither.
Sucking down the dregs of his drink, Simon saunters up to your father with his empty glass in hand while you work on fixing the mess you've made of the floor. He towers over the bar so much that when he goes to lean on it he has to curve his spine forward, shoulders hunching as if he's some inhuman creature preying on the animals below him. Your father looks at him without so much as a second glance before swiping his empty glass away from him.
"Another?" he asks. He's already grabbing the bottle of whiskey before Simon even nods.
While his cup is poured, Simon glances back down at you. Head bowed, you're wringing out your rag back into your bucket in an attempt to fill it up, but at the rate your tears are streaming down your face, he knows you'll have another flood to worry about before you're even halfway through.
"That your daughter?" Simon inquires with half-hearted interest.
Your father doesn't even bother to look at you before scoffing. "You mean that useless animal? Yeah, she's mine."
"What's she good for?"
Your father sets Simon's drink in front of him, prompting him to return the favor with a few coins on the scarred counter. The whiskey slides over his tongue like rough sandpaper, but the burn in the back of his throat and the cotton being shoved between his ears is worth it.
"Not a damn thing," he huffs before crossing his arms. Your father glares at you from across the room, and you must feel his gaze on you because it isn't long before you're finally raising your head. Sorrow is strewn all over your face, a hefty guilt you can't rid yourself of. "She's a klutz, hardly speaks loud enough for anyone to hear her, always hurting herself like she's still some child."
"Haven't married her off yet? That'd get 'er off your hands." Simon means it as a sour joke, but your father grumbles before he returns to his chores.
"No man's stupid enough to marry her."
The harsh reality of it is no worse than Simon's used to, but he finds himself mulling the idea over anyway. Certainly you're good for something. Glazed eye candy for men to gawk at—men who like their women soft around the edges. Tiny little puppy teeth that can hardly break skin and gets a chuckle when it starts to tickle.
Besides, Simon's learned well enough not to trust the words that comes spewing out of an angry father's mouth. Rancid with the decay clogging their arteries, his own father wasn't much different. A right bastard who knew just how to wiggle his way beneath everyone's skin, slicing through tendon and pure bone just to get a reaction, anything that would justify his hand upon a cheek.
Simon won't pretend to be a good man, but he's certainly better, and if it wasn't for the fact this man has provided him the means to get drunk, his blood would be joining the soapy water in an instant.
"I'd buy 'er off ya."
It takes your father several moments to formulate a response; long enough for Simon to down the rest of his whiskey in a single swig. For the first time since he's walked through those doors he finally notes a smile on the man. It's ugly, twisted at the corners in the way only malevolent things can, but it's sincere.
"Quit pulling on my leg, son," he dismisses.
"I'm not pullin' on anythin," Simon grunts.
A large hand snakes through Simon's vest as he presses his fingers into his breast pocket to retrieve his billfold. It's old. Probably ancient. A dilapidating piece of leather he snatched off of a body just outside Lead two years back when he realized it was much better than the coin purse he had. Perusing through the folded up notes, he yanks out a fifty dollar bill and places it face up on the counter.
Your father's smile vanishes once he sees the money, but the twinkle in his eye only strengthens. "What are you playing at?"
"I'm playin' at buyin' myself a wife and giving you a migraine free end of your life," Simon says bluntly. Brows raising, he spots a bottle behind the man and nods towards it. "Better throw in that bottle of Kentucky bourbon, too."
"Now why would I do that?" your father scoffs.
Simon shrugs. "A wedding gift."
It doesn't take your father very long at all to think over this offer before he snatches the money off the counter and hands Simon the key to his spoils.
"You have my blessing."
You put up a teary-eyed fuss as your new future is laid out before you in the form of a tall stranger who smells like whiskey and iron. Despite the pitiful protests that bleed from your lips, your father has trained you all too well—a sharp snap, a show of teeth, and you're falling quiet like the dead of night in winter. Your father doesn't tell you that he's giving you away for a crisp fifty dollar bill. Not out loud, anyway. He certainly doesn't try to hide it when he shoves it into his pocket.
