#note the feathering trees...the green eyes...everything

[sunderedstar]

yes, it's been 2 years. but tell me the name of god, you fungal piece of shit now has fresh, beautiful cover art by the fantastic @artofalassa, so you all get to cry about it with me 😭 I asked for it to spin off of another Annihilation movie poster, and got so much more.

(thank you again so much!)

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What would it be like to die here? What do you want to be when you rot? I want flowers seeping out of my jaw, snaking around my bones. I want something to grow out of me.

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original poster by Erik Whalen

[thekinslayed]

Play Your Hand

summary | When Aemond the Kinslayer descends upon Harrenhal, a dazzling prize awaited him— the widow of Harwin Strong.

pairing | aemond targaryen x noblewoman!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, riiide cowgirl, slight age gap (reader is in her early 30s, aemond is 20), titty sucking, praise kink, mommy kink, manipulation, reader plays the game, girls looking out for girls <3

wordcount | 5.8k

note | the top voted (by 0.6% lol) from the little poll yesterday :) still not feeling super satisfied w my writing rn, but hopefully this will get the brain juices flowing again!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

(divider graphic is from this website)

“You must go! Into the forests, he will not find you there. Run and never look back!”

Aemond was dreaming, or at least it felt like he was. He knew not when he had found sleep, but it had taken many minutes of twisting and turning before his mind descended into slumber. 

He was still in Harrenhal, he could still hear the rain. No, he was in the king’s chambers now. It was hazy, specks of dust flying about. Behind the carved wood that separated the bedchamber, he could hear Aegon’s laughter echoing through the apartments. It was mocking him, pinching at some unknown part of Aemond that filled him with rage.

“Did you fuck her like a hound?” he heard the elder say. Gritting his teeth, Aemond unsheathed his sword, bursting through the door. What greeted him, however, was not Aegon, but what remained of him. Lying on the vast feather mattress was a blackened corpse, burnt almost to the point of crumbling into ashes.

Aemond faltered, stumbling back in shock. A cold shiver licked down his spine, making him shiver. It was then he heard a whisper. “This was of your doing.” Helaena. His head whipped around in search of his sister, but she was nowhere to be found. He searched frantically around the chambers, calling out her name. “We are all dead because of you,” she whispered again. Aemond returned to the bedchamber, where he now found Jaehaerys. He looked so peaceful, cheeks plump with the innocence of youth, save for the black thread that kept his severed head to his body. 

No… not him.

His breath was starting to come out short, chest heaving. It was then he found her, standing on the windowsill. A black veil covered her pale face, one for mourning. Aemond held out a hand to reach for her, to feel her warmth in his cold palm. “Hel…” he had whispered, but it was too late. She had fallen backward, to her death, to the unknown. 

Aemond was in a forest now. Standing barefoot, clad in the nightwear he had thrown on. There seemed to be no soul except for him, and the owl that stared at him from a tree. In a blink, a flurry of two shadows passed him. A woman and a child were running away. From what? He did not know. The prince started to follow them, breaking out into a sprint. The soil was soft underneath his feet, and the leaves were damp from the rain.

“Mama!” he heard the child scream. A boy. He looked to be no older than ten years of age, his height similar to his when he had claimed Vhagar.

“Come, my sweet boy,” the woman said, her voice floating to Aemond’s ears like a sweet melody. It was cut by the loud shriek that pierced through the air, unmistakenly that of a dragon. The prince paused in his steps, letting the figures disappear into the woods. A great shadow enveloped him, and he looked up to the sky to see a massive green creature pass. Vhagar. He watched as she rained fire onto Harrenhal, his senses slowly being filled with smoke.

With a gasp, Aemond jumped into consciousness.

It was still dark, it seemed, and he was not in his nightwear at all. In fact, he was still in his riding leathers. Opposite him, Cole looked at him in confusion.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” he asked. 

“We have not killed all of the Strongs,” Aemond replied. The Hand looked at him like he had grown back his second eye, confused by such sudden information. “A woman and her child remain hidden in the woods. I want them brought to me, alive.”

You had been running for hours. Dawn was only starting to break through the horizons, the sun making itself known with streaks of orange painting the sky. You had nothing to keep you alive, save for the clothes on your back and the dagger Alys had slipped into your hand before pushing you out. You did not know where these forests lead to, or if you were getting anywhere at all. All you knew was staying in that cursed castle would have put you and your son to the sword.

“Mama,” he mumbled, snuggling in closer to your warmth. You had sought a temporary refuge in a small rock structure that could almost resemble a cave. Your sweet boy had been frightened, had kept his hand tight in your grip as you took him farther and farther.

“We must make haste, my darling,” you urged him. Both of you were weary, unfit to fight off what evil lurked in the woods. There was a good distance between you and Harrenhal now, filling you with hope that you were almost in the clear. 

It was quiet at this hour, save for the early squawks of crows above you. The ominous darkness of the castle was only beginning to fade, making room for light and warmth. With a kiss on your boy’s cheek, you took his hand and walked out into the sun. The sun’s kiss would have comforted you, if it weren’t for the cold, sharp blade on your neck that greeted you upon your exit.

What happened next was nothing but a panicked blur. You heard your son yell for you, you remembered fighting against hard armor before a sting bloomed on the side of your head. It rendered you incapable of brandishing the dagger in your pockets. 

Fear and dread grew in your chest as the ominous sight of Harrenhal greeted you once more. You prayed to the gods, or whoever it was in the skies that gave you such fate, to grant you a death that would hopefully be kind. You prayed that your boy would not hurt for too long, that he shall not suffer in their hands. A hopeless effort, it would seem.

Once you had passed through the gates, things moved swiftly. Your arms remained tied behind your back, and the men had pushed you briskly through the dilapidated halls. “The prince regent awaits, lady,” they had grumbled, before snickering. You squeezed your eyes shut, tuning out their lewd, salacious remarks on what to do with you once the dragon prince learned that he would have no use for you. The weight of the dagger in your pocket was the only thing that grounded you, had reminded you of what can still be done.

The castle’s interior was damp, and it was hot in certain corners while cold in the shadows. Rain dripped through the cracked ceilings, the icy cold droplets a sharp shock to your senses. It reminded you of where you were, of where you were led to. 

In the great hall, two figures awaited you. One was clad in shiny armor, olive-skinned, and shorn dark locks. Criston Cole.

You remembered him from your time in court. His handsome, Dornish features made quite an impression on your fellow noble ladies then. He looked much older now, with twinkling specks of gray littered in his beard. Beside him, a silver-haired Targaryen stood tall, menacing. With his back turned, he reminded you of a younger Daemon, though even the rogue prince did not emanate such darkness, one that greatly suited the shadows of this castle. 

He looked at you down the tip of his nose when you were pushed to your knees, like shit underneath his boots. “You are no Strong,” he said, before turning to your boy. His smaller frame trembled beside you, and you wished to be broken free of this rope so you may hold him instead. Prince Aemond’s sword was unsheathed with swiftness, raised high above his head. Your eyes widened, your body thrashing against the guard’s grip.

“No, no! I beg of you, my prince!” you wailed. “Spare my son, I beg. He is only a boy! Take me instead, please!”

Hearing your plea, the prince paused. He lowered his sword, moving to stand in front of you once more. Frantic eyes looked at him, then at the Hand.

A glimmer of hope sparked in your chest as his brown orbs flickered with recognition. The prince may not recognize you, but Cole did. His gloved hand held onto Aemond’s bicep, leaning to speak into his ear.

“My prince,” he whispered. “That is Harwin Strong’s ladywife.”

Aemond allowed himself to get a good look at you. He remembered you now, though very vaguely. You were a lady of a smaller house in the Riverlands, ordered to wed Breakbones some time after Lucerys was born. Your marriage was a sham, it was evident from the start. He was there for your wedding in the Sept, stood beside his mother as you took your vows before the Seven. You were a girl of six and ten then, barely a woman, tear-brimmed eyes wide like a doe. When Ser Harwin died in the fire, it was said you had perished along with him. Some told you had set the fire yourself, as a means of revenge after your husband’s affair tainted your good name. 

“Your husband has caused us many problems. I would even dare say he’s played a hand in this war, even from beyond the grave,” he said bitterly, watching as your lips quivered into a frown. “Tell me, why should I spare you?”

“We are naught but prisoners of this castle. My son has been robbed of his inheritance, his life constantly threatened by his own kin. We hold no loyalty to house Strong, especially not to Larys the Clubfoot.” At your words, a dark chuckle had rumbled from the prince regent’s chest. Fuck. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so bold. You’ve forgotten that Larys sat on the king’s council, a steadfast ally of the crown. You desperately tried to gauge his reaction, his thoughts, but the prince was a hardened wall. “Spare our lives, my prince, and we will be indebted to you. We will serve you most humbly, and we will do anything you ask for.”

An interesting prospect.

Your son looked too much like his nephews, like Harwin. He would have sent his head rolling to the floor with his sword, but you had begged so sweetly for him on your knees. Aemond saw the change in your eyes, from a quivering fear to something ignited by fire. It intrigued him. It was no question that you were quite easy to the eye, with your womanly form and pleasing face. Aemond would find some good use of you. Perhaps it was high time for him to claim his spoils of war.

Alys was laden with worry. She thought the younger Targaryen would be easier to handle than his rogue uncle, but she was mistaken. From the moment he descended on his war dragon, the Rivers woman knew this man would not be so kind. She had sent you fleeing in haste before you and your boy were put to the sword. Alys had the means to handle him, no man had ever been strong enough to fight against her visions. However, her fears for your wellbeing had bled through what should have been a dream to make the young Targaryen quiver in his sheets. This was her fault. He was not meant to see you in the forests. The moment she had heard you were spared, she rushed to see you, checking for any wounds. She saw none. 

In the days that followed, the prince regent had requested you to attend to him personally. There was a lack of servants in Harrenhal now, all fallen to Aemond’s sword upon his arrival. Alys remained the healer, formulating poultices and medications for the injured bannerman in the encampment outside the gates, while your son was made the regent’s squire, tasked with reading letters sent by raven and pouring his wine. 

When the night grew dark, you were called to the prince’s chambers. You warmed his bed, let him manhandle you into any position he wanted. The prince was young, with loins filled with fire that could not be quenched by his fist alone. You worked hard to please him, using more than just your cunny to drive him to his release. You did a whore’s work. 

It was a heavy insult to your noble standing, but you had no other choice. You had weighed your options as you kneeled before him, had chosen your poison. To have your life spared would not mean you will be free, but only given away to be played in another man’s hands. Death was starting to sound better, a blissful end to years of struggle. You almost reached for it, selfishly so.

Oh, but your boy.  He had his whole life ahead of him, a life you dared not rob for the sake of your own. 

The first night had you leaving his chambers feeling the filthiest you had ever been, cursing yourself for sullying your own body. The second night was better, and then in the days that followed, it was routine to find yourself heading up the steps that lead to the prince’s chambers. Alys always had moon tea ready for you, along with minty, soothing balms to soothe the aches in your muscles. 

Tonight was no different. The sun had set barely an hour ago, and you were relieved from your duties while the prince supped with the Hand. You were watching Alys make her brew after having come from the prince’s chambers, massaging the sore spot in your thighs. The prince’s blood was running rather hot as of late, taking you as early as mid-afternoon at times and then again later at night.

“You know I could slip something in his wine to knock him out, right?” Alys mentioned, busied with grinding mint leaves in her mortar. 

“That would only anger him come morning, I fear,” you replied, chewing on the apple she had plucked for you. Your friend scoffed, shaking her head at you.

“Oh, he is but a boy. These Targaryens think themselves high and mighty with their dragons, but within these walls, they quiver and wet their pants in fear. You’ve seen how Daemon acted while he was here,” she said, smirking in amusement. You giggled at her words, slapping a hand over your mouth at the memory. The witchy woman had her fun with the rogue prince, sending him jarring visions of his niece-wife to spook him. It was rather laughable watching the high and mighty prince of Flea Bottom walk around these halls, swinging his sword at shadows in paranoia. 

You had advised Alys not to do the same with Aemond, however. The younger prince was more brash and quicker to anger. To have his sense of control over his consciousness played about would only have you suffering under his wrath.

“He is quite different from Daemon,” you said, sighing. Alys dribbled some honey into your moon tea, before stirring the small cauldron. It didn’t take long before the steaming cup was placed before you, its pearly white liquid almost glimmering from the fires lit about. “It isn’t so bad, you know.”

The Rivers woman’s brows raised at your words, looking at you with a warning look. “Don’t tell me you’ve become besotted with him now.”

“Gods, no! I am just saying it could be worse. He is still rather pliable,” you made known, sharing a look of understanding with your fellow woman. If there was one thing you both understood, it was that men greatly relished in the thought of being superior. Obedience from a woman made them feel more important, more powerful… needed. You made a great effort to make Aemond feel wanted and appreciated— smiling at him coquettishly as you brushed his hair, flattered him with flowery words that made his chest swell with an egotistic pride, and moaning ever so sweetly for him as he pounded into your cunt. It was evident that he relished in all of them, like a lovesick boy who yearned for every ounce of attention. At first, the whole ordeal felt entirely transactional, filled with mindless humping just for the sake of his pleasure. In time, he had shown his interest beyond something physical, seeking more than just the warmth of your embrace.

“Tell me about your marriage,” Aemond had asked you one night, curled into your bosom. The question took you by surprise, as did his sudden interest in your past. You pondered on what to say, hand mindlessly rubbing his muscled bicep.

“Quite brief, as you may know, and all too confusing. I was placed in the middle of chaos, thrown into the deep end without any help to navigate it,” you admitted. He hummed, though said naught else, patiently waiting for you to continue. “Harwin was never harsh, or cruel, he was simply… there. He was nice when he was around, courteous, A man of good breeding.”

A scoff from the dragonrider on your chest made you chuckle, urging you to nuzzle your nose into his hair. “A man of good breeding does not forge an affair with married women, birthing obvious bastards, nor does he throw away his beautiful wife to continue said affair.” The starlit strands wisped as you huffed a low laugh. Aemond had rolled to his back, pulling you to lay on his chest. The pale flesh was warm under your cheek, blood still running hot from the aftermath of your tryst. 

“It took me some time, but I knew I would never win his affections. I have your sister to thank for that,” you admitted, a hint of bitterness coloring your tone. You played with the ends of his soft strands, mindlessly rubbing between your fingers. “He’s been dead longer than he was my husband, but I’ve found it does not bother me much. He scarcely felt mine.”

“You will never be treated that way again,” he vowed, sealing his promise with a kiss on your wrist. His good eye held nothing but honesty, one that had almost struck your chest with guilt. He would have to forgive you for exploiting what was left of the softness in his barely beating heart.

This vulnerability showed its face to you at times. Some nights, he would do naught but lay in your lap, spilling fragments of the years spent being an outcast in his own family. Undeniably, it would tug at your heartstrings. You would take him into your arms, let him suckle on your teats, as though he were a teething babe, while his hips rutted against your thigh. It should appall you, but you knew this could work to your advantage.

Alys’s lips mirrored your smirk, nodding at your unspoken plan. “You’ve always been a smart one,” she grinned. 

“Well, you’ve taught me much.” It was the truth. When you first came to Harrenhal, you were a quivering little lamb, half round with child. Harwin didn’t seem to care much for you, letting you wander on your own. You had blindly made your way into Alys’ kitchen, where she had offered you tea. It was then she had taken you under her wing, had escaped with you before Larys’ men even lit the torch that would kill your husband. You owed her much, you owed her yours and your son’s lives. 

Light conversation and laughter flowed between the two of you, but it was interrupted by a rushing knight, who barged into the kitchens. “The prince summons you, my lady,” he had said, with frantic eyes that displayed the need for urgency. You left Alys in haste, forgetting the now cold moon tea that sat untouched.

You rushed through the halls, and up the stairs to find your son, trembling, standing beside Cole outside Aemond’s chambers. Worry began to fill you as you approached him, turning his head to look for any signs of harm. “Are you hurt, my boy?” you asked, concerned. He shook his head, though his wide eyes displayed the fear that was shaking his poor heart. You turned to Criston, who had cleared his throat to call your attention.

