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bitten-fruit · 2 months

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I am begging on my knees for a part two to cowboy price😭🙏

here she is!!! cowboy price part 2!! I really really hope you enjoy it ♥︎♥︎

18+ mdni - cw: spanking - ~2.8k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You like to trespass. He teaches you a lesson.

Here's part 1! (and there will probably be a part 3 lol i'm having way too much fun)

Staring face down into the bale of prickling hay, sipping the turgid air like warm milk, you scoured your mind for your next apology. There was a long list of transgressions Mr Price could demand an apology for. Would he punish you for every single one?

Did you want him to?

His spread hand hovered over the skin of your rear, a threat – it ghosted over the fine fuzz and triggered ripples of gooseflesh to radiate out from the faint touch.

“I’m sorry for–” you uttered, barely a croak, “for making you chase me.”

The second you spoke it, your entire body tensed itself on instinct – girding itself for the discipline that would inevitably follow. Swift, and purposeful; he raised his arm, reeling it back like the string of a bow.

And he released it just as suddenly, hurling his palm downward rapidly enough to emit a whistle through the air; it collided with your ass in a sharp smack, over the same burning handprint he had already left there.

The force of it thrusted you forward, knocked a helpless squeal from your throat. You whimpered at the grit and dust grinding under your knees as it rocked you, your hands flat on the haybale turned to fists as you desperately squeezed handfuls of straw.

“Mhm,” he grumbled, grave and deep, “and?”

You swallowed air through your open mouth, your heart thundered in your ears – out of breath, but too wary to inhale deeply enough to sate it.

“For…” you hesitated, “for talking bad on your father.”

Keeping your hips still with his restraining forearm, he raised his free arm once again; you held your breath, squeezed shut your eyes in preparation for the blow. Swing. Smack.

Each collision of his vicious hand over the same spot burned worse than the last, as though his palm was adorned with barbs that pierced your fevered skin on impact. Yet a quiet moan slithered from your chest, slipped from your tongue, oozed like honey.

He drew in a grumbling breath, strained as he sucked it deep. Could he hear the pining titillation in your throat, dripping from each yelp? Might he hit you harder for it?

You winced, shivered, as his wide hand rested against the matching print that only grew more raised and more red by the second, the touch by turn warming and punishing. “Keep goin’.”

“I’m–”

Bitten off by a gasp as his fingers pushed in only slightly, burrowing into the pillowy flesh of your ass as though the squeeze was unintentional – the pressure on your near-broken skin inflicted an ache that made you whimper.

“I’m sorry for stealing cherries,” you force out, in a wet mewl.

He bore his dissatisfaction with a cocksure suck of his teeth. “Whose cherries?”

“Yours,” you squeaked.

“Mm,” he nodded, grinded out through a tight jaw. “Mine.”

Followed quickly your chastisement; the swish of his hand hurtling through the air, the ear-splitting crack of his open palm striking beaten flesh, the whine of twisted thrill that squealed out from your lips.

“My cherries–” he spat, unrelenting; again he lifted his palm, letting it hover in the air for a brief moment before he brought it down with a force.

Smack.

“–My orchard–”

Smack.

“–My hat–”

Smack.

“–My horses–”

Smack.

“–My stable–”

Smack.

“–My land.”

Smack.

The final blow threw a saccharine cry from your heaving lungs, dosed with a shameful squeak of desperation, wet and eager; eyes watering, your head collapsed into the haybale, prickly against your bright red cheek.

The skin of your rear stung numb, throbbing like a heartbeat, your knees shook with the adrenaline that riddled you from head to toe.

And as you adjusted your knees to balance yourself after he had knocked you off kilter – you felt the slick that had seeped from you, drenching your cunt in slippery syrup, the cool air biting cold at the saturated patch of your floral pointelle panties.

You could only suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in abashment and guilt, self-flagellation for the burning heat that had pooled between your legs; almost as blindingly consuming as the white-hot sting of his hand-shaped brand.

He leaned back from you, balanced himself with his hand on your ass. Panting like a wolf, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as though he had overexerted himself, broken a sweat in his outburst. Seemed to pause as he looked over his handiwork – had spanked you hard enough that you wouldn’t doubt how crisp the perfect outline of his hand would have been. Perhaps it was purple, speckled with the spots of broken capillaries and blood seeping under the hot skin.