With his bourbon in one hand and the small of your back in the other, Simon leads you out of the saloon. Neither he nor your father give you any opportunity to gather your things back home—you have nothing to your name but the clothes on your back. Dusk brushes over the sky with a plain pallet of deep reds and bruising purples only to be blotched out by migrating geese that honk in the distance. Long shadows tickle your footprints in the dirt until you reach the hardened rocks and earth that surround your hometown. Not a single word is exchanged between the two of you as your travels begin to wane. There is only the jingle of the spurs on Simon's boots and your intermittent sniffling as you attempt to keep your tears at bay.
Simon's camp is nestled in the valley of a ravine where the soil is cool and the walls are high—a protective den for a wild animal to hide in with his back covered and eyes focused on any throat that gets within sniffing distance. He sets you at the yawning mouth of his tent, a simple lean-to with stained white canvas and hardly enough space for the brute of a man himself, let alone you too.
You try to keep your shivering at bay while Simon crouches in front of a stone fire pit. By the looks of it, he's been here for a few days at least. A moderate stockpile of wood rests next to where his horse is hitched and his feet mar the earth so viciously you fear she may be scarred until the next thunderstorm rolls overhead to smother out all traces of human life.
Fire blooms to life with waifish flames licking up towards Simon's face, demanding more. He feeds kindling and small blocks of wood into it until it's purring content near the tips of his toes, illuminating all the gnarly features that comprise his body. Deep scars cut without care around his cheeks and lips, some spanning even as far as his hairline, distorting the growth with keloids and angry skin. His nose is curved worse than a sickle, and is more crooked than a pianist's index finger.
Despite his flaws, he is not an ugly man. Only slightly painful to look at in the way beasts are—striking fear through your heart as if wielding a dagger. His broad shoulders would be something your friends would squeal over, and his height would send any mentally stable person running for the hills if they were ever unfortunate enough to cross paths with him. Still, you're not sure what to make of him or the way he looks at you. Dark eyes pinning you into the dirt, dry lips parting just enough for him to huff as he stands.
"You hungry?"
All you can do is stare at him. Simon Riley; this man who is to now suddenly be your husband, who bought you off of your father for a single scrap of paper. Some untamed piece of you wants to snap at him, snarl with your teeth bared—how dare he pretend to care for you as if he sees you as anything more than a piece of meat.
"Yeah, starvin' aren't ya? Scroungy thing you are." Before you have the time to argue with him, Simon begins to sort through an old leather satchel held together with a spotty stitching job and a half-hearted prayer. From it, he produces a fair amount of jerky and holds out a stringy piece for you to take. "Here."
You swallow down the smoke wafting from the campfire. "I'm not hungry."
Simon doesn't waver in the face of the stern attitude you attempt to wear; instead, he presses the jerky closer to your face. "Mad at your daddy so you're mad at the world, yeah? That shit doesn't fly with me, sweetheart. Eat your dinner 'fore I give ya somethin' else to keep that pretty mouth occupied."
He doesn't give you an opportunity to argue further before he's pressing the food against your lips, pressing past them and jamming into your teeth. To prevent him from shattering your enamel, you take it from him with a fawn-like glare. It's salty. Harder than the rocks at your feet. Still, you gnaw on it, jaw clenching as your molars grind it as best as you can. As you swallow, you pretend it's Simon's throat.
Your husband-to-be doesn't bother to sit while he eats. The speed in which he devours his food like some gluttonous beast leaves your brain spinning—crooked teeth, sharp canines, and a bad habit of licking his lips afterwards like he yearns for something more than just simple brine on his tongue. Neither of you speak. You're glad for it. Conversation has never been your strong suit, and your father has always treated every sound that's ever left your throat like a chore.
Sparks fly into the night sky to dance with the stars as Simon tosses another chopped log on top of the fire, but you don't get the chance to revel in the beauty of the flames before he's obscuring your view. He removes his hat to reveal short cropped hair before he tosses it onto the bedding behind you where it lands with a dull thunk. You stare up at him. Already a large man, he looks baronial when you're settled on your haunches, attempting to make yourself unnoticeable by his burning gaze.