“The prince regent has received a letter delivering displeasing news. He is not in good spirits this evening, my lady. I trust upon you to calm his nerves so we may proceed with him… level-headed,” the Hand said, leaning to whisper into your ear without your son hearing. You nodded in understanding, before turning to your son once more. You cupped his face to plant a kiss on his cheek, caressing the plump flesh affectionately. 

“Stay with Alys, alright? Do not wander anywhere else,” you ordered, leaving him a stern, motherly look. 

As you slipped past the door to the regent’s chambers, you made sure to shrug your collar a little lower, straightening your posture to push your breasts forward. You were still a little sore between the thighs, but you would have to manage. It was damp with his spend from earlier in the day as well. He would enjoy that.  

Your captor was hunched over the desk when you entered, back turned to you. A piece of parchment was crumpled in his fist, no doubt bringing the news that brought on his ire.

“My prince,” you said quietly, letting your presence be known. “What has happened?” His shoulder sagged ever so slightly, before lifting the hand that held the letter in its grasp. He motioned for you to take it.

You obeyed, brushing your soft fingers over his. What you read made your stomach drop. It was a letter from his mother written in haste, evident from the sprawling handwriting that you assumed was unlikely for the Dowager Queen to have.

The Blacks have taken King’s Landing. Rhaenyra and Daemon have Alicent and Helaena in chains. 

A sudden cold licked at your spine, sending down a shiver. It was undoubtedly worse than you thought. You moved to squeeze his visibly tense shoulder, but you hesitated. The rage emanating from his body was enough to burn you, and had you keeping a careful distance between the two of you.

“I have been a fool,” Aemond spoke up, turning to face you. His jaw was clenched tight, any more tighter and his teeth would definitely crack. He let out a deep breath, tugging off his eyepatch harshly. The leather strip soon followed, and the prince ran a hand through his strands of starlight. “I have wasted too much of my time here. Harrenhal may have been a valuable prize but it has cost me too much.” 

“You will take it back,” you reassured him, tone stern and sure. “And when you do, the sight of you and Vhagar will be the last thing they see before they meet their demise.” You had taken a bold step closer, cupping his chin in your hand to make him look at you. “I am sure of it.”

A mistake that had been, for Aemond’s scowl only deepened. He pulled himself from your grip, moving away to stare out the window. The shadows accentuated the sharp angles of his face, and under the moonlight, he looked like a god. “I have been distracted, and you have played your part in it,” he pointed out, turning to throw you a cold, menacing look. It made your knees tremble where you stood, fear blooming in your chest. “Tell me, my lady, what schemes did my uncle divulge during his time here?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, then of contempt. “I hold no loyalty to Rhaenyra nor Daemon if that is what you are insinuating, my prince. Not after she has tainted my good name,” you defended. Aemond raised his brow at your words, lips slowly raising into a one-sided smirk.

“You do not recognize her as queen, then?” he asked. This was a test, you realized.

“Does my opinion really matter?”

“It does, especially when yours and your son’s lives dangle on the edge of my sword.” His words made you sigh, exasperated. Playing the long game was tiresome. You were weary of having your life held in some man’s grip to do it with it as he pleased. Tired of having your freedom dangled in front of you like food to a dog.

You poured yourself a cup of wine, taking a big swig to fill you with courage. “You will find, my prince, that up until war had broken out many of us cared little for your family’s infighting. We had our own lives to deal with, mouths to feed, while you played your little game of succession,” you pointed out. He had turned to you at your words, almost impressed by your boldness to utter such words. “I am a woman of no great House, whose son’s life is constantly threatened by the utter brutality of his own uncle. Forgive me, if I haven’t given such matters much thought.” 

The prince had made your way to where you stood now, taking the half-filled cup of wine from your grasp before taking a seat on the chaise. He pondered on your words, taking a small sip of your wine. “Your son is to inherit Harrenhal, yet Larys holds it in his power now,” he pointed out, to which you nodded.

“He does. Until my son comes of age,” you confirmed. Aemond hummed, the corners of his lips quirking upwards before returning to neutrality. 

“And you think he will relinquish his power when the time comes?” he asked, earning a scoff from you. With a shake of your head, you plopped down beside him, letting out a heavy sigh.

“No.” You took the cup of wine when he offered it, chugging down the rest of its contents. With your last gulp, a droplet had found its escape through the corner of your lips, but your prince was quick to wipe it away with his thumb. “But there is no telling of what Larys would do once we start to force back.”

“And that is why you have stayed,” he concluded. You nodded once more, letting out another heavy, sad sigh. Perhaps you were overdoing it with the acting, but it seemed to be working since he was looking at you contemplatively. “Keeping your son here may not raise questions on Larys’ role as the current lord of the castle, but what is your plan afterward? When the boy comes of age, and your people call for him to become their lord?”

You shrugged. “I haven’t planned that far yet, we’ve been quite preoccupied with just getting through this war.”

It was an honest answer. In truth, you were unsure whether you and your son would even be alive at this moment if things had gone differently. You had to play your cards right, and you needed to act at the right time. You shifted your body to face his, your hand cupping his jaw to make Aemond look at you. He watched as you studied his features, let you rub your thumb on the edge of his scar. “It’s been rather tough on you as well, has it?” you whispered. 

It was then his shoulders visibly relaxed, and you knew you had him right in your grasp. You leaned forward to nudge your nose against his.

Aemond’s thin lips had chased yours, but you moved to kiss where your thumb had been. You kissed his scar, then another one placed lower. Pecks of your love were peppered around his face, making him sigh in delight. The prince pulled you into his lap, where your lips descended downwards to his neck. His throat bobbed, and you had placed another kiss there. “Will you let me take care of you tonight?” you asked, ghosting your lips over his. He had chased you again, but you moved away with a tut. Your eyes portrayed a stern look, silently ordering him to use his words. 

“Yes… please,” he whispered, to which you responded with a smile of satisfaction. Nimble fingertips made quick work to untie his breeches, pulling out his slowly hardening cock. You spat into your palm, before stroking his length with the slick. 

His larger hands slithered to your waist, before finding your hem to bunch your skirts to your hips. The night air was cool on your moist cunny, almost making you shiver. Two fingers spread your glistening folds, showing him the seed that remained in your cunt. “I didn’t clean myself, as you asked, felt utterly filthy walking about with your seed dripping from me,” you said seductively, relishing in the way his good eye visibly darkened. You pressed his length to your folds, rubbing him with the mixture of your slick and his dragonseed. Expert hips gyrated against his, teasing his cockhead with every snag at your entrance. 

Aemond watched the sight of his cock sliding against your cunt like a man bewitched. He could drool at the delectable sight of your center, flushed pink like a brushing rose hidden in the curls of your mound. His hips subtly canted to meet yours, while your hand kept his cockhead flush against your pearl. The friction made you both gasp, sending a twin spark to bloom in your chests. The silver-haired prince then took hold of his base, aligning it with your slit. 

You speared yourself on his cock with a pleasured sigh, throwing your head back for extra measure. With a firm grip on your waist, Aemond made you set a quick pace. You obeyed, using the backrest of the chaise to steady yourself while you bounced on his cock. It reached deep within your walls, poking at a spot that made you genuinely moan out in delight. “Feels wonderful, my dragon… so big,” you breathed, making him groan against your neck. A harsh tug on your collar made your breasts spill out, baring the delectable mounds of flesh for him to devour.

Aemond wasted no time to take one of your teats into his mouth, rolling your nipple around with his tongue while his hand massaged the other. His silver hair was soft underneath your touch as you cradled his head, keeping him close to your bosom. “Good boy,” you praised, earning something akin to a whine from the kinslayer.

Gods, this felt all too good. The last man you had fucked was Harwin, and it was rather forced than pleasurable as it was with Aemond. It had been far too long since you have sought your pleasure. With a cock, that is.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t find your enjoyment in all of this, because despite the volume of the sighs and moans that you may fake at times, Aemond had made you see stars upon your release every single time, without fail.

“Do I make you feel good?” he asked, mumbling into your chest. You nodded frantically in earnest, cupping his jaw to catch his lips in a deep kiss.

“S-so good, Aemond. Only you have ever made me feel this way.”

He had preened at your words, his chest swelling with pride. Aemond planted his feet firmly into the ground, lifting his hips to meet your thrusts.

He liked it when you finished first, particularly enjoying watching you fall apart on his cock. With a fingertip moistened with spit, you rubbed your pearl to spur you further to your release. Your moans turned into high-pitched whines the closer you were to your precipice, tethering dangerously close to the edge. Aemond’s thumb soon replaced yours, rubbing faster, tighter circles that had you spilling on his cock in barely any time. You came with a moan of his name, the sweet song of your release echoing into the night. 

Your walls massaged his length still enveloped deep into your walls, and you had let him grip your waist tight to bounce you up and down as though you were nothing but a rag doll. You pressed your lips to his ear, grazing your teeth against your earlobe. “Would you like a son, my dragon? I could give you one,” you whispered, spurning him further. It seemed to work, as he started to pant while barreling towards his end. You wrapped your arm around his shoulder to embrace him, pressing your breasts flush into the soft cotton of his tunic. Your perked buds poked into the hard planes of his chest, rubbing with every movement. “I could give you as many babes as you like,” you pressed.

His cock jumped at the thought of it, babes of your own. Aegon was soon to die of his wounds, and there was no question that Aemond would be sitting on the Iron Throne by the end of this war. You would give him heirs, and he shall make you queen. You teased him with whispers of what you would look like round with child, breasts leaking with milk for him to suckle on. With a loud groan, Aemond spilled hot seed into your walls, filling you to the brim. 

You stayed connected for a moment, both equally breathless from your coupling. Aemond had shifted you both to lie horizontally on the settee, with you draped over him like a blanket. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, to which he reciprocated with one on your hair. “Feeling better?” you spoke, drawing circles on his chest with your fingertip. It vibrated when he hummed, buzzing into your ear.

“Quite, though there is still much to be done for me before King’s Landing is taken back,” he responded, hand mindlessly caressing your back. “And when I do, I want you there with me.”

You lifted yourself to look at him, shock evident in your features. “W-what about my son?” you asked, hope blooming in your chest. His lips widened into a smirk, calloused fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Fret not, there is enough room on Vhagar for the three of us,” he reassured, chuckling as you scoffed in disbelief. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever imagine yourself on the back of a dragon, let alone the largest one in the known world. 

“But Larys—”

“Fuck Larys. I will deal with that rat.” The sparkle in your eyes and the hammering in your chest made known what you have prayed for in all of your years, and with his good eye, you found the promise for the morrow. “Come with me, and you will have a place in court. As my wife.”

Perhaps your prayers were indeed beginning to be heard. With a passionate kiss on his lips, you voiced your decision, had sealed your fate. It stirred his softened cock that remained in your walls, but you cared little. You would give yourself over and over to him if it meant you would no longer be shackled in this cursed place. Your chest felt lighter than it had been for a whole decade, filled with a renewed purpose. Your labors have bore fruit, and it will be undeniably sweet. Indeed, it was better to befriend the enemy than face him, for the reward would be much more gracious than it would be painful. 

“Sleep beside me tonight, and no more fucking moon tea.”

[christinerose380]

Can j make a request of MHA plssss I was wondering if you could do a fantasy au of Kiribaku x reader and are in an established relationship and they wanted to introduce their relationship to their parents and like how would the scenario play because like Katsuki’s would be the Barbarian Prince and then Eijiro family would be dragons like him aswell and the reader is just a normal girl who loves to read books and go on adventures

P.s.i loved your Izuku Midoriya Imagine it was sooo beautiful 🤩 honestly and I love your writing ✍️

Kiribaku x Reader: Roughian’s and Thieves.

Authors Note: Jakiiiii! Flattery will get you everywhere i’m so glad you liked my Izuku Imagine. Omg two posts in one day who am I? ALSO YES!!! When this slid into my asks I was gripping the table in anticipation. My partner and child may have been concerned for my wellbeing but it’s fine. I genuinely love cutesy poly!kiribaku x reader because duh it’s fucking adorable! I hope I do you justice!

Warnings: comedic kidnapping (it’s not traumatic at all), poly!kiribaku x reader, Fem! Reader, cussing (I have the mouth and fingers of a sailor plus Katsuki Bakugo), fantasy au!, and I think that’s all let me know if I missed anything!

Artwork above is not mine I found it on Google.

———————————————————————————

The light of the sun shone brightly on all the blades of grass and wildflowers in the small meadow. The glistening shine of morning dew accentuating the color of purples, yellows, and greens scattered about. The brown page of the book in my hands fluttered lightly with the small breeze waltzing through the trees. The familiar feeling of being watched weighed on the back of my neck but wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, the sense of peace I felt let me smile to myself, comparing the inky picture of the meadow on the book to the one right before my eyes.

“Is it everything you wanted?” Hot air and fangs brushed against my neck as I looked up at Kirishima. His long red hair held small braids that cascaded down his muscular chest and abdomen. I felt a flash of lust looking over his body lightly glistened from sweat as his sharp teeth were exposed in a wide smile thinning out his plump lips. His red eyes shone in excitement looking at my book over my shoulder and then to the field letting out little chuffs of appreciation.

He stood towering over me, his thin hips adorned with furs that trailed into pelt pants with his feet bare.

“You’re going to catch your death walking around barefoot.” You tell him and he chuckles, shaking his head and squatting to sit beside you.

“Dragon heat love, no need to worry.” You hum in disapproval at his response watching the slit pupils run over your face. “Have I told you how beautiful you are?”

You roll your eyes with a large smile. “Not today.”

“Well you’re very beautiful.” He says with a large smile before crossing his legs and hoisting you into his lap with a sound of surprise leaving you.

“Thank you.” You tell him snuggling up against his now dry bare skin. A low purring sound comes from deep within his chest at the proximity and you’re just happy to soak up the warmth from him in the autumn weather.

“YA!” The loud shout caused the both of you to startle and look over.

Katsuki stands there, his equally thin waist decorated with fine furs and black pelt pants down to his equally bare feet; only his ankles are adorned with tribal beads and animal teeth. On his neck hangs necklaces of gold, beads, more teeth, and feathers all layered like a waterfall onto the skin of his chest. Light scars decorate the skin of his arms, chest, and torso with one cutting through his blonde eyebrow which was pulled down in anger. His blonde hair puffed and frizzed everywhere from the humidity and what is hopefully an unmoving animal in a rucksack over his shoulder.

“This look like fucking cuddle time?!” You and Kirishima look at each other sheepishly before looking back to your lover.

“Babe come on just look at them.” Kirishima gestures to you and you look away embarrassed to be brought into the situation.

“No, all of our parents are going to be here today, we need to get this prepped!” Katsuki’s stress was permeating through the air as you stood and brushed the morning dew and dirt off of your clothes.

“It’ll be okay Katsuki.” You tell him honestly and stand on your toes to place a small kiss on lips as both of your lovers tower over you.

Katsuki blushes deeply before grumbling incoherently while Kirishima laughs in the background. “Shift you overgrown lizard!” Katsuki shouts at Kirishima who only laughs harder allowing his muscle fiber to rip and scales begin to coat his whole body.

Once shifted Katsuki grabs you tightly around the waist and hoists the both of you onto Kiri’s back. “Let’s go!” He shouts and wraps one arm to cross over your front and the other to grab onto a protruded scale. It takes you back to when they had first taken you from your parents.

—————————

Villagers screamed all around the outside of your house as your parents were hurriedly emptying a closet to hide in. A loud roar shook the foundation of the earth and stomps made the walls of your hut shake.

“(Y/n)!” I heard my mother shout from the other room and I didn’t hesitate to follow her voice. “Here.” She says grabbing both of my shoulders and shoving me backwards into the closet.

“Moth-“

“Stay silent!” My father scolded harshly as he closed the doors locking me away in darkness.

