I love your work! Can I request a Spencer Dutton fic? Something where he gets protective of reader and has to defend her? It ends in fluff!
Opinions up their Arse
Tags [ @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @pear-1206 @elenavampire21 @hcwthewestwaswcn @child-of-of-the-sunshine @frost-queen @summerrivera777777
The dust of this wild, untamed land clung to everything – my boots, my trousers, even the very air I breathed. It was a stark contrast to the verdant, rolling hills of my homeland, a contrast I often felt in my soul, a constant low hum of being an outsider. But then, I’d look at Spencer, riding beside me, his silhouette sharp against the vast Montana sky, and the feeling would recede, replaced by a quiet, fierce belonging.
We’d ridden into Livingston that morning, a place bustling with the urgent energy of a town poised between untamed wilderness and burgeoning civilization. Spencer needed supplies; I simply craved a cup of real tea and perhaps a moment of calm away from the endless creak of saddle leather.
"Stay close," he’d rumbled, his voice a low vibration that always settled something anxious within me, "This is no London tea party, Y/N."
I'd snorted, a laugh escaping. "As if I need reminding, Spencer. I believe my current attire of hardened leather and a rather impressive collection of dust mites speaks volumes."
He’d offered a rare, slight upturn of his lips, a flash of warmth in his often-grave eyes. That was enough for me.
We tied the horses outside a general store, its wooden façade weathered to a pale grey. Inside, the scent of canvas, cured meat, and something vaguely medicinal hung in the air. Spencer moved with that familiar, predatory grace, his gaze sweeping the room, assessing, categorizing, always alert. I, on the other hand, made a beeline for the small counter where a tired-looking woman was weighing out flour.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I began, my voice clear despite the din, "Do you happen to have any good tea? Proper black tea, not these… herbal infusions they seem to favour here."
The woman, whose spectacles were perched precariously on her nose, looked up. Her eyes, initially wary, softened slightly. "Tea, you say? Got some Lipton’s here. Best I can do."
"Lipton’s," I repeated, a small sigh escaping me. It wasn't exactly Fortnum & Mason, but it was better than dried sage leaves. "I suppose that will have to do."
A chuckle, loud and grating, cut through the quiet hum of the store. I turned, my stomach tightening. Three men stood by a barrel of salted fish, their clothes grimy, their faces hardened by sun and likely whiskey. They looked like prospectors, or perhaps just drifters looking for trouble.
"Well, now," one of them drawled, a man with a scraggly beard and missing teeth, "listen to that, boys. Sounds like a songbird got lost on her way to a fancy ball."
His companions snickered. I felt my cheeks flush, but I kept my gaze steady. "There's no need to be offensive, gentlemen. I merely asked about tea."
"Gentlemen?" another scoffed, stepping closer, his breath smelling faintly of cheap liquor. He was younger, but with a mean glint in his eyes. "Hear that, fellas? She thinks we're gentlemen! Ain't that a laugh?" He mimicked my accent, a crude, exaggerated 'gen-tle-men', twisting his lips in a sneer.
My grip tightened on the small pouch of coins in my hand. I hated this. I’d grown accustomed to the curious stares, even the occasional good-natured jest. But this was different. This was laced with malice.
"My accent is simply a mark of where I'm from," I stated, trying to keep my voice even, though a tremor ran through it. "It's hardly a crime."
"Crime?" the first man cackled. "Nah, just sounds like you swallowed too many marbles, little lady. What’re you even doin' out here, eh? Run outta princes to charm back in… where'd you say you were from? Pixie-land?"
My eyes flickered towards Spencer. He was still by the counter, ostensibly looking at some canned goods, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders had broadened, his head tilted almost imperceptibly. He was listening.
"I am from England," I said, my voice gaining a bit of steel. "And I am quite capable of handling myself."
This only seemed to fuel their amusement. The youngest one took another step, invading my personal space. "Oh, a feisty one, ain't she? Don't sound so feisty when you talk like that, though. 'Ello, guv'nah! Fancy a spot o' tea, eh?" He put on a ridiculous, high-pitched voice that made my blood boil.
The old woman behind the counter looked nervous, her eyes darting between me and the men. Spencer hadn't moved yet, and a part of me, the part that hated being seen as weak or needing rescue, bristled. But another part, a more vulnerable part, was starting to feel a cold knot of fear. There were three of them, and they were getting bolder.
"That's enough," Spencer's voice cut through the air, low and resonant, like a stone rumbling down a mountain. It wasn't loud, but it silenced the store more effectively than a shout.
The three men stopped their jeering, their heads snapping towards him. Spencer had turned fully now. He wasn't overtly threatening, no hand on a weapon, but his stillness was more menacing than any overt gesture. His eyes, usually a deep, thoughtful grey, were like chipped flint, cold and sharp.