But it mustn’t have been the damage he had inflicted that he was stuck on, as you heard his heavy breathing degrade into hoarse, animalistic chuffing; a broken grunt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

You felt his thumb, slow and probing as though influenced by an unseen force – creep towards the cleft of your ass, running along the elastic lace hem of your panties. Teased the trim like it might slip underneath, but it didn’t. No, instead, he hovered it over the gusset, barely grazing the sodden fabric.

Eyes fluttering shut, you inhaled weakly, a quiet simper as he pushed his thumb into the valley of your cunt; wetting the tip with your fluid that soaked the thin cotton, dipping into you as though the single layer of fabric wasn’t the only barrier preventing him from plunging it deeper.

He must have felt the ring of muscle at your entrance tighten and twitch, an inadvertent reflex to his intrusion – because he abruptly tugged his hand away. You quickly released a sharp and feverish breath, cunt still pulsing around the painful absence of his finger.

“Alright,” he huffed, through teeth, as he rubbed the back of his head in exasperation. “Reckon you learned your lesson.”

You squeaked as you felt his pelvis press against yours, weighing against you from behind; as he leaned over you, reaching past you to pick up the cattleman that he had knocked from your head.

“Huh?” He persisted.

“Yes,” you croaked, realising his demand, you were quick to follow it. You leaned upright, kneeling still, as you tugged down the skirt of your dress to cover yourself; grimacing as the light fabric brushed over the burning welt on your rear.

With a hand on his knee he pushed himself to stand, sniffing in vexation as he dusted off his jeans. Bowed his head to put his hat back in its rightful place, pinching the leather crown with a single hand as he gave it a shimmy to adjust it. “Yes what?”

Through a whimper, you whispered, “Yes sir.”

“’Atta girl,” he gritted, “learned you some manners.”

You feebly swept a lock of your dishevelled hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, too poignantly humiliated to think of anything pert to utter.

“Up y’get.”

It took you a moment to gather the nerve to stand, breathing carefully as you placed your hand on the edge of the haybale. Impatient, evidently, John bent down to you, slipping his broad hands under your arms in an effort to pick you up.

You yipped, wriggling away from his grasping hands as he hoisted you upright, and you landed on your feet with a wobble. “I can walk,” you bit.

“Yeah, right,” he groused, spinning you by the torso before hooking his arm around your waist; you yelped as he tossed you callously over his shoulder like a wet rag. “I ain’t letting you run off again, missy.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” you whinged, but you mustered no resistance as he hauled you towards the stable door, kicking it open with his boot.

He snorted as he adjusted you on his shoulder, carting you out into the evening sun – appeared the sun had begun its approach to the horizon since you had run off from him, you forgot the days were beginning to grow shorter. The hum of the cicadas still blared just as loud as earlier, though, and the air just as warm, despite the fading orange glow of the sunlight.

Trudging through the long grass, no doubt towards his truck, he chided; “D’you expect me to trust you?”

You bit your tongue, scoured your scrambled mind for any retaliation. “I don’t want to get in trouble again,” you mumbled.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he sneered, “I think trouble is the only thing you want.”

The pressure of his thumb lingered against your entrance, a permanent impression that made your heart flutter at the memory. Perhaps he was right.

“That’s not true.”

“No?” He questioned scornfully, grasping hand digging into the side of your waist to keep you steady. “Then why’d you come back here, huh?”

You pouted, staring into the grass, watching the back of his boots rise and fall with each step. Would you tell him it was just to see him? Just to have him find and scold you? Just to toe the line? Long since crossed, wasn’t it.

“I wanted some cherries,” you lied.

“Uh-huh,” he scoffed, as the grass began to shorten, bleeding to the rubble and dust of the old road. You heard the deep click of a handle, the rattling of the truck door, the moaning of its old hinges as it swung open. “Was it worth it?”

You hesitated, gasping as he tossed you into the passenger door of his Chevy – you landed on your back across the worn leather bench seat, bouncing slightly in the fall, head narrowly missing the steering wheel.

“Yes,” you breathed, to answer his question, and he froze like you had caught him in a bear trap.

Stood imperiously between your knees, as your feet dangled out of the open door, skirt having been rucked up by the landing. He glowered down at you, lips in a thin and admonishing line, but his predacious eyes betrayed his stoic righteousness.