A loud bang came from the front door and I jumped out of my skin. Another bang and then a crash could be heard, I couldn’t bring myself to disobey my father’s word despite my ever growing curiosity.

“You have a daughter.” It isn’t a question as the voice from the front room speaks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My father says to him.

“Don’t be stupid we’ve been watching this village for months.” He says again and steps are heard walking towards the back. The steps stop in front of the closet and the doors shoot open.

I involuntarily scream when my arm is grabbed and I’m being roughly dragged to follow after the blond man.

“Wait! Stop! What are the fuck are you doing?!” I shout and he looks back at me incredulously.

“Marrying you obviously? Have you not been proposed to before?” He asks you these questions as if they’re the most obvious things in the world.

“What?! No! We typically tend to get to know each other first!” I shout back at him and rip my arm away. He looks me up and down like he’s trying to size me up.

“Watch yourself.” He says lowly and I see red for a moment.

“Me?! ME?!” I shout and the blonde man stands straighter as I march up to him while he steps back until he’s back against the house's wall. “Normal people don’t break into houses like fucking psychos and claim marriage on other people! I need to watch myself?! Watch you!” I shout huffing as the anger finally disappears and I really get a chance to look into his blood red irises and all confidence is lost.

His smile takes up his whole face, the corners of his mouth crinkling in sinister delight and I make the mistake of stepping backward.

“Nuh-uh!” He says wrapping his hands around my waist and hoisting me over his shoulder with a swift smack to the ass. “You’re all ours now.”

“Ours?!” I hear my parents shout at the same time as me. He carries me outside like I weigh nothing, the beads of his necklace digging into my skin through my clothes.

“Hope you’re not afraid of heights!” He shouts before grunting and pulling himself up with one arm. I question what we’re climbing until he sits and I’m face to face with a red scaled dragon, it’s red eyes gleaming back at you.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Fear climbs up my throat faster than it ever has in my life as I begin to try and fight my way out of the blonde man’s arms. “Let me go!” I cry out.

“Nope you’re all ours! Let’s go lizard!” The blonde barbarian shouts. The dragon crouches down slightly before jumping and shooting into the air.

“Don’t let go! Don’t let go!” I scream over and over digging my nails into the arm of the blonde barbarian who laughs unashamed.

“That’s what I thought!”

I chuckle at the memory, looking down over Kiri’s shoulder looking over the vast lands below inhaling deeply as the free feeling washes over me.

“What’s so funny?” Katsuki’s mouth is right next to my ear and I turn to look back at him. His hair is whipping around in every which way as the wind pummels against us at the high altitude.

“Just remembering the day you proposed!” I have to shout over the wind for him to hear me but he softly smiles all the same. He leans down and nuzzles his nose against my cheek before playfully biting it while I pout.

“Best day of my life, well.” I look up at him in confusion but he holds a sinister smirk. “Until our wedding night anyways.” A coil of embarrassment worms its way into my chest and I move my head away from his vision; he laughs loudly fighting his hold on me as a way to give a hug. “I’m just messing around.”

“I know, you’ll pay for that later!” I tell him and he just smirks looking down as his castle comes into view.

The castle wasn’t large by any means but it had a big enough room to hoard all of Kiri’s treasure, Katsuki’s throne, dungeon, and your library. All of the books coming from raids you weren’t allowed to attend or far off lands you all had traveled to together. A small higher end village was settled in the courtyard of the palace which then spread further out into the land creating the hub of the barbarian/dragon territory setting well over 100 miles of land.

“Ah home sweet home.” I say as we walk through the main doors with Kirishima and Katsuki following behind. Tonight was a big night. All three sets of your parents would be arriving so that you could show the truth of your relationship. Not that they didn’t know you were married, just not that the three of you are married.

“Eri!” A young girl not over the age of six runs into our view and jumps into my arms excitedly. Her chubby arms wrap around my neck tightly as you rock side to side.

“You’re back! I missed you!” She exclaimed and I inhale the soft scent of her hair while walking forward towards the kitchen after motioning for Katsuki to give up the meat he caught to the kitchen.

“I missed you too.” I tell her honestly moving her to rest on my hip as we walk further into the palace.

“Is it play time?” She asks, her eyes filled with wonder. Kirishima had recently found a violin and gifted it to me after hearing about how I learned it as a child and you since have been teaching Eri, the young orphan as well. We walk to the music room her platinum hair swaying around her head as she talks animatedly and her one small dragon horn protruding from her head. Her yellow irises shined so bright it made my heart ache.

The afternoon was filled with music and warmth before it was time to start getting ready. I looked towards the open standing wardrobe at the gown Katsuki had recently had tailored for me.

I slip on the smooth elegant fabric noticing immediately how close to the skin of the dress was; as I was turning in the dress the door to my shared bedroom opens and I see Kirishima’s red hair before his eyes come into view. His mouth was open as if he was going to say something before he took in the lace and satin bodice that curled tightly over my hips before trumpeting into a thick ruffled skirt.

“Fuck.” Was the only word that came out of his mouth as he closed the door behind him quickly and moved to approach me. “How am I supposed to resist you when you look like this?”

“Like what?” I ask back and he groans dramatically.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” He says taking one of his large hands and using the back of my neck as leverage to place his mouth on mine.

I gasp in surprise at his boldness and he wastes not time sliding his tongue against mine. My eyelids flutter closed as his other hand grabs the flesh of my ass and squeezes. I make a sound which in turn causes him to groan as we barely come for air and he grinds his hips against me.

Kirishima lets out a small whimper as he awkwardly walks me backwards until my knees buckle at the edge of the bed causing me to fall into the mattress.

“Kiri.” I pant as he begins to languidly lick at my neck and behind my ears. “We can’t.”

He whines like I just told him I was taking his favorite ruby away.

“My love please.” He begs sliding his hips between my legs and grinding himself against me which causes the both of us to gasp.

“Okay, maybe really quick.” Kirishima smiles as the door bursts open.

“YA! What the fuck is this?! You were really gonna have a quicky without me?!” Katsuki’s eyes flare and Kirishima and I look at each other before standing up and adjusting our clothes. “Anyways you fucking fiends. Our parents are here.”

My pulse skyrockets in nervousness as we all walk through the halls and meet in the dining room. Hearing us approach, all of our parents stand and I run into their arms having not seen them in so long. My mother is already crying and I can feel her shoulders gently shake. We all then exchange formal greetings before Katsuki sits at the head of the table with my and Kirishima at each side.

My parents are sat across from Kirishima’s and if I though Kirishima was big it was nothing compared to his own father Muichiro. His mother was a sweet woman who was also a dragon named Miki. While Kiri’s father had the same bulk and slender waist his mother had all the same red coloring.

Katsuki looked and acted just like his mother Mitsuki, Masaru was the complete in personality and looks with his soft brown hair and eyes but he took to you right away choosing to sit near you during the dinner.

“So,” your mother decides to start the conversation and slightly shrinks back at all of the eyes suddenly on her. “How’s married life?” She asks and the theee of you smile.

“We’re all enjoying it very much.” I say for the three of us knowing Katsuki would just brandish a harsh remark.

“All?” Mitsuki asks, looking between the three of you and you all nod. The room goes dead silent before Miki is up out of her chair hugging Katsuki and then me.

“Ah this is amazing!” She talks just like Kiri! “More babies to love!” Dragon kind was known for having very little offspring due to certain conditions needing to be met.

“Fucking bout time you settled down.” Mitsuki grumbles and Masaru just gently smiles beside his wife.

My parents just look shell shocked but they gage my reactions; I smile, trying to genuinely convey how happy I am here and my mother just looks at my father who nods and they both nod in approval.

“So are you part dragon at all?” Mitsuki’s question is aimed towards me.

“No, ma’am.” I tell her honestly and she gives me a confused look.

“Then how the hell are you not ripping down there?!” Embarrassment crashes into me like a tsunami while Kiri blushes and Katsuki chokes on his wine.

“MA! YOU CAN’T JUST ASK THEM THAT!” Katsuki shouts standing up and his mom immediately matches him.

“WELL WHY NOT I’M JUST CONCERNED ABOUT THEM!” She shouts back.

Once Kiri and I finally managed to get the situation back under control Muichiro opens up more than before as the wine flows telling traveling stories. I’m hooked on every word while my husbands listen to my parents tell stories of my childhood. As it was getting late I showed each of them to their rooms staying behind with my parents to talk more about my current life and the adventures I had been on.

“Are you happy?” My father asks me and I smile answering without hesitation.

“More than I’ve ever been.”

[lieslab]

The ghost of you is close to me

Pairing: Felix X gn reader

Summary: When a deceased loved one's birthday appears, you struggle to accept they're really gone.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 3.3K

Trigger warning: Death, grief, and depression.

Grief and depression resources

Root systems greedily slurped up the liquid as fast as it came down. Bushy rows of overgrown grass sat drenched with water droplets. Without the cover of trees around, there was nowhere to hide from the downpour of rain. 

You sat silently beneath the covered roof. The sound of your breaths mixed with the tapping of the water. It bellowed and swirled down gutters, spewing out to create puddles within the grass. The worms poked their heads up at the dampness. They squirmed and wiggled to the cement sidewalks and paved roads. 

Against the wet pavement, their wiggling bodies moved faster. It was easier for them to travel this way. You watched one of the earthworms roll itself onto the sidewalk that led up to the house. It wiggled and waggled its pale body. From one side of the sidewalk to the other, you watched it drag itself without a word. 

Cold rain spat down from the sky, but it didn't stop the creature's determination. It wasn't until it disappeared into blades of grass that you looked away. Your eyes fell down to the attached bricks along the surface of the floor. You sat curled up in a wooden wicker chair. 

The silence of the house grew unbearable. The only worst thing than a haunted house is a haunted mind. Felix was out having lunch with a friend. A grandfather clock ticked non-stop in the living room and your thoughts swallowed you whole. For the first time in a long time, you wished he was in the living room and wailing into a pillow to muffle the bitterness of his defeat from a video game. 

You attempted to make yourself a cup of warm tea before you came outside. The atmospheric pressure dropped and leaves flipped inside out hours ago, proving that rain was barreling towards you and on its way. The tree leaves were always right. The warmth of the glass felt nice against your palms, but no matter how much you sweetened the flavored liquid, it didn’t make you feel much better. 

Your body shifted and the wicker creaked beneath you. If nothing else worked, at least the pitter-patter of the falling rain silenced your thoughts. You leaned back, letting the base of your neck curl against the chair. Your eyes slipped shut and you let your mind drift. 

A distant ache within your chest strummed through you. It was the last few notes of a mourning piano ballad. The keys sat plagued with dust. You hadn’t heard this tune in a while. Grief wasn’t new. It dipped in and out of your life at random. 

You’d never come face-to-face with death, but you’d caught glimpses of it. It was the vehicle swerving into your lane at the last moment. The chunk of steak getting lodged in your throat and not going down right away. The splash of hot grease, gritted teeth, and a quiet hiss. 

The rain cut loose without warning. No loud shriek of thunder or bright flash of white lightning. Not yet. Heavy sheets came down at an angle, soaking everything, but not you. You stared off into the distance, letting the sound swallow you. On the other side of the street, bright green leaves danced from the harsh rain drops.

Perfect weather for a duck. 

You imagined mallards circling rippling water in a pond. Patterns of brown and black for the females, metallic green heads for the males. Sharp quacks, a quivering body, and flapping wings. Beneath the water, webbed feet would kick happily. It must be nice to enjoy the rain so much. Other birds dived for cover along trees and curled into their nests, but not ducks. 

Their waterproof feathers caused rain water to repel and drip off with ease. As the worms appear, a duck's appetite will increase. They’ll rush around and snag up anything they deem edible, including worms and snails, if they can find them. Such simplicity for a small creature that looks nothing like a human. 

Your head tipped to the side. The chair creaked. You’d do anything to be a duck right now. They’re flock animals. Not all the time, but most of the time they grieve in their flock. Human grief is so different. Ducks can grieve for weeks and humans will grieve for the rest of time. 

By this point, you were certain grief had been stitched into your skin. It sat in your body, like a surgical tool being left inside after a surgery error. Something foreign lay within you. It nagged at you and no matter how much you moved, it shifted all the time. Nausea hit, a numbness took over, and no matter how much you tried to brush it off, you knew something was wrong. You could ignore it, but the symptoms turned worse and morphed into an infection. 

Sepsis causes the body to attack its own tissues and organs. Grief causes the body to attack the brain. Sepsis is treatable if intervention is received right away, but grief? Grief is different. You can spend months pretending everything is fine before your world collapses. Sepsis is a quick kill. Grief is a slow suffocation as the world unravels over weeks spun into months. 

A sharp car horn dissected you from your thoughts. You looked up to find Chan’s car pulling into your driveway. When your eyes met, he sent you a polite wave. Your hand reached up to give one back, but you didn’t know if your hand moved to wave or if it was merely an arm raise. 

The passenger door cracked open before it was thrown. It bounced slightly, only stopping when the hinge didn’t move again. Felix shrieked and stumbled out into the pouring rain. An empty white plastic bag attempted to shield him from millions of water droplets. 

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! IT’S COLD!” 

Chan’s squeaky laugh accompanied his curses. Usually, you’d find amusement in his thick Australian accent, but not today. Instead, you watched the water soak his jacket. The car door slammed shut and he sprinted for the enclosed porch. 

“What are you doing out here? Were you waiting for me? Babe, it’s damp and wet out here. You’re going to catch a cold if you’re not careful.” 

You didn’t respond. He waved frantically at Chan’s car. “Bye, hyung! See you tomorrow at practice!” The moment he let go of the plastic bag, the heaviness of collected rain water drenched his head. He shrieked and shook, like a wet dog. Water sprinkled in every direction. 

You watched Chan laugh and wave again before he drove off. Felix’s mouth puckered. Hands wiped against his damp hair. Rain water dripped along the back of his neck, creeping down his spine. He shivered as goosebumps trailed along his arms. He jerked forward, flipping his blonde hair forward, before swinging it back. Golden fingers brushed through the dampness, attempting to get it back to the way it’d been sitting. 

“How was lunch?” You finally piped up. 

“Good until I got soaked,” he grumbled. 

“Here, take this.” 

He brushed his fingers through his blonde strands once more and spun around to face you. You held the ceramic blue mug in his direction. He paused before finally coming over and gently pulling it from your hand. “What is this?” 

“Tea. It’s sweetened. Still warm. I think you need it more than I do.” 

The cup went to his lips and he sipped. Adam’s apple bobbing, he drank greedily. You’d only taken a few sips, so there was more than half a cup left. He’d nearly finished it all before he jerked it away, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. 

“Whoops. I didn’t mean to drink that much. It’s good, really good.” The burst of a pink tongue appeared to gather the remaining sweetness from his lips. “Maybe a little too sweet. I could drink ten cups and still want more.” 

You gave a faint hum of approval and took your gaze back to the pouring rain. It didn’t let up. If anything, the downpour grew worse. You and Felix stood frozen in time. The sound drenched everything. Your eyes fluttered shut and you didn’t open them. 

“Are you okay?” He moved closer. His hand stretched out and curled around yours. Cold fingers looped your warm ones, but you didn’t pull away. “You’re quieter than you usually are.”

Grateful for the touch, your fingers curled back around his. “Do you ever think about how weird it is when people die? They disappear and we’re supposed to act like it doesn’t bother us too much. You’re expected to return to life as if it didn’t gut you.” 

His thumb traced the ridges along your knuckles. You’d always move mountains with this body, even if you didn’t know it. From massaging away the tense knots in his back to overthrowing the weight of the world along his shoulders when he needed cheered up, you had a power you never knew about. 

Your eyes fluttered open and you continued. “It’s weird to spend life celebrating someone’s birthday every year and then one day, there is no more celebrating. No more traditions and blowing out candles. No more birthday cake. You don’t get to wander the grocery store aisles and spend too long trying to find the perfect gift anymore.” 