"You know what comes next, don't ya sweetheart?" he questions.
It's as if the fire doesn't exist at all. You can't stop shivering. Simon's belt buckle flashes in the umbra as he sticks his thumb into the waist of his jeans. You can smell him now—or, at least your brain can make sense of the scent. Long soaked tobacco and the whiskey he drank at your father's saloon, along with something heavier. Like ichor. Like lead.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." Your faux courage doesn't get you very far—there's a waver in your voice that trills on the end of your words, and Simon finds it cute enough to chuckle.
"Didn't realize I bought myself a dumb fawn."
A fat palm rests on the nape of your neck with lightning speed and precision, and before you know it your torso is twisted until you're face first into blankets that smell like musk and gun powder. Your yelp is lost into the sparse padding against your cheek. A wounded animal, bleeding out and waiting to be gutted.
You jump as his other hand lands on your rump, not in a spank but in an arcing motion that smooths over your thighs. Even through the skirt of your dress he can feel the way you quiver as you struggle against the palm on your neck. A feisty barn cat, scruffed when it doesn't want to be.
"That's alright, I don't mind spellin' it out for ya if ya need it," Simon muses.
"Wait, wait, please!"
He silences your pleas as his hand wanders down the back of your thigh. Breath catching in your throat, fingers curling into rough blankets that choke you with lingering tar—you squeal when he pulls up the skirt of your dress, exposing your backside to the fire. Warmth licks up your legs both from rigid shame and the flames dancing behind you, but nothing compares to the way he rips through your pantalets as if they're as thin as paper.
"This is how this is gonna work sweetheart." His hands are wandering further, fingertips brushing where they shouldn't, dipping into the warmest part of you with enough friction to make you yelp. "You're gonna lay right there nice, pretty, and quiet for me while I christen this new union of ours, yeah? Gonna get the best bang for my buck, that's for fuckin' sure."
Squeezing your eyes shut, you nod. One of the working women in town once told you what sex was like. Your father has always held purity in high regard, but she talked about it as if it was nothing of importance, a flippant union that she did for work nearly every night.
Ain't nothin' but a slight burn and pleasure so underwhelming you'd wish you had your own fingers down there instead.
Finally, you nod. "Yes sir."
Chuckling, the pressure on the back of your neck vanishes as Simon stands to his feet, spurs jingling on his boots and kicking dirt up into the air as he positions himself behind you. He whistles low as if looking at a painting. Always hung up high in the gallery at the library, brushstrokes vivid as they swirl in prismatic colors—a work of art, just for him. He makes a few adjustments as he tears further through your pantalets with a knife. The iron runs across your skin. A gentle kiss with teeth hardly held at bay. You shiver as the night air rushes to meet your sex.
"Spread those legs, sweetheart," Simon orders. His words are tough, but slurred. Whiskey heavy on his tongue, alcohol burning through his blood like wildfire devouring a mountainside.
Obeying, your weight wiggles side to side as you move your knees further apart and it feels like cutting into yourself. A doe with a knife gralloching herself so that the hunter's work is less laborious.
Simon only chuckles. "C'mon, you can do better than that."
When you try again and he still isn't satisfied with the way you're contorting yourself, his feet thud into the ground behind you just before something bites the inside of your thighs. They're cruel. Like thickets gnawing into your skin as you attempt to fetch the enticing berries just before you, but you get no sweet treat in the end. Just ichor running down your legs as you lurch away from the source of pain, quivering legs spreading until your hips can't take it anymore.
"Yeah, tha's good," your husband-to-be purrs.
Shoulders curling, you attempt to look between your legs only for your dress to block your vision. "Did you- did you cut me?"
"Just used my spurs for some extra motivation," Simon shrugs. The said item jingles as he falls to his knees again, but it's smothered by the sound of his fly coming undone. "If it's not cruel 'nuff for my horse, then it's not cruel 'nuff for you."