"She asked for tea," Spencer continued, taking a slow, deliberate step towards me, closing the distance. "She's not asking for your opinion on her voice."
The scraggly-bearded man, who seemed to be the leader, scoffed, trying to regain his bravado. "Well, lookie here. Her big, burly friend come to save her. What's it to ya, mister? Can't she take a joke?"
Spencer stopped a foot or so from the youngest man, who had been closest to me. He was taller than any of them, and his sheer physical presence seemed to shrink the space around them. His shadow fell over the younger man.
"Some jokes aren't funny," Spencer said, his voice dropping another octave, a dangerous edge now present. "Some jokes are just rude. And when someone's being rude to a lady, I tend to take exception."
The youngest man, who had been so bold moments ago, suddenly looked less confident. He shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to his companions, then back to Spencer's unblinking stare.
"Easy there, friend," the leader said, a forced lightness in his tone. "Didn't mean no harm, just a bit of fun."
"Didn't you?" Spencer asked, his gaze unwavering. "Because it sounded a lot like you were trying to make her feel small. And that's not something I tolerate." He didn't raise his voice, didn't make a sudden move. He simply stood there, radiating a controlled intensity that was far more effective than any bluster. It was the quiet, dangerous calm of a predator, sensing prey.
The leader swallowed hard, his eyes finally dropping from Spencer's. He knew. He understood what Spencer was. "Alright, alright," he muttered, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "No offense meant. We'll be on our way." He nudged his companions.
"I suggest you do," Spencer agreed, his voice still low, but with a warning rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up. "And next time you feel the urge to mock someone for how they speak, remember what it feels like to have someone stand up for them."
The three men, now thoroughly deflated, mumbled apologies, avoiding eye contact with both of us, and shuffled quickly out of the store, the bell above the door jingling their hasty exit.
A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the store. The old woman behind the counter gave Spencer a grateful, if still slightly nervous, look.
Spencer finally turned to me, his flinty gaze softening imperceptibly as it met mine. "You alright, Y/N?" he asked, his voice back to its usual rumble, devoid of the earlier menace.
I felt a sudden, profound wave of emotion wash over me – relief, gratitude, and a fierce, almost painful surge of affection for this complicated, quiet man. My hands, I realized, were trembling slightly.
"Yes," I managed, my voice a little breathless. "Yes, Spencer, I'm alright. Thank you."
He reached out, his large hand gently covering my own, still clutching the coin purse. His touch was warm, solid, and utterly reassuring. "Nobody gets to make you out to be less just because you speak differently," he said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "Your voice is one of the things I like most about you."
My heart did a strange flip. My eyes, which had been stinging with unshed tears of frustration and fear, now welled up with a different kind of moisture. Before I could process it, he leaned in, his gaze serious.
"They're just bullies," he murmured, his voice only for my ears. "Small men, trying to feel bigger. Don't let them make you feel small, Y/N. Ever."
I swallowed, nodding, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He kept hold of my hand as he turned back to the counter. "We'll take that Lipton's, ma'am," he said to the now less-nervous store owner, his voice firm but polite. "And a tin of those biscuits you have by the flour."
As she bustled to gather our items, Spencer guided me gently towards the door, his arm brushing mine. Once outside in the fresh air, the harsh sunlight felt less oppressive, and the dust didn't seem quite so heavy.
He helped me onto my horse, his hands lingering on my waist a moment longer than necessary. I looked down at him, my heart full.
"Thank you, Spencer," I said again, my voice softer this time, a little shaky. "Truly. I… I appreciate it more than you know."
He reached up, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had finally escaped. "No need for thanks, Y/N," he said, his eyes holding mine. "You're with me now. And no one, not a single soul, gets to treat you with disrespect. Not while I’m around."
He swung into his own saddle, and we rode out of town, leaving the lingering tension behind. The sun was warmer, the vast landscape more welcoming. I glanced at him, riding silently beside me.
"You know," I said, a faint smile playing on my lips, "my accent also comes with a rather impressive vocabulary. I could have told them precisely where they could shove their opinions."
Spencer chuckled, a rare, deep sound that made a pleasant shiver run down my spine. "I have no doubt you could have, Y/N," he said, and I saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. "But sometimes, a man needs to step in anyway. Just to remind them what's what."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, I rather like the way you say 'shove'. Much more elegant than any American could manage."
I laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that felt light and free. The British accent, which moments ago had been a source of vulnerability, suddenly felt like a secret code, a shared intimacy between us. With Spencer, it was never a weapon against me, but just… me. And that, I realised, was more precious than any amount of fine tea in the world. I nudged my horse closer, and Spencer, as always, met me halfway.