His thumb didn’t stop tracing your knuckles. You didn’t pull away and deep down, you hoped he didn’t pull away, either. You wanted him to stay right here with you. In this moment, the rain drowned your thoughts. The hurt spilt from your lips and dripped down your chin. Haunted by all the things you never talked about, the possession finally came and turned you into a stranger. 

“It becomes something unimaginable. Today is just a day, but two years ago, there was chocolate cake and purple gift bags. Flickering birthday candles, the routine of going to a restaurant and sharing a meal together. It was…” 

The words caught in an inflated lump blooming in your throat. Your eyes narrowed as you glared into the rain. Anger flashed through you. Words were just words, but when it came to this subject, you couldn’t get it out without wanting to fall apart and crumble into pieces. 

“It was supposed to last forever,” you finally whispered. “I’m left with the empty shell of a day. All I can think about is what once was. How do people live like this?” 

Felix didn’t say it, but he knew the feeling all too well. It was impossible not to consider everyone he’d ever lost. Nobody talks about the hardships of facing the ghosts of the past. 

Birthdays and holidays go by just the same, but the dinner table is one person short. There’s a new missing piece of the puzzle. It’s all wrong and no matter how much you try to accept it, it never feels right. It’s a never-ending cut that always bleeds. It reopens all the time when you refuse to accept your new reality. 

Do you haunt the past or is it haunting you? You’re plagued by dreams where it’s all okay again. Memories will loop over and over again because you refuse to let them go. Prayers go unanswered and each time you find the grave or see the urn, it feels unreal all over again. Time splits, grief ripples, and you feel it everywhere. 

“I’m left with the curse of memories and destined to never live them again. Sure, I can make new ones, but that’s not the point. I’ll never have memories with them again.” Your voice kicked up a pitch. “That’s not fair.” 

You knew you sounded childish, but you didn’t care. The taste of chocolate cake haunted you. Life turned into a flipbook. The memories came rushing back with the roar of rain. It always came back and on their birthday, it grew worse. 

The clash of distant thunder against the memory of shared laughter. Bolts of lightning and the blinding flash of a camera. “Say cheese!” You posed in the way you always did. Flames waltzed on candles.

Grief pinched you out of the past yet again. Felix and pouring rain. The scent of the wet earth, ozone, and earth worms. Zaps of lightning. The porch shook with earsplitting clashes of thunder. The taste of sweet tea turned you nauseous. 

Two years ago, fluffy chocolate cake stuck between your molars. A waiter grinned upon learning about someone’s birthday. You ate too much food, but you didn’t regret it because the joy of being with friends and family outweighed the regret of your stomach ache. Not often did you get to see someone and celebrate them like this. 

Birthdays are special and you always believed that. What happens when you die? If heaven exists, does God bring out cake? Is it store-bought or homemade? Will the angels sing an angelic rendition of happy birthday? Do they take photos, so the moment will be documented somewhere? 

Your head tipped forward and you squeezed your eyes shut. Felix didn’t let go of your hand and you didn’t pull away. A hand went over your eyes to stop the brimming tears. The hurt seeped out. You couldn’t pretend it didn’t still hurt. You’d sat with grief for so long, but it never distanced itself. It wasn’t an old friend you caught up with once or twice a year, it was your shadow. 

“Babe?” Felix whispered. He shifted and crouched down beside the wicker chair. He reached over and placed the mug on a small side table. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me.” 

“I look stupid,” you croaked. “I should be over this. It’s been two years and it doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters if it’s making you feel like this.” 

“I miss them.” 

“I know.” 

He shifted and wobbled on his knees, placing himself in front of you. He reached out, attempting to pull your arm away from your face. Before he could succeed, you shifted forward and dropped against him. Collapsing on your own knees, you curled around his body. He caught your sagging body and shifted back, pulling you against him. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your ear. “I won’t let you face this alone. I’m not going anywhere else today.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

You couldn’t recognize your own voice. You hated the way grief made you feel. It took away your spark and juiced life from your body. You became a stranger to yourself, looking for the person you loved in everyone. You took double-takes in grocery stores and stared at strangers who looked like them for too long. No matter where you looked, you’d never find them. 

Felix’s jacket sat damp from the rain water, but you didn’t care. If anything, you hoped it made you sick. You could pretend that’s what brought this on. You wouldn’t have to admit you’d been drowning in this misery for months. You didn’t dare talk about it. Talking about it made it real. You’d refuse to accept the truth for as long as possible. 

How could this be what life was about? Cursed to live a life without someone you called family. Companionship, loyalty, trust, compassion, kindness; the best traits within them here one day and gone the next. You couldn’t accept it because there was just something too haunting in admitting bodies rot. Souls aren’t earthbound in the same way bodies are. 

Maybe Felix noticed and maybe he didn’t, but grief changed you. It morphed you into a stranger. Everything shifted. The sky crumbled, the heavens opened up, and the tears, the hurt, the rain, the misery all came crashing down. Time keeps going and the grief remains persistent. 

You eat too much. You eat too little. Nightmares kept you exhausted. Just when you thought you were okay, you found yourself wishing the roles were reversed. If you were dead, you were certain they’d never miss you as much as you missed them. This wasn’t living, it was barely surviving. 

How do you go back to something that doesn’t exist anymore? Back when youth plagues everyone and everyone is destined to stay young forever. In a perfect world, nobody dies and time is never up. Is this really living or is it just hell? 

“What can I do?” 

“I don’t know. I-I don’t know,” you repeated. “I don’t know how to–” 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” 

Your breath hitched. Something between a choked sob and a wail broke through your lips. He squeezed you tighter before pulling back slightly. He reached up with a hand. Using his hoodie sleeve, he wiped away your tears as if you were a child. You felt useless, but he didn’t judge you. 

Time froze and your eyes met. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against your forehead. Your eyes fluttered shut. The memories from the past dissolved and you slumped forward over his shoulder. Exhausted from everything, you swore he somehow managed to unplug your brain. You were nothing, but grateful for it. 

“Can you walk?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Let’s get you inside. It’s too damp to stay out here. On the couch or bed?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He pushed himself up slowly, helping you up to your feet with him. Your head stayed slumped against his shoulder. He tugged open the screen door and helped you inside. “Don’t worry about anything, I’ve got you. You don’t have to do anything right now, besides breathe.” 

The warmth of the house greeted you. Felix’s jacket unzipped. He wiggled one arm out of it, shifted you slightly, and freed his other arm. While he managed, you finally picked your head up. Without a word, your bare feet trailed towards the bedroom. He called your name and hurried after you. 

Too exhausted to care, you jerked back the neat pile of blankets from the bed and climbed in. He followed you, climbing up on the other side. The memory foam mattress imprinted with the shapes of your bodies. He scooted closer and tugged an arm over you. He wiped away another tear. 

“Lix?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I haven’t had chocolate cake in two years.” 

“Oh?” 

“We always celebrated their birthday with chocolate cake.” 

He tugged up the blankets and moved closer. Slender legs tangled with yours. “Chocolate cake has a great flavor. I can see why they liked it so much.” 

“Do you think we can make one later? I kinda want one.” 

“Of course.” He pushed your hair back and nuzzled in close to your head. Soft lips found your temple. “If you need anything, let me know.” 

“Okay.” 

As you drifted off to sleep, he hummed something you weren’t familiar with. Rejecting death is a heavy burden, but it doesn’t have to be dealt with alone. You couldn’t have them, but you had Felix right here and right now. Still alive and breathing, comforting you, wrapping his warmth around you and proving that he was still alive and fully capable of loving you. 

It’d never be the same exact way, but it felt like a relief to be loved and be taken care of, to be coaxed and have your feelings acknowledged. He didn’t make you feel like a burden, but rather treasured. You’d been carrying grief around for so long, you forgot you were someone to be treasured. 

With or without this grief, he’d love you just the same. They say grief is love with nowhere to go. There is and there will never be shame in loving someone so much it hurts. It looks different for everyone, so if you needed him to hold you, if you needed to be told you mattered, if you wanted to make a chocolate cake, he’d do whatever he could to ease the pain, that’s what loving someone means. 

Grief can be described as a thousand different things, but to those who love you the most, it’ll never be defined as a burden.

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike @bokkiesluv @phinnyphinnegan @zayn-210 @beal-o @geni-627 @princesskrystix @itsraininghyunebuckets @makaira-nina2005 @enhacolor @ayedomino008 @iconicallyher @emeraldgem22 @sapphirewaves @karlee10261990

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

[angeldog5]

animals

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: tremble | rating: E, thoughts of sex in Animagus form

Voldemort plunged the world into eternal winter's night and ended the war. No one knew if he meant to do it—after all, who wanted to be Minister of Nothing?—but everyone agreed that he hadn't intended to die.  Die‚ of course—death—was a loose term.  Draco hadn't thought so. He'd thought, once you die you're dead. But that was before the remnants of the Order found him and sent him searching for horcruxes. Draco had been their very last pick, but no one else had an animagus form that could withstand the frigid dark—just Draco, and Potter.

. Even wolf eyes can't find Potter in the void; occasionally a moonbeam slips over the wall of cloud, but not tonight.  Draco trots on, towards the crooked silhouette of a tree. Judging by scent, there is a hollow beneath its roots. He points his teeth at the hidden moon and howls, stretching the note so long it trembles.  His ears twitch forwards and backwards, listening for a response. Soon, a cry pierces the snowfall. Potter glides into sight. His wings beat once, twice, vanishing the distance between them. He settles overhead on an ice-encrusted branch and caws. Thankfully, the hollow is big enough for them. Draco digs out the packed snow. He wraps his body around Potter's sleek feathers. 

Green, he remembers with a start, half-dreaming. In the sun, Potter's eyes had been a bright, special green.

.

Harry shifts back on the tail end of a nightmare. His wings had been on fire. Snape was using them as candles to read by.  He pants, trembles, too cold, disoriented. Draco whines against his ribs. Sleeping still, he bares his long, white fangs. Lately, Harry can't get away from the thought of being consumed by him.

"Potter," Draco's voice is half-shifted, snarling dread, hope, and hunger. "What's wrong?" 

Draco's paws on his waist. Draco's breath on his face. "Potter. Harry." 

"Cold," Harry says. 

A tongue chases the blood in his neck. Teeth hug sharp vertebrae. Draco licks a warming charm over his skin, which immediately starts to fade.

"Hard for you," Harry mumbles, pressing his nose into Draco's armpit. "Need you so bad." 

"Alright, alright." 

Frozen dirt meets Harry's chest and he trills. Birds have one hole for everything. It's a different feeling, being mounted in the one hole for everything, even though Harry's a human right now. He's never been good at it—humanity, having only really gotten a single, infant year of it. Sometimes shifting is like remembering and sometimes it’s like forgetting. After he pries him open, Draco drools heat inside Harry. He uses tongue and teeth, gnawing and sucking. It burns when Draco enters him. It hurts when he pushes Harry's cheek into the freezing ground. Draco used to play the piano. Does he remember this about himself? Every night, Harry listened to him play through the floor with an extendable ear until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. Spread over the ground, Harry's wings tremble. He rakes ice and earth beneath talons. Draco thuds into him like howling into the void: Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Harry is fire inside. He meets the force of Draco’s hips to say I’m here, I'm here, right here.

Love is just the heat you need to keep on living, Harry thinks, coming in anguished spurts which freeze before hitting the ground.

That’s really all it is.

.

[nessinborderland]

Bloodstained Devotion (Prologue)

Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader

Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller

Word Count: 511 words

Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added

Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.

Notes: It has been months in the works, but Bloodstained Devotion is finally here! It's a rewrite of my previous work, named Live Undead. Act 1 has been completely written, with Acts 2 and 3 being fully outlined. The warnings above give you a little taste of what's to come, but more will be added as I update. Please refer to them for your own safety, as this IS a dark fictional story that will depict scenes that might not fit your sensibilities.

Please read at your own risk.

Hope to have your support till the end of this adventure <3

AO3 | Masterlist

The apocalypse didn’t kill you. But his love might finish what the end of the world could not.

There was a time when you used to be the best of friends. A time when summer afternoons were spent jumping in rain puddles, making flower crowns, and catching cicadas. You were young, and tomorrow was the only idea you had of the future. 

Life was simple for a child when anything further than that was beyond conception.

But the seasons had changed, and so had he. In a lot of ways, so had you. While you both grew taller, he grew meaner in ways that you had never expected from the boy who had looked so touched by the dead bird in the snow. 

That winter had been extremely cold. 

For a small child, winter was fun, even when you could only leave the house while resembling a Michelin man, engulfed in several layers of warm clothing. You would play in the playground in front of your apartment until late in the afternoon, running until your breath evaporated in the air and your cheeks were bright red.

You remember that afternoon well. 

You were playing by yourself below the naked trees, making snow hills after a very exhausting snowball battle, not realizing how wet your trousers had gotten. Everything around you was the whitest, cleanest snow you had ever seen.

Gwinam had been the one to find it.

He was standing at the edge of the playground, eyes cast downward as he focused on something small and impossibly bright against the white.

“What is that?” You asked, curiosity pulling you forward. You approached as he crouched, peering at the limp body of an animal you had only seen in pet stores before.

“A bird.” His voice was quiet and tight, very odd coming from the small boy you had known all your life. “It must have run away from home. It… it can’t survive in the cold.”

“Aww, that's sad,” you uttered, crouching beside him. “It's so pretty.” Years later, you would recognize it as a lovebird — its green and orange feathers stark against the white snow, speckled with drops of red.

Gwinam hummed, his gaze locked on the bird. There was something hesitant as he reached for it, a stillness that felt heavy. You followed him silently as he carried it toward the garbage, disposing of it like an empty carton of juice.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, a lump forming in your throat. “Shouldn’t we bury it?”

He paused, a flash of something you couldn’t name passing over his face. “It’s dead. It won’t mind. The ground’s too hard to dig, anyway.”

You said nothing else. But all day, you noticed the dark cloud clinging to him, a quiet tension in his shoulders as the boy refused to meet your eyes.

Something had changed that afternoon.

You still don’t know what, and maybe you never will. All you know is that your childhood best friend — the boy you once loved in so many ways — had become as cold and dead as that winter day.

Years later, you would find out that, in surprising ways, so had you.

Chapter 1 »

[mapsthewanderer]

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Details: 2500 words of unhinged venom-sucking debauchery. Heavily inspired by Heaven Official’s Blessing/Tian Guan Ci Fu, with a generous dose of creative liberties and one absolutely guttered brain. This is pure, feral filth. Turn back now if you value your innocence. For my fellow freaky weirdos—you know who you are. Aka 18+ stuff.

Features: fem!reader blood, venom, delirium, biting, dirty talk and two horni freaks who don’t even manage to undress (yeah—you know exactly what that means).

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Bite | Caleb smut

The forest breathes around you—lush and wide and endless. Sun breaks through the canopy in molten streaks that dance across the mossy floor. Every leaf gleams green with life, dew still clinging to their undersides like glass beads. Somewhere above, a bird calls—a long, fluting note—and another answers it deeper in the trees.

Your boots crunch soft bark underfoot. The trail behind you disappeared a while ago, but you’re still moving, still following.

Still following Caleb.

He’s a few steps ahead, stepping over a fallen log, shoving aside branches with the back of his arm. His shirt’s dark with sweat between his shoulder blades, and his curls are sticking to the nape of his neck. He’s grinning—smug, focused, determined to find something.

“You said it was a ‘short detour,’” you call ahead. “We crossed a stream, Caleb. That’s not a detour. That’s a side quest.”

He glances over his shoulder, not slowing. “Detour. Side quest. Spiritual journey. All the same.”

You roll your eyes—but your smile lingers.

The stream wasn’t deep, but it was icy, mountain-fed and fast-moving. Caleb had taken off his boots to cross, held your hand the whole way like he didn’t trust the rocks under your feet. When you slipped anyway, he caught you—chest to chest in the spray, laughing—and then insisted you sit on a log while he found your bandaid tin and made you let him patch a scrape on your shin, even though he was the one who took a branch to the forearm pulling back the brambles for you minutes before.