"T-That hurt," you snap. You're glad he can't see your face right now and the way pathetic tears plunge down your cheeks with each flutter of your eyelashes.
"I'll kiss it better later if it means that damn much."
His promise tastes stale in the air as his jeans rustle down his hips and the sound prompts you to freeze as something presses against your backside. It's too warm to be a hand. Blistering hot like the surface of the sun jumping out to snatch you up on a warm summer's day. It's too smooth to be his hands; those palms of his are calloused beyond recognition.
You don't realize that it's his cock until it's butting up against you, pushing your labia apart until you're choking him. The stretch burns. Like a paper cut being pried too far apart, flesh splitting, blood oozing from the pathetic laceration. An ache blooms in your jaw as your teeth clench together, and you have to fight the urge to chew on the bedding against the side of your face. Simon grunts as he moves closer, attempting to push further into you, but your body refuses to give. Skin dimples, organs flutter, and you're left wincing at the small intrusion.
"Fuckin' hell. Never been fucked properly before, have ya?"
As Simon curses, he pulls away from you and the pressure dissipates throughout your body. Relief comes next. Bitter and cutting, it tingles between your thighs as the muscles in your back liquefy. Perhaps he's finished with you.
You don't realize how terribly wrong you are until his hand yanks back on your shoulder, forcing your torso off of the ground until your spine is bending like the branches of a willow tree. Sour fingers dart into your mouth, pushing past your lips and knocking around your teeth until gunpowder and stale tobacco presses against your tongue. You gag as the fingers move to the back of your throat, nails digging through your soft pallet, slicing up your throat until you're pulling on his forearm for any bit of reprieve he'll allow you to earn.
"Dryer than a goddamn desert," he mutters against the back of your skull. "Can hardly get you to take even an inch."
He leaves you coughing and sputtering as he retracts his fingers from your mouth and pushes you back down on the blankets. Spit coats your chin, but it isn't long before it's coating your sex too. Haphazardly wiping his fingers along your labia, Simon pushes two fingers into you, plunging too far too fast. Your feet kick at the intrusion, but Simon only laughs.
"That hurts!" you squeal, hips moving side to side as if you could buck him off like a rodeo horse.
"Relax, sweetheart. I'll get ya singin' real pretty f'me in no time," he discards.
There is no time to think or breathe before he's replacing his fingers with his cock. You split apart easier this time. Faster. Body giving into his, flesh decoupling where it's never bled before. All you can do is hold your breath as he fills you with slow, even pressure. When you're so full of him that you can't take anymore, he continues to try despite it. Breaking the laws of physics, bending your will to his own, all while growling like a guarded wolf refusing to share a meal with the rest of the pack.
"Yeah, that's it," Simon praises between gritted teeth. "Just like this, sweetheart."
When Simon picks up his pace—pumping in an out of you faster than your brain will allow you to comprehend—you realize that prostitute you spoke with all those years ago is a liar. This is more than a simple numbness swallowing you, wishing that you'd take matters into your own hands. You feel every ridge and angle of him. The way he pushes your walls out of the way, organs displacing to make room for his demanding cock, everything sliding against one another as if to start a fire within you. Friction too great. Nerves melting off at each junction.
His fingers curl into your hips as if to mark you. White hot branding iron against your skin, shaping you into the swirls of his finger prints—your husband-to-be. You've never heard of men claiming their wives with anything other than a ring on their fingers, but you suppose this man—Simon Riley—might not be much of a human at all.
"Sweet little thing, you are," he grunts. His pace continues at the same speed he's kept since he began, relentless and fast, desperately chasing for something he hasn't gotten in such a long time that it's left him half brain-dead. "Dunno why your daddy treats you the way he does. I've always liked dumb fawns."
Though his words sting, the pain is nothing compared to the way he moves inside of you. His words seem kind and sincere but the verbiage is cutting and wrong—a backhanded compliment meant to leave you floundering. Keeping your lips tight, you refuse to respond to him. You're not sure what you would even say to such a comment anyway. This man, who bought you off your father as a wife, now staking his claim before the matrimony has even taken place.