Glare clawed down your splayed form from your dewy lips, to the swell of your breasts, to the bare skin where your thighs met your hips. Catching a glimpse of the mound of your pussy from under the hem, hidden from him by the dainty fabric of your underwear.

He breathed raggedly through flared nostrils, put a white-knuckled hand against the top of the doorframe, casting a looming shadow over your body. His gaze was pointed, fiery, burned from lidded eyes - you felt the heat of his stare, it made you sweat, made your cunt ache unbearably for his attention.

Tongue squirming, too bashful to form a plea; you made your entreaty with a meek hand, tracing your fingertips down your stomach, catching in the pleats and folds of your linen dress. With a hook of your fingers under the hem of your skirt, you coaxed it upwards, coyly exposing yourself bit by bit. Watched cautiously as his lour raptly followed your movements, belying his stone-faced expression.

But he stopped you, or himself, with a pat of his hand on your thigh, just above your knee. Left it there. And he ordered, dark and strained;

“Settle down.”

With a moan of petulant defeat, you dropped your arm to your side.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he grumbled, reaching for your skirt – did so with purposeful cruelty, letting his calloused hand graze up your thigh as he grabbed the hem and tugged it downwards to cover your panties.

He took impatient hold of your knees and swivelled them inside the cab, before shutting the passenger door with a creaking swing and a loud slam. You sat yourself upright, wincing at the painful reminder of the lashings on your rear as it pressed into the firm leather seat. He marched around the truck and hopped in behind the steering wheel, you crossed your arms churlishly as you glared out the passenger window.

Peevishly huffing as he started the engine and accelerated off down the deteriorated dirt road, you bounced around in your seat, the vibrations of the rolling vehicle doing little to settle the sore throbbing between your legs.

“I’m telling my dad what you did,” you griped, rich with spite.

“You can tell ‘im whatever you want,” he scoffed, hanging his arm out his open window, wrenching the steering wheel in the tight grip of his closer hand.

“I’ll tell him you hit me.”

“Yeah?” He gibed, “Gonna tell him how worked up you got?”

Scowling, you felt your cheeks glow red as you glowered out the window. “I wasn’t worked up,” you fibbed.

“Mm. Sure seemed like it.” You could hear his smirk without having to look at him.

You fumed. “Sounds like you’re proud of yourself."

He only released a quiet and scornful huff of laughter in response to that. Nothing snide left to say, now that you’d accused him of purposefully arousing you. But he was right. It was all you could think about, writhing and sizzling in your mind and in your stomach; a fire that he had lit, and now he mocked you for being ablaze.

Daddy’s house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a rolling hill of dry grass, surrounded by century-old white oaks that kept it shaded.

You could only sulk, keeping your arms vitriolically crossed and refusing to utter a single word until the truck rolled to a halt over the raw gravel of the turn-around driveway.

Your father was where you’d often find him; leisurely lounging on the wicker veranda bench, reading glasses on his nose and some dull book about the economy in hand. But he perked up at the arrival of Mr Price’s truck, an especially unfamiliar sight, one that would no doubt spike some suspicion.

John left the engine running and hopped out of the truck. You sorely begrudged the dire possibility that you’d be forced to return to your childhood home, stuck in the tedium of your quotidian life, left to only daydream about the events of the afternoon as you washed dishes and folded laundry.

So in the brief seconds you had before he stormed around to the passenger side, you slipped your hands under your dress. Tucked your fingertips into the waistband of your panties, bucked your hips as you shimmied them down your legs and plucked them over your feet. And you nestled them behind you, out of sight as John yanked open your door, beckoning with an impatient and commanding hand for you to step out.

You groaned as you followed his wordless demand, jumping down into the gravel and glaring up at him with a vindictive curl in your lips. You spitefully stayed still, then, not taking a step in any direction of your own volition, wary that he might glance upwards and spot the coquettish little calling card you left in his truck.

“Move it,” he ordered.

You only pouted. “You’re a dick.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he tugged your shoulder in the direction of your house – then lodged his hand at the back of your neck, under your hair, an authoritative grasp so that he could drive you by it. And he did, nudging you along, you stumbled awkwardly over your bare feet as you were carted towards your veranda.

Daddy pushed himself to stand, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding setting sun as he ambled to the top of the deck stairs.

“Johnathan,” he spat, disgruntled and apathetic – just wanted to get back to his book, no doubt. And when he spotted you, last, of course, he queried; "That you, hun?”