“You gonna clean that?” you’d asked, pointing to the scratch blooming red along his forearm.

A shrug, careless. A bandaid slapped over it with the grace of a feral cat. “Nature’s kiss,” he’d said, smirking. “You, however, need medical attention.”

You rolled your eyes, but let him do it anyway.

Now, birds flit tree to tree—blue-feathered flashes vanishing between limbs. A deer watched you earlier, still and narrow-legged, half-hidden in the undergrowth. Everything smells like sun-warmed leaves, damp bark, and green.

And Caleb?

Still pushing deeper into the trees.

“You better not be lost,” you call, brushing a branch aside. “Or I swear to god I’m gonna leave you out here and let the moss reclaim your smug body.”

He grins without turning. “You wouldn’t. You’d miss me.”

“I’d sleep great.”

“You’d get halfway back to the trailhead and sob into your hydration tube like a tragic little camel.”

You’re already laughing, lifting a hand to swat him—when suddenly he slows, turns, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

Quick. Warm. Casual in a way that’s not casual at all.

You blink—mid-laugh, flustered, about to say something—

But then—

It happens too fast to understand.

A flash.

A snap.

A sting.

Just above the ankle—burning. White-hot. Sharp.

Everything shifts. The light. The forest. The rhythm of breath and birdsong stops.

“Hey—what? What’s wrong?” Caleb’s voice cuts in—tight, already laced with fear.

He’s there instantly, catching your fall, arms sliding around your waist as the moss rises to meet you. His hands tremble. Panic rides just beneath the calm.

“I’m— I think I—” you try to speak, try to point—but he’s already seen it.

His gaze drops.

Two small puncture marks bloom just above your bootline, purpling fast. Blood wells slow and dark.

Just beyond your heel, something rustles. A glistening tail vanishes into underbrush—thin, silent, coiled death retreating into shadow.

Jaw tight, face gone pale, Caleb tracks it with his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “It got you.” Then, sharper: “Don’t move. One breath too fast and it spreads.”

No teasing. No hesitation.

He moves—fast. Pack dropped. Knees in the dirt. Hands already on your leg—one braced under the calf, lifting it into his lap, the other securing your knee, grip firm and shaking.

“Caleb—?” The trees spin. Light fractures like stained glass above.

“Stay with me.” His voice—low, raw. “You’re gonna feel it. But don’t flinch. I need you here.”

He pulls his multitool from a side pocket. The blade flicks out with one swift motion—his teeth catching the hinge, hand already lowering toward your skin.

“Shit—sorry,” he mutters, breath hitching. “But I’m not losing you to some backwoods godless reptile.”

A sting. The blade kisses skin. Just below the bite.

And then—

His mouth seals over the wound.

Hot. Immediate. Real.

You gasp—less from pain than from sensation. Lips drag against your skin, suction deep and brutal. Every pull, every slow grind of his jaw echoes down your spine.

He spits. Red. Dark and vivid against the ferns.

Then goes in again.

Wet sounds. Obscene and necessary. One hand keeps you grounded, palm firm against your thigh. His breath is unsteady. Warm air fans across your leg between pulls.

Fingers curl into moss. A twitch runs through you.

He pulls back, flushed and bloodstained.

“Stay still,” Caleb growls.

Your breath falters. Heat’s building now. A pulse—not pain but potential. A hum that coils beneath your skin.

Another spit—quick, ragged. Then another dive. Slower this time. Lips dragging. Tongue brushing.

You shiver. His thumb flexes against your thigh. Breath sharpens.

And on the final pull, when he lifts his head, he doesn’t reach for water.

He leans in again.

And licks.

From the base of the cut up. Slow. Velvet-soft.

Air catches in your throat. It shouldn’t feel like that. But it does.

An exhale slips past his lips. And then—too quiet, not meant for you: “Back by the stream... You let me touch your leg and I—” A swallow. Tension breaking through the heat. ”Wanted to taste you even then.”

Heartbeat stutters. Pupils blown. Cheeks flushed. That same hand still curved around your leg—like it never left. Something’s changing. Inside you. Between you.

Every sense pulls taut.

And Caleb? He’s still staring. Lips stained. Breath broken. Looking like he could do it all again.

And again.

The venom’s in him, too. Visible in the dilation of his gaze. The tremble in his shoulders. That rasp in his voice—lower now. Rougher. “You good?” His hand doesn’t leave your skin. But then, softer—regret slipping in: “…Sorry.”

It’s not about the wound.

Not the knife.

It’s for what he said.

You nod. A lie.

Because the warmth flooding through you isn’t good. It’s thick. Tingling. Crawling from ankle to hips to somewhere deeper.

Wrong. Or too right.

He reaches for his backpack. Fingers fumble on the zipper. The bandage roll tears under uneven hands. He wraps your leg—slow. Careful. Too careful. Hands shake—once, twice. Mouth still wet. Lips flushed. Parted.

And he won’t meet your eyes.

Not until halfway through. Then—just a flick upward. And he lingers. Long enough for heat to bloom in your chest.

Gaze drops. But his palm stays where it is. Curved. Warm. Thumb just a little too gentle.

The forest hums. Distant. Watching. Like it knows something is coming. And Caleb breathes through it. Barely.

He’s trying.

But you’re still in his hands.

Those hands hover—never straying, never quite still. Not gripping. Just present. Like if he lets go, everything breaks loose.

His gaze trails higher. Eyes—wrong. Still violet. But darker.

You see it—the restraint. The fear. The want. “…your eyes,” he mutters. Voice hoarse. “Could be the venom. Pupils are—wow. Okay.”

Your head tilts slowly. “Yours are, too,” you murmur. “Huge.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pats your head—gentle, apologetic—as if that will settle everything he doesn’t know how to say.

Then, steadying your weight with one hand, he moves fast. Guides your back against a wide tree trunk. Moss cool beneath you. Bark rough behind.

The forest holds its breath.

Caleb crouches again. Knees wide, elbows on thighs, scanning everything. Bark. Soil. Shadows. Silence.

“Okay. Think,” he breathes. “Slim neck. Glassy scales. Southern… Veritas viper. Maybe.”

But you’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Lust slams into you like a wave—sudden and impossible to reason with. He looks too good like this. Wild hair pushed back. Sweat at his collar. Blood drying on his lips. That jaw clenched in focus. The memory of his mouth on your leg, hot and desperate, flashes through your mind and your core clenches hard.

He flips through his field journal—pages shaking in his fingers. “You can rest it out,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze. “A couple hours. It’ll pass.”

Your voice is wrecked.

“I don’t want to rest it out.”

That breaks something.

Eyes snap to yours. He stops breathing. Fingers find his shirt, fisting fabric. Another hand at his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist.

And you don’t wait. You climb into his lap. Straddle him there in the moss. Legs open. Hips heavy. A sharp pulse runs through your ankle—your body warns you, but the ache blooming lower drowns it out.

You sink down, grind once—and he gasps. Thighs tense under you. Rigid muscle shifting. The hard line of his cock presses directly where you need it, thick and already damp with pre-release. Fabric to fabric. Heat to heat.

Your hips roll again—slow this time.

And Caleb’s whole body shudders.

“Please—” he exhales, lips barely brushing yours. It’s not a command. It’s not even coherent. It’s a prayer—hoarse and cracked. His eyes flick down to your leg, still bandaged, still pulsing. “Please, you’re hurt,” he whispers, like saying it aloud might stop what’s already happening

You lean in, tongue dragging across his lower lip—blood, sweat, venom still lingering in the taste. He groans—jaw clenched, trying to hold back like it costs him everything.

“God,” he pants. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

A tremor runs through his thigh. One hand fists into the moss. The other grips your leg again, thumb pressing into your skin like it’ll hold him down.

“If it’s a veritas…” he mutters, voice breaking against your mouth, “…it heightens everything. Skin. Heat. Pressure… Venom’s messing with your nerves.”

You grind down—harder.

His head drops. Forehead finds your shoulder. Breath hits your collar in ragged bursts.

“So if you’re feeling it—”

“Then you are too,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

Another roll of your hips.

And he breaks.

“I’m—fuck—I’m trying to fight it.”

You kiss him. Soft. Filthy. Hot. Tongues brushing, breath catching.

“Don’t.”

And then it starts.

The rhythm.

Slick fabric. Your soaked shorts dragging just right over your clit. His cock thick beneath his clothes, already leaking, already twitching. The friction’s so wet you feel it in your belly—heat spiking with every grind. His hand slips beneath your shirt—broad, grounding. Fingers splay across your ribs, not groping, just holding like you’ll fly apart without him.

“I’m trying to be good,” he whispers. “Trying not to destroy you.”

You arch against him. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Nn… You keep rubbing,” he groans, hips jerking up into yours. “I can feel you. Dripping. Right through me.”

The drag of your shorts against his cock is torture. And he feels every goddamn inch.

“I could come like this,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Could fuck you through our clothes and lose my mind.”

You whimper into his mouth. He swallows it.

You keep moving.

And he snaps.

“You had your warning—fine.”

You’re lifted—suddenly, entirely—back thudding against the tree as he rises with you in his arms. Bark scrapes your spine, moss forgotten beneath your feet. He cages you there, holding you up like it costs him nothing. One hand braces the tree above your head, the other locks your thigh open, his grip firm and shaking.

“Stay still,” he growls.

You grind anyway.

“I said—shit—stop moving.”

His hips slam forward.

“Trying to be good—trying not to ruin you.”

But his cock is so hard. You feel it pulse through the layers. Every roll makes your clit jump. Every grind smears another wet streak into your already-soaked panties.

And you’re losing it.

He thrusts—not inside, but with everything he’s got. Grinding into you like he needs it to live. Panting. Cursing. Falling apart against your throat.

“This,” he grits out, rutting into you again, “—this is what you want instead of calling for help?”

Another thrust—slower. Cruel.

“You want me to fuck the venom out of you?”

His lips graze your jaw. Your ear. His breath is scalding.

“You think you can take what this does to me?”

You can’t even speak.

“You look like you’d beg,” he rasps, “but you don’t have to. I already want to give you everything.”

His hips drag. Wet. Hard. Rhythmic. You’re gasping now. Whimpering.

He doesn’t stop.

“I’m gonna come,” he growls. “Right through these clothes if you don’t stop clenching like that.”

“I can’t—” you choke. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he grits. “Do it. I wanna feel it.”

And then—

It hits.

Your whole body locks. Breaks. Burns.

You come—shaking, pulsing around nothing and everything. Back arches, shoulder blades scraping bark, the rough grooves biting into your skin like nature itself is holding you there. You cry out, gasping his name, as your thighs seize around his waist.

He bares his teeth—and sinks them into your neck.

Not enough to break skin—but it’s brutal. It sends you spiraling through the crash as he holds you pinned against the tree.

And the groan he lets out isn’t a word.

It’s a sound—deep, wrecked, something primal torn from his chest. Dragged up from the base of his spine like it was never meant to be heard. Not even human. Just need.

Thrusts don’t stop—they stutter. Grind. Sloppy and frantic as he breaks apart against you. His forehead slams into yours. His whole body shakes. Saliva spills from the corner of his mouth, breath coming in shredded gasps as he moans your name like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say.

He comes hard. Soaking the fabric between you. Every roll of his hips floods more into the mess already smeared between your legs. And behind you—the wood digs deeper. Like the forest itself refuses to let you fall.

Every nerve lit. Every inch claimed.

But the venom?

The venom’s not done.

You’re still wet. Still clenching.

And so is he.

Still thick. Still leaking.

And still hard.

Caleb exhales, shaky and wrecked, then lifts his head slowly, eyes glowing. His hands still hold you in place. His breath hits your lips.

“…It’s not done with us,” he whispers.

You bite your lip.

“Good,” you say.

And he smiles—flushed and far from finished. His gaze flicks past you, toward the trees beyond. Still panting, still pressed against you, he lets out a breathless laugh. “There’s a stream,” he murmurs, voice thick and dark. “Just a short walk that way.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Why?”

He leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Because we should probably clean up the mess you made.”

A beat.

He presses a slow, filthy grind into you—just enough to remind you exactly where that mess is. “Starting,” he adds, wickedly, “with the cum currently soaking through my shorts.”

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

You've got diamonds for teeth, my love

So take a bite of me just once

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Writer’s note: Nobody asked for this, and yet—it has been unleashed upon the universe. I’m sorry. I’m weird. But I finally got to write something vaguely The Offering-coded, and it hit me: Caleb is kinda snake-coded? Apple, Eden, bite bite biiite. Cute snek, though. Love him. Love writing him as a freak. Also, he’s definitely the most likely (of all the LIs) to be totally unfazed by blood, bodily fluids, and sucking venom out of you. (Affectionately). And yes, this entire thing exists because the Heaven Official’s Blessing venom scene rewired my brain. I saw it, blacked out, wrote this and ordered the novels just so I could read it for myself. Zero regrets. Fun fact: I made the snake up. But there are real snakes that can give you a kind of high (and/or make you puke). Less fun fact: venom sucking does not work. Please don’t do it. Call emergency services. Let professionals handle your forest crises. Okay? Okay. I trust you. Thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[esquilone]

- Winter Violets II

──────────୨ৎ───────────

RDR2 | Charles Smith x F! reader

❤︎ Summary: After everything that happened with the gang, Charles Smith sets out for Canada in search of a new beginning. Far from his past, he dreams of a peaceful life, maybe even a family. Riding along the vast, silent roads of Canada, he never expected to find anyone. But then, he heard it. A call for help. A voice lost in the wind. When he stopped to help you; a woman, he thought it was just a fleeting moment. But when, months later, your paths crossed again, something felt different. It became clear that this was never just a coincidence. Could there be something more to it?

❤︎ Genre tags: Explicit (not in this chapter)

WARNINGS ⚠️ : mentions of violence against women, blo0d, corpses and mention of cannib4lism (supposedly). Nothing too extreme.

Author's notes: this text hasn't been completely revised yet, I'm probably going to avoid Canadian accents because I don't know if they make the texts strange or something... but since it's set in the South, where people don't have such strong accents, it won't be strange if I take out some accents, I'll try to keep some dialogues, I hope you like this chapter, the hardest part for me is organizing it and putting it into English. c:

FIRST PART HERE! 01 PART 3 HERE!! 03

Chapter 2

Time had passed since that night when you and Charles shared dinner. Mornings had returned to their usual silence, and your routine hadn’t changed much. But then, small details started to bother you.

First, there were the footprints near the fence. Not Charles’s from that day—these seemed more recent, and you knew how to recognize his. These were different, neither his nor yours, and there was more than one pair. They had appeared in the dead of night, close to the chicken coop.

Then, there was the constant feeling that someone was watching you.

You brushed off the thoughts and went about your routine. Morning arrived lazily, bringing with it a thin mist that lingered over the trees. You opened the front door and took in the fresh air, the scent of damp earth and wood filling your lungs. The wind rustled the leaves, making tiny hairs on your skin stand up, as the first rays of sunlight touched the porch.

It was always like this. Silence, routine.

With a sigh, you adjusted your skirt and went to fetch water from the storage outside. The rope creaked slightly as the bucket rose, rough wood scraping against your palm. With effort, you poured some of the water into a watering can and made your way to the backyard, toward the garden. The plants were lush, their green leaves gleaming with droplets of morning dew. You moved between them, carefully watering each one—mint, rosemary, thyme… The scent of herbs blended with the damp soil, bringing a comforting sense of peace and lifting your mood

Once you finished, you sat on the porch, pulling out your sketchbook. The pages bore faint smudges of graphite from your fingers and small stains of watercolor—remnants of hours spent capturing the tiny details of the world around you.

Today, you chose a raven.

It always appeared nearby, perching on the trunk of a dead tree by the fence. A solitary creature, always watching, as if it knew something you didn’t. Maybe it understood how isolated you felt—just like it. The only difference was that it was freer than you. Perhaps that was why it came to visit you from time to time.

With light pencil strokes, you started with its wings, then its sharp, attentive eyes—so dark yet intelligent. You lost yourself in the details of its feathers, the shape of its beak, the elegant curve of its neck.