Seemingly displeased with your silence, Simon's pace falters as one of his hands snakes around your front and down between your thighs. His weight presses on your back. Soft stomach rolling against your rump, hair rubbing against the tender skin—he steals your breath away as his firm fingers swipe against the rawest part of you. The part where your skin hardens, puffy and stiff, blood rushing between your legs until you're brimming full with electricity like lightning.
Simon hisses as your body tenses, back arching as you lift your head up from the bedding, arms aching from keeping yourself from toppling over. He sounds like a snake. An angry rattler slithering through a garden he doesn't belong in. He chokes it off with a chuckle when you begin to gasp and choke on your own breath.
"Yeah, there she is," he chuckles as his pace begins to pick up once more. "Just need a little extra coaxing."
It feels like a betrayal to yourself to admit that it feels good—but it does. It numbs the burn inside of you as Simon continues to take what's now rightfully his. Adding water to the fire until it's no longer roaring, but sizzling, smouldering remains snuffing out with each swirl even as you clench so tightly around him that you nearly trap him inside of you.
His nose rests against your back, crooked tip nestling into the bend of your spine. You feel each exhale. Hot breath soaking into your skin. It makes you shiver.
"That feels—oh—I don't… I can't…" It's the first sentence you've attempted to string together since he began, and it comes out disjointed. Half formed stutters on a tongue that's too limp underneath his fingers.
"I feel it, sweetheart," Simon pants. "Squeezin' me as tight as you are, not sure I could stop myself even if I wanted to."
And he doesn't. He goes faster. Hips snapping against you, thighs rubbing against the new cuts on your skin, blood smearing along him until his legs are bright pink, fingers raking over your sex, digging deep until he's twisting the nerves to his liking, rewiring you until all you can do is hold your breath with clenched fingers. Then, there's the swell. The change in pressure that tenses in your core and skull. Brain throbbing, eyelids fluttering until everything becomes so tight—
—that you finally shatter.
A million pieces of you scatter all over Simon's tent as you come. Thighs quivering, cunt fluttering around him despite his relentless pace; it's sweeter than the strawberry pastries you spent all afternoon baking but the acid that follows bites worse than a wasp. A wretched give and take that leaves you gasping in the stilly night air.
Simon plunges in not too far after you. Both hands returning to your hips, he yanks you towards him and keeps you locked against his body while his cock begins to pulse inside of you, jumping rhythmically as if to a tune you can't hear. Your brain can't make sense of it until he's pulling out of you with a grunt and something warm runs down the inside of your legs—he's truly consummated this marriage-to-be with a gift only man can bestow upon a woman.
He allows you to collapse, but not without another mocking chuckle. On your side, you curl your legs up as close to your chest as you can get while Simon shuffles through items out of your view. Ruined pantalets at your ankles, dress wrinkled beyond recognition; you're soiled. Claimed down to your very marrow by this stranger who blew into town and suddenly decided to take you for himself out of the kindness of his heart.
A kindness soaked in acrimony. Both your tongue and eyes water at the mere stench of it.
When Simon yanks the skirt of your dress over your exposed rump, you can't help but jump. Hands pushing into the earth, you look over your shoulder at him and you're nearly blinded by the fire that dwindles into coals waving with remnants of heat. He holds something out for you to take—a large bottle with a skinny neck and fat bottom. Amber liquid sloshes around inside as he settles down next to you, head skimming against the lean-to tent canvas.
"Go on, then," Simon prompts.
You take the bottle into your hand and realize it's the fresh Kentucky bourbon your father sells at the saloon. The cap has already been popped off, and fresh liquid stains the rim with the remnants of Simon's lips.
"I'm not thirsty," you say, ready to discard the bottle back into his grasp.
"I told you to drink, sweetheart," he corrects you, tone severe.
Brows heavy with a scowl, you ignore the pang between your legs as you sit up and press the bottle to your mouth. Tiny sips allow the alcohol to seep between your lips and though the flavor is smooth, the sting is violent. Needles on your tongue, coals down your throat. When your mouse-like sips aren't enough to satisfy Simon, he tips the bottom of the bottle up, flooding your sinuses with the drink until you're choking it down and coughing at the sting.