Time passed without you noticing.

You only realized it when your stomach growled.

Setting the sketchbook aside, you went to the kitchen. The scent of coffee still lingered from earlier, mixed with the faint aroma of bread you had baked the day before. You grabbed a cast-iron pot, tossing in a few pieces of potato and carrot, stirring slowly as the soup warmed.

The kettle whistled on the stove, steam rising steadily. You set aside some chamomile tea, letting the leaves steep into the hot water.

Washing the dishes was an automatic process—your hands in the icy water, the soft clinking of plates, the soap bubbles sliding between your fingers. But your mind kept drifting back to the footprints near the house… It was strange.

You tried to ignore it. Maybe they belonged to travelers passing through. Maybe your imagination was playing tricks on you, and they were just your own footprints.

But when you went into town, an unexpected warning left you uneasy:

— Miss, be careful when you head back home. — The old postman adjusted his worn hat, glancing around before lowering his voice. — There are some strange men about.

— What do you mean? — You frowned, gripping your bag of supplies.

— A house was burned down this week. — He let out a sigh, shaking his head. — And a ranch was raided. Livestock killed and stolen, tools gone… — His calloused hands clutched the bundle of letters against his chest. — Just stay alert.

A chill ran down your spine. You knew the region could be dangerous, but something like this hadn’t happened in years.

— Have these men been seen around here?

— Not yet. But if it’s anything like last time, they start in the outskirts and then move in deeper.

You swallowed hard and thanked him, grabbing your packages and walking away with hurried steps, ready to go home. You knew the postman as well as your father once did—he wasn’t the type to lie. But the region wasn’t dangerous, and if something like that had happened, it was probably farther away.

The house was peaceful. The only sound was the occasional creaking of wood under the heat of the oil lamps. You were finishing your meal, the last remnants of dinner still warm on the plate. A simple meal, but satisfying. With a sigh, you pushed the chair back and gathered the dishes. The water in the basin reflected the soft glow of the flame as you washed everything, feeling the lukewarm touch on your fingers. The movement was automatic, almost soothing.

It had been a long day.

After your visit to town, the conversation with the postman kept echoing in your mind. He had always been a kind man, not one for many words, but today… today, something felt different.

“Be careful around these parts. I’ve heard of some strange folks lurking around farms. Just stay alert, alright?”

You knew how to take care of yourself. You always had. But for some reason, his warning wouldn’t leave your mind.

With a sigh, you grabbed a towel and went to the room you used as a bathroom. The water in the bucket was cold as it ran down your skin, the shock sending a shiver up your spine. You rubbed your arms, your face, letting the coolness ease some of the tension.

When you were done, you put on your pajamas—a long-sleeved cream-colored blouse with delicate blue bird and leaf details, along with thick fabric pants, comfortable against the night’s chill. You turned off some of the oil lamps on your way to the bedroom, leaving only one lit on the bedside table.

The old double bed was made of dark wood. You lay down on the sheets, staring at the ceiling. The silence around you felt heavier that night, pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible warning.

A strange chill in your stomach.

Maybe it was just anxiety… but why?

You pulled the thick blankets over your body, a nearly childish gesture, seeking comfort in the warmth of the soft fabric.

“Don’t be silly. Everything is fine.”

Even so, you clutched a pillow, hugging it against your chest. Your eyes slowly drifted shut, but the silence didn’t bring rest.

Then…

A noise.

Low, coming from outside.

You opened your eyes slowly. Your heart jumped in your chest, alert to any sound.

It was quick—maybe the wind, maybe an animal.

You took a deep breath, trying to ignore it. Maybe it was just your imagination.

Eventually, sleep won over, but it didn’t last long.

An hour later, your eyes opened again.

Your throat was dry.

You sat up slowly, feeling the cold wood under your bare feet. You grabbed the oil lamp and stood up, pulling a sheet and a blanket over your arms, trying to shield yourself from the sharp wind creeping into the house. Even though you were used to solitude, something about that night made your body tense with unease.

You walked to the kitchen, trying not to think too much about the strange discomfort weighing on you.

The water bucket was still near the sink. You picked up a clay cup, crouched down, and dipped it into the dark, cool liquid. You drank slowly, feeling it run down your throat, refreshing—but not enough to chase away the restlessness.

Cup in hand, you walked slowly through the house, your thoughts scattered.

For a brief moment, you thought of Charles.

His calm demeanor, his sharp eyes. The way he always seemed to sense when something was wrong.

Maybe it was just paranoia, but a part of you wished he was around.

And that’s when you saw it.

You stopped by the window, the cup still between your fingers. Outside, under the pale moonlight, the chicken coop was open.

Your heart pounded harder.

The fence stood dark and empty, the small door wide open, swinging slightly with the wind. You frowned. You were sure you had locked it before going to bed.

A sense of unease crept over you.

Setting the cup aside, you took a deep breath and walked to the back door. Your hand hesitated over the handle for a second.

Then, slowly, you turned it…

And stepped outside.

The moonlight bathed you as soon as you opened the door, and you clutched the blanket tighter around your shoulders and arms while your gaze swept across the property, stretching out in moderate size. The dewy grass and the almost absolute silence only intensified the feeling that something was out of place.

You walked with careful steps, the sound of your footsteps blending with the soft whisper of the wind. As you neared the chicken coop, the dim light revealed its simple structure and the animals resting inside. For a moment, everything seemed normal. You closed the coop door with an almost automatic gesture, but the lingering sense that something was wrong persisted.

As you made your way back along the dirt path, a low, indistinct noise—perhaps the rustling of leaves or a distant groan—made your heart race for a brief moment. A shiver ran down your spine. It wasn’t the paralyzing fear of living alone, but rather a vague, inexplicable discomfort, as if the silence itself had become suspicious.

Keeping your eyes sharp on the darkness around you, you decided to return to the warmth and safety of the house. You shut the door firmly, locked it, and, for a brief moment, stood in front of it, trying to convince yourself it was just your imagination.

Back in your room, you lay down in your parents’ old but cozy bed. The soft sheets and thick blankets had been carefully arranged. As you settled in, your thoughts tangled together—the image of the chicken coop, the strange sound, the vulnerability you couldn’t quite explain.

You closed your eyes and hugged the pillow against your chest, trying to surrender to sleep, hoping that the cold and the silence of the night would fade into nothing more than another small detail of your solitary routine.

Two days after that unsettling night, at dawn, you woke up with the vague memory of the strange sound and the eerie sensation you had felt. Still dwelling on it…

With your mind full of thoughts, you decided to face the day with your usual chores. First, you headed to the backyard to tend to the chicken coop. Dressed in simple clothes and still wrapped in the lingering warmth of the blankets you had used to ward off the wind, you began scattering feed for the chickens. As your careful fingers let the grains fall to the ground, you couldn’t help but notice something felt different. Normally, the soft rustling of feathers and the comforting clucking would fill the air. But today, something was off.

After feeding the animals, you went to collect the eggs to bring them inside. The nagging feeling wouldn’t leave you, so you decided to count the chickens.

Your heart picked up its pace.

Two or three were missing.

The realization left you stunned. In this region, you were sure there were no predators that fed on chickens—no foxes, no wild animals you knew of.

What?

The discomfort grew as your sharp eyes scanned the perimeter of the coop, searching for any sign of what might have happened. Nothing pointed to an intruder or an opportunistic animal. And yet, the unease remained.

Without wasting any time, you secured the coop firmly and, trying to regain your composure, continued feeding the remaining chickens. Then, with slightly trembling hands, you gathered the eggs and carried them inside, where you prepared your simple meal. But the feeling of loss and the mystery of the missing birds clung to you.

After finishing your chores, you returned to the backyard to water the garden. As you poured water over the plants with the same delicate care as always, despite your unease, your mind drifted between doubts and a faint fear you couldn’t quite understand.

The cold seeped into the skin like tiny, invisible blades. It was nothing Charles couldn’t endure, but still, he pulled his poncho a little tighter over his shoulders before crouching to check one of the traps he had set near the river.

Nothing.

Straightening up, he cast his gaze over the gray sky stretching above the open landscape. The wind howled strong that morning, shaking the trees around the camp, making Taima snort softly in annoyance.

— Yeah, I don’t like this weather much either — he muttered to the mare as he knelt to tend to the nearly extinguished fire.

He hadn’t slept well the night before.

Something about the silence in the region felt… off. Not that he believed in bad omens, but years of a wandering life had taught him to trust his instincts.

And his instincts told him something was out of place.

He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts. The day demanded work. He stood up and walked over to the small pile of hides and furs he had set aside for sale. Local traders paid well for good material, and he already had a decent amount to bargain with.

Taima followed him as he prepared to leave. Charles ran a hand along the mare’s neck, feeling the warmth of the animal against the cold skin of his own hand.

— Come on, girl. We’ve got work to do.

He mounted the saddle, adjusted the gloves on his hands, and guided the mare onto the dirt road leading to the small town. The plan was simple: sell the materials, get supplies, and maybe have a word with the gunsmith about new arrows. But as he moved farther from the camp, the strange feeling from the previous day settled in the back of his mind once more. He wasn’t the type to get carried away by paranoia, but something about that quiet land felt off.

The forest at dawn was a place of silence and expectation. He rode Taima naturally, taking in the fresh scent of damp earth and pine resin in the air. The mare’s gallop was firm and rhythmic as he guided the animal through familiar terrain, passing moss-covered rocks and streams winding through the trees. The cold wind cut across his face, but he was used to it. In Canada, the cold was a constant presence, even in summer, and he had learned to live with it. After all, he was an American.

Hunting required patience. He dismounted, tied Taima to a low branch, and proceeded on foot, stepping carefully through the sparse grass that still remained in some spots. The tracks were fresh—deer. He crouched, studying the signs closely: deep marks in the soil, some leaves grazed. Ready with his bow, he moved forward in absolute silence.

When he finally spotted the animal, his body reacted instinctively. He pulled the bowstring back slowly, feeling the tension in his fingers, and aimed precisely between the deer’s ribs. He released the arrow. The impact was clean; the deer leaped once before collapsing to the ground, panting. Charles walked over to it and, with a swift knife stroke, ended its suffering. Skinning and cleaning the kill was part of the routine. With expert skill, he removed the hide, separating meat, bones, and organs, making use of everything he could. His hands were stained with blood as he secured the hide to Taima’s back and prepared to return. Along the way, he caught a few more rabbits, easy to snare with simple traps. All of it would fetch a good price in town.

The small village was busy, at least by local standards. Simple wooden houses, a general store, a blacksmith, and a saloon clustered around the main road. Charles dismounted and walked straight to the gunsmith, where he sold some of the feathers and pelts he had gathered.

As he waited for payment, he overheard conversations around him.

— Have you heard? — a man’s voice asked another.

— What? Heard about what? — the other responded, confused.

— Another cabin burned down this week… — one of them murmured.

— They took everything before that. Left nothing behind, not even the horses. Lucky for the owners, they weren’t home at the time.

Charles didn’t react, but he listened carefully.

— Must be just some drifter, people without a place to go — another said, trying not to show concern.

That was unusual. Sure, there were always thieves and outlaws, but frequent arsons and looting weren’t common in such a peaceful region. It wasn’t for nothing that he preferred to travel through those parts. He received his payment, left the shop, and led Taima out of town.

As he rode back along the path near the river, the sound of running water caught his attention. But that wasn’t what made him stop—it was the figure kneeling by the riverbank, washing clothes.

You.

Your bare arms worked against the soaked fabric, scrubbing with determination. Your hair was tied up carelessly, a few loose strands falling over your face. And yet, you looked so… right.

Your movements were practical, habitual, as if you had done this all your life. The simple dress you wore was already a little wet near your ankles.

Charles dismounted slowly, watching. He hadn’t expected to run into you so soon again. You hadn’t noticed him at first, too focused on your task. But then, you felt it. A slight shiver on your skin, a strange intuition. When you tilted your head and looked to the side, your gaze met his.

He didn’t speak immediately. He just stood there, his mare drinking from the river beside him, observing. You blinked, surprised, then sighed.

— Are you following me, Charles? — your voice was light, almost playful, but with a hint of suspicion.

Fool.

But even without looking, he could still hear the rhythmic sound of clothes being wrung, water dripping, and wet fabric sliding against the stone.

— So, did you find any work? — your voice sounded casual, but there was a slight nervousness in it.

Charles lifted his gaze again, a little surprised. You had never been rude to him, but most of the time, you seemed to avoid him, as if his presence bothered you in some way. At least, that was the impression he had. You rarely looked at him directly, and now, striking up a conversation out of nowhere, had caught him off guard.

You were still focused on the clothes, running your hands firmly over the fabric, not meeting his eyes. The white foam dissolved in the current, disappearing downstream.

— Picked up some small jobs. — he answered, rubbing the back of his neck, now without the poncho since it wasn’t as cold anymore. — Leather, feathers, a bit of hunting. Whatever I can sell and trade for other things.

You nodded, lifting the soapy cloth to rinse it in the clear water. The rolled-up sleeves of your blouse left your forearms exposed, and as you pressed the fabric against the stone, a thin stream of water slid down your skin to your elbow before dripping into the river.

Charles noticed it and, for an instant, his gaze lingered there, distracted. But he quickly pulled himself together when he realized you were watching him from the corner of your eye.

— And you? — he asked, breaking the tension.

You shrugged, raising the garment to wring it firmly between your hands. The sound of wet fabric snapping under your fingers echoed softly.

— The usual. Taking care of the house. But there are things that need fixing.

He tilted his head slightly.

— That doesn’t seem like work you should be doing alone.

You smirked, leaning forward to wet another piece of fabric, your hips naturally following the motion.

— That’s exactly why I asked if you were still looking for work.

He stayed silent for a moment, just watching you. It wasn’t the first time someone had offered him a job like that, but coming from you, the proposal felt different. It wasn’t out of pity, nor because you saw him as some desperate outsider. It was simply practical—you needed help, and he knew how to do that kind of work.

You let out a small sigh, tossing another drenched, wrung-out piece into a basin on the rock.

— The fence is a mess. I need to reinforce some parts before something decides to get through. I couldn’t do it alone.

Charles glanced away toward the water before nodding slightly.

— I can take a look.

You smiled slightly, returning to scrubbing the clothes against the stone. This time, without realizing it, Charles watched for a little longer than he should have. After wringing out the last piece of clothing, you tossed it onto the pile you had made on the rock. The sun was already strong, and the water slowly dripping into the river darkened the soil below, forming small puddles between the stones.

You picked up one of the buckets and poured the remaining water onto the ground, watching the muddy stream slide until it was absorbed by the earth. Then, without much hurry, you placed the clean clothes inside the buckets, stacking them carefully to keep them from falling on the way back.

— If you want to stop by later, it can be in the morning or after lunch. — you said, picking up the second bucket and lifting it.

Charles gave a slight nod.

— Alright.

You didn’t prolong the conversation, just adjusted the handle of the bucket on your forearm and started walking back home. The sound of dry leaves crunching under your boots mixed with the soft murmur of the river behind you, where Charles remained, watching as you walked away.

He stood still for a moment after you left, observing the slight sway of the bucket as you moved. Then, he sighed and turned, heading toward where Taima grazed calmly near the closest tree. He patted the mare’s neck before adjusting the reins, mounting without haste. His plan was to return to camp and get things organized before anything else. The new pile of hides he had prepared earlier needed to be tied and stacked properly for drying, and some arrows had to be replenished.

The way back was quiet, with few sounds besides the hooves against the dry ground. Charles thought about the town, about the comments he had overheard earlier regarding strange happenings in the area. People disappearing, animals found dead without explanation… He didn’t like paying attention to rumors, but something about that kind of talk unsettled him.

At camp, he dismounted and got to work. He set aside wood that was still usable for firewood, checked the hides, and sharpened his knife. It was a silent but useful routine. While organizing the furs to sell the next day, he found himself thinking about you—about the way you scrubbed the clothes against the stone, how your body moved so naturally. How, for the first time, you seemed less distant or uncomfortable when speaking to him.

After a while, he pushed those foolish thoughts aside and finished what he had to do. Tomorrow, there would be work.

The morning sun cast a soft light over the land as you stepped outside. The fresh breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and a few light clouds floated across the sky.

You wore a simple dress, made of soft, lightweight fabric, without the excessive volume some women in town preferred. The delicate fit accentuated your silhouette without constraining you, allowing you to move comfortably. The short sleeves left your arms free for work, and as you walked through the yard, the fabric brushed lightly against your legs.

You headed toward the area where you kept the tools, needing to organize a few things before Charles arrived. The thought of seeing him again brought a strange nervousness—not quite anxiety, but a different sensation, hard to define. As you sorted through some stacked wood and checked the nails and hammers, you heard a sound in the distance. Hooves and firm, steady footsteps approaching along the dirt road.

You turned slowly, and there he was.

Charles walked with his usual calm posture, guiding Taima beside him. The sun cast subtle shadows across his face, and he looked completely at ease in that landscape, as if he belonged to that kind of life.

You opened the small back gate and held it for a moment before stepping aside, making room for him to pass.

— This way. — you said, pointing toward the fence.

He simply nodded and entered. You led him to where the damage was most evident, quickly explaining what needed fixing. Charles listened without interrupting, observing the damage attentively.

When he began sorting the wood and organizing the tools, you returned to your own tasks. You cleaned up around the porch, checked on the chickens, and after a while, walked over to Archer, your horse, who was resting near the side enclosure.

— It’s a beautiful day, huh, boy? — you murmured, running your hand along his neck and giving him a few kisses. Archer snorted softly and shook his head, as if responding to your affection.

The early hours of the morning passed peacefully. The sound of wood being cut blended with the wind, and you noticed that Charles worked unhurriedly but with precision. He didn’t waste movements. You watched him for a moment, observing him without realizing it. There was something fascinating about the way he handled the tools, the quiet strength behind each action.

After a while, you went back inside. But as you passed through the kitchen, you felt a slight discomfort seeing him out there, working alone since early morning. He hadn’t asked for anything, but still…

Without thinking much about it, you grabbed a mug of hot coffee and stepped outside again.

You walked over to where he was, the strong, bitter smell filling the air between you. Charles noticed your approach and looked up, a bit puzzled to see you standing there, until he saw you holding the mug with both hands. His face didn’t show much expression, but the way you slightly lowered your head, as if unsure about the gesture, made him accept it without hesitation.

— Thanks — he said, taking the mug from your hands.

You nodded slightly, stepping back as he took a sip.

You leaned against the porch wall, lightly crossing your arms, unaware of the naturally feminine grace of the gesture. The morning breeze played with a few loose strands of your hair as you looked at Charles, still holding the now-empty coffee mug.

— So? — your voice came out softer than you expected. — What do you think needs to be done? Can we fix the fence, or will we have to replace something?

Charles lowered the mug and looked at the enclosure, as if analyzing every detail again. He stepped closer to the structure, tapped one of the wooden posts lightly, and frowned.

— I think one side of the fence is hollow inside — he remarked. — The wood is rotten in some spots. If we just reinforce it, it might not last long. Better to replace this part altogether.

You sighed and uncrossed your arms, nodding.

— Makes sense… Is it a lot of work?

He shook his head.

— Nothing a bit of new wood won’t fix.

You thought for a moment before offering a small smile.

— Well, we have a carpenter in town. We can go there today with the wagon.

Charles just nodded, as if he had no issue with that.

— Then let’s make a list first — he suggested.

You agreed and went inside to grab paper and a pencil. Charles followed shortly after, and the two of you sat at the table. As you wrote, he suggested the necessary materials: wooden planks, nails, some hinges for reinforcement, and a new latch for the small gate.

— This should be enough — he said.

You checked the list, gave him one last look, and then stood up.

— Alright, I’ll get the wagon ready.

Outside, you let out the other horses, who were already waiting patiently, and adjusted the wagon’s harnesses. Charles helped secure everything in place, checking the fastenings while you tied a final firm knot.

Before getting into the wagon, you quickly passed through the porch and went inside, heading to your room to adjust your outfit. You chose an aquamarine-blue dress—your favorite color—made of soft, lightweight fabric that fit well without being too extravagant, something more appropriate for going out. The sleeves were rolled up just above your elbows, and the small lace-trimmed buttons down the front gave it a discreet yet practical touch. You put on a delicate hat, tying it under your chin to keep the wind from blowing it away.

When you returned, Charles was already sitting on the wagon bench, holding the reins. You climbed up beside him, carefully gathering the skirt of your dress so it wouldn’t get caught on the metal parts, and settled into the wooden seat.

— Ready? — he asked.

You held your hat against your face to shield yourself from the wind and nodded.

— Ready.

Charles clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, making the horses take their first steps. The wagon began moving smoothly along the dirt road.

The journey was peaceful, with only the sound of the wheels creaking against the ground and the rhythmic trot of the horse. You gazed at the landscape, enjoying the crisp morning air and the scent of damp earth.

— Thanks for helpin’ with this — you said, making conversation.

— It’s no problem — he replied simply.

Silence settled for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You adjusted your hat and glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

— Have you worked much with wood before? — you asked, your voice carrying the subtle lilt of your Canadian accent.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the road.

— A little. I’ve built cabins, reinforced some fences… Things like that.

— Damn. — you admitted, absentmindedly playing with the brim of your hat. — So you must know exactly what you’re doing.

He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

— Enough to make sure the fence doesn’t fall on anyone.

You chuckled softly, and the sound seemed to relax him a bit. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just a natural pause. You liked that about him—how he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with words.

— Have you ever stayed in one place for long? — you asked after a while.

He thought before answering, his eyes narrowing slightly under the sun.

— Not often. The longest was about six months, and another time maybe five. Depends on what I’m doing. But staying in one place too long ain’t always easy.

You absorbed those words, wondering if he was only talking about work or if there was something deeper behind his answer. You didn’t want to push.

Give him space. It’s not even your concern !!!

The town wasn’t large, but it was bustling that morning. Merchants arranged their stalls, children ran through the alleys, and the scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery. You guided Charles toward a small carpentry shop at the end of the main street. He pulled the wagon up beside the weathered wooden entrance. You stepped down, smoothing your dress and adjusting your hat before heading inside.

— I won’t be long — you told him.

He simply nodded, staying beside the wagon.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut wood and varnish. The carpenter, a stocky middle-aged man, looked up as you approached.

— Ah, good mornin’, miss! What can I do for ya today? — his voice carried the rough drawl of a seasoned craftsman.

You pulled the list from your pocket and handed it to him.

— I need these wooden planks and some nails.

He skimmed through it quickly and nodded.

— I can get that together for ya. Need help loadin’ it up?

— No, thank you. I have someone helpin’ me with the wagon.

The carpenter headed to the back of the shop to gather the materials. Meanwhile, you glanced around, taking in the shelves stocked with tools and carved wooden pieces.

After a few minutes, he returned, carrying the planks and other supplies.

— Here ya go. I’ll have one of the boys help load it up for ya.

You smiled in gratitude.

— Thank you.

While you waited, you chatted with him about the farm, mentioning the work that needed to be done. He listened attentively before crossing his arms and letting out a small sigh.

— Well, just be careful on the road. Ya know how things are these days—never know who might be lurkin’ around.

A small chill ran down your spine, but you kept your expression neutral.

— I always am.

He nodded, and soon the helpers loaded the wood onto the wagon. You thanked them and said your goodbyes before heading back to where Charles was waiting.

Charles stood beside the wagon, his posture relaxed yet attentive. When you approached, he lifted his gaze to you, and for an instant, your eyes met. There was something about him… a quiet kindness that contrasted with his strong appearance and the way he always seemed prepared for anything.

— All set? — he asked, his voice low and calm.

You nodded as you climbed onto the wagon.

— Yes. They’ve loaded everything. We can go.

He got up beside you, took the reins, and with a soft click of his tongue, made Archer start moving.

The ride back began smoothly. The wagon swayed slightly with each bump on the road, and you adjusted your hat to keep the sun from shining directly on your face.

— The carpenter said to be careful on the road — you commented after a while.

Charles glanced at you from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the trail ahead.

— And he’s right. It’s always good to stay alert.

You held your hat against the wind, watching the trees slowly pass by.

— Have you run into any trouble around here?

He shrugged.

— Not much. Nothing serious, but I heard some talk last time I was in town.

— What kind of talk?

He pressed his lips together slightly, as if deciding whether or not to tell you.

— Strange folks passing through these areas. Unusual movement.

You frowned.

— Bandits?

— Maybe. Or just people looking for trouble.

Silence settled between you again, but this time it was heavier, as if both of you were considering the possibilities.

The wind blew a little stronger, and you pulled your shawl lightly over your shoulders. Still, even with that lingering sense of caution in the air, there was something comforting about Charles’ presence. The road was long, and you’d likely arrive home around five or six in the afternoon, but his company made everything feel a little easier. Even though you barely knew him.

The wagon followed the dirt road, rocking slightly over each uneven patch. The afternoon sun gilded the landscape, filtering through the trees and casting soft shadows on the ground. The wind was warm but pleasant, making the loose strands of your hair escape from the improvised bun, fluttering around your face.

You tucked the strands behind your ear, an unconscious gesture, as you observed Charles beside you. He guided the wagon with ease, holding the reins firmly but without urgency. There was something about him — the steady posture, the sharp eyes on the road, the way he seemed to belong in that setting, as if the natural world was more of a home to him than any town or city.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but your curiosity began to grow. There was still so much you didn’t know about him:

— Charles… — your voice broke the calm. He tilted his head slightly to show he was listening, though his gaze remained on the road.

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting your hat against the setting sun hitting your face, before asking:

— What’s your full name?

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. His fingers adjusted the reins absentmindedly before answering.

— Charles Smith. — The response was straightforward, but he noticed your expectant expression and sighed, relenting a little more. — My full name is Charles Chatunka Smith.

— Chatunka?? — you repeated, tilting your head. The sound was different, unusual—at least to you.

He nodded, still focused on the road.

— My father was African American, my mother was Lakota. The name came from her.

His explanation was simple, but there was something beneath it—something that suggested Charles wasn’t a man who often spoke about himself.

— It’s a beautiful name. — You smiled, and he finally glanced at you, seeming a bit surprised by the comment. — I think it suits you. Simple and mysterious. — you added.

He didn’t respond, but his lips curved slightly into what could be a subtle smile.

— And you? What’s your full name? — He looked at you now.

You told him, and you saw Charles nod slowly, as if committing it to memory.

— Beautiful… — he remarked, and this time, it was your turn to be surprised.

You smiled softly and looked away, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

— Thank you…

The conversation continued, flowing naturally. You spoke more than he did, even though you were naturally shy. But there was something about Charles that made it easier to keep talking. He listened attentively, responded when necessary, and his calm demeanor contrasted with the chaotic world around you. He paid close attention to details—something rare. At one point, you laughed at something you had said, brushing your hair away from your face again. The sound was light, more relaxed than you expected. And for a moment, Charles observed you—his dark eyes capturing details: the curve of your soft lips, full of life, the sparkle in your eyes, the delicate way your fingers moved the loose strands. But he quickly looked away, focusing back on the road ahead. Silence settled between you again, but this time, it felt more comfortable. The road stretched long before you, and you traveled it without much hurry.

The road narrowed as you approached the area where your house was. There wasn’t much left… just a few more hours and you’d be back. That was when Charles started to slow the horse’s pace, his gaze locking ahead.

— Something’s wrong…— he muttered, his deep voice tense.

You followed his gaze and felt a shiver run down your spine. Further ahead, three men stood in the middle of the road, armed and wearing predatory expressions. A few more were scattered around, circling an overturned wagon on the side of the road. Another empty wagon. The thin smoke in the air made it clear it had been burned on purpose.

Charles pulled the reins to a stop and remained still for a moment, his muscles tensing.

— Well, well… what do we have here? — one of the men said, walking toward you with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the loaded wagon and whistled. — Looks like you folks found yourselves a nice treasure.

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pounding.

— We're just passing through – Charles said, his voice calm, but controlled. He didn't make any sudden movements, keeping his hands visible.

Another of the men laughed, approaching from the side.

— In passing? And carrying all this? Hm... I don't know, it seems that maybe we need to charge a toll.

— Hey, you guys there! Get off the wagon, now. No cute.- the other thief shouted.

Charles exchanged a quick look with you, which seemed to be stiff as a rock, before letting go of the reins slowly and going down. You hesitated for a moment, but the way they screamed and talked made you immediately follow him. Charles in front of you, like a shield.

— Look at that… Obedient ones. That makes things easier.

Another man laughed, tapping his gun against the palm of his hand.

Charles remained firm, but you saw his jaw clench. Then, the first man tilted his head and looked directly at you, the way his eyes slid over your body making your stomach turn.

— Well, well… what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here? — his voice was laced with fake concern.

— Come on, sweetheart, no need to hide behind him. Step forward, let us see you properly…

You could feel your blood rushing faster than normal.

— And what’s a little thing like you doing running around with him? — The man’s voice was thick with disdain and cruel amusement, clearly referring to Charles’ skin color. He didn’t even bother looking at him, his eyes shamelessly roaming over you instead.

You frowned, feeling a chill down your spine, but before you could respond, he took a step forward, tilting his head with a crooked grin.

— A pretty thing like you… You could be keeping much better company. — His gaze swept up and down your body, lingering on your hips. He slowly licked his teeth. — I bet plenty of men out there would love to have a woman like you.

Your fingers clenched involuntarily around the fabric of your skirt, and you swallowed hard, instinctively looking away. Coward.

Charles remained motionless at your side, but you noticed how his body stiffened. His shoulders tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw standing out beneath his skin. The fingers near the shotgun at his belt turned white from how hard he was gripping them.

— Come on now, darling, no need to hide behind him. We just wanna talk… — The bandit laughed, and the others joined in.

— LEAVE SHE ALONE!! — Charles growled, his voice filled with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. His tone startled you a little.

The bandit merely raised an eyebrow, studying him with pure contempt, as if Charles’ anger was insignificant. A sneering smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

— Oh… The mutt knows how to growl.

Charles still hadn’t moved, but his silence was as heavy as his presence. It was like a storm about to break — a silence thick with something dark, simmering beneath the surface. You could feel the tension radiating off him, even without looking directly.

— Relax, redskin, no need to get all worked up. — The man taunted, throwing his head back. — We ain’t gonna hurt your little lady… Maybe. — The laughter that followed made your stomach churn.

You frowned at the man’s words, discomfort growing in your chest. But when he licked his teeth again and let his eyes wander over you once more, this time pausing at your chest, watching the way it rose and fell with each breath, before stepping closer, a cold shiver ran down your spine. You felt nervous.

His eyes locked onto yours, sensing your discomfort. A filthy, twisted smirk formed on his lips.

— You know… I think we could just take this wagon. But… — He made a dramatic pause, pretending to consider, then chuckled, throwing a glance at his men.

— I could do better… I could kill you both, burn your bodies, devour you. This red one first, of course… and you, my love… — He left the sentence hanging, taking another step closer, his mocking tone laced with something darker.

Your body stiffened. Fear exploded inside you in a way you hadn’t expected. Your father had taught you to carry a gun, to never be weak… but now? It had been so many years since you’d seen or heard of a robbery. And you never thought you’d feel like this. That you’d shake inside like this. But these men were strange.

The bandit’s grin widened when he noticed your silence. But before he could step any closer, Charles moved. He stepped forward again, placing himself directly between you and that man. The bandit took a step back, annoyed, and then, in an instant, drew his gun and aimed it straight at you.

Your heart leaped in your chest, your legs seemed to go weak. The world felt like it was spinning as you lowered your gaze to the ground, trying to control your breathing. Fear crawled inside you like poison. Charles, however, did not move. He did not blink. He just stood there, between you and the gun, his body rigid as stone.