"Atta girl," he chuckles before swiping it away and swallowing more gulps than he should.
The earth moves but you stay still. Frozen in time as everything moves around you, time and space warping with you at the epicenter of the destruction of your life. When your husband-to-be settles for bed, he pulls you close to his side but doesn't seem intent on offering any sort of comfort to you besides heavy snoring from his crooked nose.
Your eyes glaze over as you stare at the dying fire. It no longer cracks and spits sparks into the air, it only dances with trembling embers that remind you of waves on a lake. As a coyote howls in the night, you think of how easy it would be to wander back home. To slip from Simon's faint grasp and vanish into the night. You do not scrounge up the courage to leave.
Like your father has taught you—love is nothing if it is not painful.
When dawn breaks you are alone in the tent, but Simon is not far. Breathing life back into the campfire, he crouches next to it with hunched shoulders while boiling water for a canister of dry tea that rests next to his boots. Eyes like soot quickly find you as you peek your face out from the blankets, body stunned into silence as you watch him.
"Mornin' sweetheart," he greets.
Breakfast is just as dull as your pathetic dinner was. Hardtack with not enough salt, and tea that tastes like raw juniper without sugar—you do your best to keep your discontent to a minimum. Your hot cakes are better. Smothered with freshly churned butter and doused with maple syrup from up north. You think about telling him as much, but decide to keep quiet when he stands to his feet and begins to dismantle his tent.
You turn your attention to the dwindling fire as he works. It is a difficult task to focus on the way flames sputter and cry when you can still feel the way Simon ruined you last night. Your sex is swollen, puffy between your thighs, chaffing in areas you never thought were possible. His stench smothers you. Hard work and musk, salty cum between your legs, scabbed cuts screaming at the mixture as it spills out of you, soaking into your tattered pantalets.
Reality hits you without any qualms the moment you place your hand on your stomach. Even that much movement alone hurts.
There are womanly duties that are expected of a bride—of a wife. Of anyone unfortunate enough to be born into the life you are. The seed has been planted, and you're worried about the growth that will overcome your body if it decides to germinate.
"Here."
Simon's voice lulls you back to your senses. His hand is extended for you, and in his palm lies several five dollar bills, all crisp with a neat fold in the center to be stowed away somewhere safe. There's a fat wad of them—nearly 100$ total if you had to guess. Brows creasing, you look up at him.
"What's this? An allowance?" you ask with shaky snark.
He shakes the bills with a tilt of his head. "A parting gift."
Dry lips part in shock. A half-formed demand balances on the tip of your tongue, but you cut it in half with your teeth as you stare up at Simon. "A parting gift?"
"Should be plenty to get you on your way. I'll take ya to the next town over, then what you do from there is up to whatever your sweet little heart desires," he says, voice heavy laden with sarcasm.
Legs contracting, you attempt to stand to your feet only for your knees to give out underneath you, leaving you struggling like a poor-shot doe waiting to be put out of her misery. "But you-! You bought me! Told Daddy you were gonna make me your wife! And last night you took me Simon Riley!"
Tired of holding out money that you don't seem to care about taking, Simon drops the bills to the dirt at your knees. "I'll be real honest with you, sweetheart. I don't have a need for a wife. You're nothin' but just another mouth to feed. Baggage I don't need. Just needed a good night's rest, and that little cunt of yours got the job done just fine."
His haphazard disregard of you leaves thick shame bubbling in your chest like molasses being brought to a boil. No man will take you like this. A whore who has already given herself to someone who has no intention of marrying her, virtue stolen away and devoured as a midnight snack.
"You can't do this to me." Despite your anger, your words only escape your mouth as a hissing whisper.
"Trust me, sweetheart. It's better this way."
"No!" Just as he begins to turn away, your fingers curl into the front of Simon's jeans. A thick layer of dirt and grime wiggles beneath your finger nails, but you ignore the discomfort as you stare daggers up at him with wet eyes and an iron jaw. "You bought me off my daddy, you fucked me last night here in the middle of nowhere—I'm coming with you. Please Simon, you can't just… just leave me. I'll die out there."
As Simon looks down at you with your wet eyes and desperate hands, he realizes he's found himself another fawn. Dumb, looking up at him with a gaze so glassy he can see the whole world reflected within it, lost without guidance. Begging for something to be done. A knife to their throat—anything.
He has long known that he's had no use for a wife. Some woman to calf out children and stay home like a singing bird locked in a cage. But you? This fawn begging for him, desperately in search for someone to trail behind, ready to listen to his every whim? Perhaps he can get used to that.
"Okay sweetheart." He softens right before your eyes. Warm palm against your cheek, thumbing away at the tears on your skin before pressing them into your mouth, all but stunning you into silence. "I'll take care of ya if that's what ya really want. Don't mind havin' a pet."
Simon's sudden change of heart leaves you dizzy, and the thumb on your tongue doesn't help to stabilize you. You promise to be quiet as he finishes packing up the rest of camp, storing away all his items on his horse who lazily watches you while chomping away at the sparse greenery at its feet. When he's finished, he stands in front of you with the rim of his hat sitting low on his face and his thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle.
"Stay right 'ere, sweet fawn. Gonna go get your things from your daddy, yeah?"
It takes all of twenty minutes to convince yourself that Simon's abandoned you. The only thing that can convince you otherwise is that his horse is still here. Just as obnoxiously tall as he is with the same dull, dark eyes staring at you as if he doesn't know what to do with you. Either that or he's gone off to buy a horse from someone else to abandon you without hearing your pathetic shrill cries. He's certainly got enough money for it.
Yet, about an hour later, you hear him huffing and puffing as he settles back down into the ravine. Clenched in one of his hands lies your old carpet bag, something you haven't used since you stopped visiting your friends for sleepovers when you were a child. Even from a distance you can tell it's full to the brim, old fabric bulging beneath the weight of your items as they clank around.
He doesn't bother to greet you upon his return. Too busy tying your carpet bag to his saddle back, thick fingers working along frayed rope as he gives his horse yet one more thing to lug around. Rocks and sand crunch beneath your shoes as you approach him. Even at a distance you can smell the sweat on him. Thick perspiration and musk seeping from his skin, getting his pallid flesh to glow in the sunlight as morning draws dangerously close to noon.
Fingers lacing together, you rock back onto your heels just as Simon turns to face you. "Is everything alright?"
Nodding, Simon digs his thumbs behind his belt buckle once more. "Yeah."
"Good." It's impossible not to notice the stench of blood that follows him. Fresh ichor, iron thick on his skin. When you look at his hands, you see the splitting of epidermis—knuckles busted open like overripe peaches. "Did my daddy say anything?"
"Yeah. Said he was sorry."
You blink. "Sorry?"
Huffing, Simon begins to stalk forward, boots heavy on the ground, spurs ringing with each step, until your cheek is cupped in his hand. It feels wet. Freshly cooled in a nearby stream.
"Said he was sorry 'bout everythin' he ever said 'bout you, 'n that it won't happen again," he explains. The cogs in your mind begin to twist, cleaning the rust off of the gears until every web and speckle of dust is gone. Before you can stop it, you're smiling as you admire this strange man before you. Broad shoulders, crooked face, and fresh blood on the collar of his shirt. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's get outta 'ere."
You situate yourself on the back of his horse as best as you can—legs swung over to the side, arms wrapped around his torso as he kicks the beast into action. It's far from comfortable. Each bump reminds you of the way Simon's cock took you the night before, rabid like a beast and chuckling like a hyena in the night.
Still, as the horse begins to climb out of the ravine, you can't help but smile against Simon's back when you realize you'll never have to be at the butt of your father's scathing abuse ever again.
A series that follows you-the assistant who’s spent years surviving Max Verstappen’s impossible demands-and what happens when you quit, forcing the two of you to navigate new applicants and your feelings towards one another.
ongoing!!
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