The gang leader sneered:

— Hey, Darkie, she ain’t worth dying for. Just another little bitch!

Charles’ breathing turned heavy. He did not hesitate. The bandit beside him got distracted, glancing at one of his men rummaging through the wagon’s cargo.

It was his mistake.

In a swift and precise movement, Charles drew his gun and fired. The first bandit fell backward, a large, dark hole in his chest. Before the others could react, Charles moved like a predator, drawing his revolver and firing two more times. Another man collapsed, bleeding from his neck, and the third shouted in surprise before running into the brush, heading toward the trees—but Charles shot him in the head before he could escape.

The scent of gunpowder filled the air. Silence returned to the road.

You shivered. Your chest rose and fell uncontrollably, your vision blurred by the shock. You barely recognized yourself. This was a peaceful region. You had never seen anything like this up close. You didn’t even notice the few minutes passing as he walked quickly toward you. Charles turned to you, his dark eyes scanning your face carefully. His breathing was still slightly quickened from the fight, but there was something else there—concern.

— Are you alright? — he asked, his voice low, rough, but filled with care and worry.

You blinked, the sounds around you seeming muffled, distant. The world still felt unstable beneath your feet, the air still heavy with the scent of gunpowder and dirt. You wanted to answer, but your throat was dry. Charles didn’t touch you right away, respecting your space. But when you took a step toward the wagon and your legs wobbled, he stepped in a little closer, his hand hovering near, ready to catch you if needed.

Your body trembled. You knew you should move, get out of there, but each step felt slow, like walking through quicksand.

— Take a deep breath — he murmured beside you.

You tried, but the air felt shallow, weak.

— I… I’m… — The word came out so faint that you doubted you had spoken at all. Still, Charles nodded, patient.

— Stay calm, try to relax. You’re okay.

He extended his hand, not to force you, but to offer the choice. You hesitated for a second, then let your fingers touch his arm, feeling the thick fabric of his shirt against your skin. Charles didn’t move right away, just letting you take the support at your own pace.

When you finally managed to climb onto the wagon, your movements were still hesitant, almost mechanical. You sat down slowly, your back meeting the wagon’s hard wood.

That was when a distant sound cut through the air—wheels and hooves approaching.

Charles turned his head toward the road, eyes sharp. You heard it too, even in your dazed state.

A second wagon came into view, carrying two men and a woman—probably local farmers. They slowed their pace when they saw you, their faces tense as they noticed the bodies on the ground and the lingering tension in the air.

— Shit… Everything alright here? — one of them asked, gripping the reins more firmly.

Charles nodded slowly but didn’t fully relax.

— Some men tried to rob us — he answered.

The newcomers exchanged concerned glances.

— Did you kill them?

— Didn’t have a choice — Charles said simply, without any pride in his voice.

One of the men sighed and shook his head.

— This is happening more and more… We’re heading into town. We’ll let the law know. They need to be aware these bastards are lurking around here.

Charles nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

— Appreciate it.

They exchanged a few more words before moving on. You remained where you were, eyes still fixed on some undefined point, the men’s voices mixing with the echoes in your own mind. Charles then climbed onto the wagon beside you, adjusting the reins. The horses were still restless, and he ran a hand along one’s neck, murmuring something low to soothe them.

You felt the wagon begin to move, the wheels creaking against the packed dirt road. The familiar sway should have been comforting, but everything felt off, like you were still trapped in the moment that had just unfolded.

The way back was silent.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but seeing your house in the distance brought a strange sense of relief. As soon as Charles stopped the horses in the yard, you stepped down slowly, your legs feeling a little steadier but still uncertain. Without saying anything, you walked to the porch and sat down with a short sigh, trying to regain your composure.

Charles watched you for a moment before tying up the horses and following. He didn’t want to invade your space, but he also didn’t want to leave you alone in that state.

— Do you want some water?

You blinked, pulling your eyes away from the ground.

— What?

— Water. — He repeated, pointing to the bucket nearby, the one you had filled to pour into the house’s water filter.

You hesitated but eventually nodded.

He poured some and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his as you took the cup, and you noticed that he was warm, strong, yet at the same time, not intrusive. It was a strange contrast, but comforting.

— T-Thank you. — Your voice came out quiet. You took a sip, feeling the coolness spread through your chest.

Charles then sat beside you on the porch, his weight making the wood creak slightly beneath you both.

He didn’t speak immediately, just looked ahead, toward the golden horizon of the setting sun. You knew he wanted to ask something, but he seemed to be giving you time.

You swallowed hard, still feeling your pulse racing.

— I… I didn’t expect that. — You admitted, your voice coming out almost in a whisper.

Charles turned his head toward you, his dark eyes studying you carefully.

— No one does. — He replied, his voice deep but calm.

You lowered your gaze to the cup of water in your hands, your fingers trembling slightly around it.

— I’ve seen things like that before, when I was younger. — You inhaled, hesitating. — But… it’s been so long. I thought…

You stopped because even you didn’t know exactly what you had thought. That these things didn’t happen there? That you’d be more prepared?

Charles didn’t push you to continue. Instead, he gave a small nod.

— They were cowards. — He said, his voice firmer now. — Men like that… They live to scare others.

You took a deep breath, trying to hold onto his words. But a part of you still felt uneasy, a lingering trace of fear clinging to your chest. Your eyes met his, and you noticed the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his hands were clenched against his thighs. Charles seemed calm, but you knew this had angered him.

Then, without thinking too much, you reached out and touched his arm.

The touch was light but enough to make him look at you.

— Thank you. — You said, and this time, your voice was steadier.

He blinked slowly, then shook his head.

— You don’t have to thank me.

But you did.

Because, as much as you felt guilty for what had happened, as much as you hated the idea of feeling so vulnerable, you knew that if Charles hadn’t been there, things could have ended much worse.

You swallowed hard, letting out a sigh.

— You… are you okay? — The question came out almost hesitant because you weren’t sure if he would even care to answer.

Charles raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected that question.

— I’m fine. — He said simply.

But you noticed the way he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if he were reconsidering everything.

You pressed your lips together, feeling a slight heat rise to your face.

— You… well, I just wanted to… — You stopped, trying to find the right words.

Charles frowned slightly, and then he noticed something—your hand was still resting on his arm.

Your face grew hot, and in a hurried motion, you pulled back, embarrassed.

He didn’t laugh or tease. He just watched you for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and turning his gaze back to the horizon.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with something unspoken.

After a while, he finally spoke:

— You should get some rest. I’ll stay around and finish unloading the wagon.

You nodded slowly.

— Yeah… I think I will.

The last hours of that day passed sluggishly after that. You tried to go back to your unfinished tasks, acting as if nothing had happened, but the feeling of unease never left you. During the day, you kept yourself busy to stop thinking, but at night, every creak of the wooden house made your body tense up.

In the end, the decision came almost impulsively.

You found Charles in the late afternoon, near the fence he had started inspecting earlier. The low sun cast long shadows over the field, and he was finishing securing some planks when you cleared your throat. He glanced over his shoulder at you, his dark eyes studying your expression.

— You should stay here.

The way his brows furrowed and then arched showed exactly what he thought about that unexpected invitation.

— What? — His voice carried both suspicion and confusion, and you felt a slight warmth rise to your face.

— I mean… — You crossed your arms, looking away for a second. — You’re going to help me with the fence, right? So… it doesn’t make sense for you to keep coming and going with those dangers out there.

Charles kept his gaze on you for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the situation.

— Are you sure?

The question made your heart race, but you stood your ground.

— Yes. Just for a while.

He wiped his hands on his pants and tilted his head slightly, as if still thinking it over.

— I can set up a camp outside. I don’t want to be a bother.

You frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh.

— You don’t have to sleep outside, Charles. I have a spare room.

He remained silent for a moment. You could tell he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, but before he could argue, you crossed your arms, trying to hide the nervousness in your voice:

— Look… I’m not the kind of woman who scares easily, but… after what happened, I don’t know. — You glanced away for a second before looking at him again. — I’d rather know someone is here.

This time, Charles didn’t answer right away. You noticed the tension in his shoulders, as if he were processing your vulnerability.

In the end, he nodded slowly, though somewhat uncomfortably.

— Alright.

(…)

When night fell, you led him inside the house. The wooden floor creaked beneath your feet as you guided him down the hallway, stopping in front of a door.

— Here. — You pushed the door open and stepped in first, lighting a lamp to illuminate the small room.

It was a simple but comfortable space. A modest bed, an old dresser, and a chair near the window. You remembered sleeping there years ago before moving into your parents’ room.

Charles stopped at the doorway, observing the space as if unsure what to do.

— Are you sure about this? — He asked once again.

You rolled your eyes, already tired of his insistence, and looked at him innocently, like a pouting child.

— Yes, I already said so. Now, just come in.

He hesitated before stepping inside and placing his small bag of belongings on the chair. You left for a moment and returned with clean sheets folded in your arms.

— You don’t have to do that. — He said as he watched you approach the bed.

You ignored him and started laying out the sheets, smoothing the fabric with your hands.

— I like things clean. — You answered simply.

Charles sighed but didn’t argue further.

When you finished, you stepped back and wiped your hands on your apron.

— There. Now you have a place to sleep.

He looked at the bed, then at you, and let out a low sigh.

— Thank you.

You just nodded before stepping out and closing the door behind you.

Later, when the smell of food filled the kitchen, you called for Charles.

He was in the room, occupied with something—maybe organizing his belongings or just finding something to do to keep busy.

Hearing your voice, he stepped out, running a hand over the back of his neck, looking slightly out of place inside the house.

You both sat at the table, and for a while, the only sound was the clinking of utensils against the plates. You weren’t sure how to start a conversation after everything, but deep down, you felt like you needed to.

— A few days ago… the postman mentioned something to me. — Your voice was calm but carried a certain weight. — He said he heard stories about ranches being raided… burned.

Charles lifted his eyes from his plate, attentive.

— Is that so?

You nodded slowly, twirling your fork between your fingers.

— I didn’t think much of it at the time… I thought they were just rumors, you know? But now… after what happened… — You hesitated for a moment before continuing. — It doesn’t feel like just a distant story anymore.

Charles set his utensils down, the muscles in his arm tightening.

— I heard something similar when I went to sell pelts. But I didn’t think it was real.

— I thought the same. But now I know it is. — You let out a sigh, running a hand over your face.

Silence settled between you for a moment.

— D-Do you think they’ll show up around here? — Your voice came out almost in a whisper.

Charles thought for a moment before answering, his voice deeper than usual.

— I don’t know. But… if that’s the case, it’s best to be prepared.

You swallowed hard, feeling a chill run down your spine.

— But calm down, you’ll be fine. — He looked at you as he spoke.

The thought of being alone in that house, with the risk of men like them coming back, made your stomach twist.

And in some way, Charles’s presence there made it all feel a little less frightening.

You ate slowly, taking small bites of food, chewing delicately. Every now and then, you lifted your eyes to Charles, glancing at him briefly. He was a big, strong man, with a calm demeanor but always alert to everything around him.

For some reason, you found yourself staring more than you should. But whenever you realized it, you quickly looked away, focusing on your plate as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

In the corner of the table, resting on a chair, was a worn-covered notebook and a pencil. You pulled it toward you absentmindedly, flipping open to a random page and beginning to sketch as you continued eating. Your fingers traced small, unfocused lines, a habit of yours whenever you wanted to keep your hands busy.

Charles noticed.

— You draw? — His voice broke the silence, low and curious.

You stopped for a second, lifting your eyes to him, feeling a slight warmth rise to your face.

— Ah… — You hesitated, gripping the pencil a little tighter. — Yes… a little. Since I was a child. My father used to say I had talent, but I never took it too seriously.

Charles observed the notebook for a moment before nodding.

— That’s good.

You smiled shyly, scribbling a little more before looking up again.

— What about you? Do you have anything you like to do? Any hobbies?

He chewed another bite of food before answering.

— I like hunting. It’s what I do best.

You chuckled softly.

— Yes, I noticed.

Charles gave a small smile.

— I also work with herbs. Learned a lot from some tribes I met… and I learned more about different kinds in Canada.

Hearing that, you tilted your head slightly, curious.

— What did you like most about Canada?

It took him a moment to respond, his eyes seeming to travel to a distant place in his memory.

— The peace. The clean rivers, the vast forests… the privacy. — He exhaled, almost as if he could smell the damp earth at that moment. — The snow in winter. It’s different from anything I’ve ever seen.

You smiled, picturing the scene he described.

For a while, silence settled again—comfortable, yet carrying something unspoken. You hesitated before speaking, and when you finally found the words, your voice came out softer:

— Thank you… for today. Again…

Charles lifted his eyes to you.

— You don’t need to thank me. You already did, and now you’re letting me stay.

— I do need to. — You lowered your gaze to the notebook, your fingers tightening around the pencil. — That man… He looked at me in a way that made me feel… dirty.

Your stomach turned at the memory—the way his eyes roamed your body, as if you were something to be taken, consumed. For a brief moment, you wondered if your clothing had been… inappropriate.

But Charles, noticing your discomfort, cut off your thoughts, almost as if he had read them.

— It wouldn’t have mattered what you were wearing. No bastard should look at a woman like that.

Your head snapped up in surprise at his words, and Charles seemed to realize it too, running a hand over his face and exhaling lightly.

— Sorry about that. — He looked embarrassed, which was… kind of cute.

But instead of scolding him, you laughed. It was a soft laugh, but genuine.

Charles looked at you for a moment, as if your laughter had caught him off guard. Something inside him stirred at the sight of you smiling like that. You noticed his gaze lingering on you, and suddenly, you felt a little nervous.

Maybe it was because it had been so long since you’d had a conversation like this with a man. He seemed to hesitate before asking:

— Don’t you feel strange… with me here? I mean, I respect you, but… aren’t you afraid of what people might say?

You blinked a few times before answering, and when you did, your voice was firm:

—huh?¿….I think it’s ridiculous to judge someone by their appearance.

Charles remained silent for a moment, just watching you. His expression seemed… admiring.

You noticed and felt a small wave of nervousness spread through you. Shifting your legs under the table, you averted your eyes, not entirely sure why you were reacting like this. Without prolonging the conversation much further, you began gathering the plates. Charles stood up to help, picking up the cups and carrying them to the sink. Together, you cleaned the table and organized everything without saying much more.

Once everything was in place, he stepped back, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.

— Good night.

— Good night, Charles.

You watched him leave the room, and for a moment, you stood there, thinking. Then, deciding it was time to rest, you walked to your bedroom and closed the door behind you. The wooden floor creaked lightly under your bare feet.

Passing by the mirror, you stopped for a moment, looking at yourself. Your face seemed… lighter. Maybe it was the relief of being home, of having someone there. But there was also a certain tiredness in your eyes.

You turned toward the window, closing it slowly. Then you walked to the bed, adjusting the blankets and pillows. The room was cozy, lit only by a dim yellow light.

Before lying down, you picked up your sketchbook once more. Running your fingers over the worn cover, you opened it to the last page you had been drawing on.

Sighing, you placed it inside the drawer of the nightstand. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the blankets wrap around you.

Tomorrow, there would be much more to take care of…

WOW, I STARTED THIS LAST FRIDAY AND I ALREADY FEEL EXHAUSTED! I did some research, but I’m not sure if all my sources were reliable. I looked into racism in Canada during the XX century, and it seems that in many ways, the country was quite racist, especially in the South, where there was more American influence. I also researched Charles’s mother and found some indications that he might have inherited her last name, but I didn’t find any official confirmation! If I made any mistakes here, I sincerely apologize. If you’d like to comment or clarify anything, feel free to send me an ask (anonymous or not, whatever makes you comfortable).

Either way, I hope that anyone reading this chapter remembers to like or reblog my work!

Bye bye ~ ~

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People who asked to be mentioned: @photo1030 @aotlover2002 @latvsflwrr @zizizi-blogs @millieisawriter (I had commented on something like that months ago, I think)