You glared into the gravel, flushed with fervent humiliation, disguising it as malice.

“Found her trespassing,” John yelled, terse and irate. “Again.”

Your father hooked his thumbs in his beltloops, squinting down at him. “Fence is on your property, John. S’your problem if she fits through the gaps.”

“You need to keep a handle on your daughter,” John snarled, thick with derision, fuse running short. He released your neck with a slight shove, then, and you vindictively rolled your shoulder away from his lingering touch.

Your father snorted. “Looks like y’got a better handle on her than I ever will.”

Had enough, you stormed away from the condescending rancher, marching with your arms crossed towards the steps.

“Y’know what happens if I catch you back on my property, don’t you, girl?” John barked after you, a growl in his throat.

Shoving past your bewildered father as you trudged up the creaking stairs, you rolled your eyes. Concealed the coy smirk that curled in the corner of your lips, you answered with a grouse;

“Trouble.”

for the besties who asked to be tagged in part 2, here you go!! @lilliumrorum @stars4sar @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @iamnotfinedaddy @erajoie07 @rafaelacallinybbay

#can you tell i listen to lana del rey #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

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dmitriene · 1 month

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THOUGHTS ABOUT GUNSLINGER SIMON MEETING YOU AS HE PASS BY.

cw: fluff, comfort, sugesstive, kind of established relationship, groping, teasing, playful banters, kissing, dirty talk, marking, lot of intimacy, boner, pet names, brief mentions of female and male anatomy, could be posessive behavior, hints on sex, simon is filthy. pairing: cowboy simon ghost riley x fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

thinking about gunslinger!simon — he meets you at the store, riding through town on a powerful black stallion to cross the road, and maybe buy a few things, if the sharp gaze of his dark bottomless eyes hadn't caught on your silhouette in a small grocery store, well, seems like he would definitely linger a little longer there, spent a night, even.

you've gone out to buy some small grocery shopping and maybe treat yourself to some pastries, but all your plans go down the drain when the wooden door of the store opens with a bell ringing above it and a cunning, smug bright red skull shaped mask walks in, carrying the identity of its owner, Ghost, whom you know as Simon.

— «ah, see who the horse has brought — eek!» you're in a hurry to notice sharply, but you don't have time to anticipate how quickly he'll cross the line from the door to you, letting you only feel the hurried touch of rough leather gloves over the curve of your waist, clad in the fabric of your dress, before he reaches out and squeezes your rounded ass, ripping out a high squeak out between your lips which he swallows hastily.

he turns you around to pin your back against the shelves of canned food and other goods, blocking the view of surprised eyes of another folks towards both of you, as he casually lifts his mask to his nose to slot his dry, tobacco scented lips to yours, licking inside your warm mouth with fervor of hungry mutt, intertwining his warm tongue with yours for just a fleeting moment before letting go of you.

simon pulls away from your lips just slightly, letting your breath blend together and his teeth pass against your lower lip in a playful bite, as you curl your dainty hand against his dark vest, shooting him a glare as your another hand grip a shopping basket stronger, your tongue slips between puffy lips to lick them, while your gaze focus on simon's sly squint of eyes and his wide grin that he hides behind his mask, and you spat stricktly — “and what this was about? that's how you say hello now?„

simon is amused by your play of the strict, spoiled girl, cause he sees how your eyes flutter shyly during a kiss before closing, and how you sigh into his mouth very quietly, only for him to hear, so he allows you to behave in this way, and in return he demands nothing more than a submission, even when he hoists you by the waist and carries to the exit, forcing you to hurriedly put the basket on the wooden shelf of the store and grab his biceps, pulling, demanding to designate his actions with at least a word, and he chuckles hoarsely — “jus' taking what's mine, can'' i, dovie?„

that makes you huff, «taking what's his» he says, in the meantime preventing you from shopping and doing whatever he pleases to you in public, you have long since lost all shame in his company, so that the words and looks of the townspeople do not mean much to you, but you allow yourself to let him know how displeased you are with his actions, frowning and pouting your lips, adding meekly — “and don't let me shop properly so i'll have what to eat, huh? very kind of you, Sir Ghost„

he visibly rolls his eyes, resembling boiled caramel in the sunset light, before glancing at your frowning brows and the way you pout your swollen from his kiss lips, before his leather covered gloved fingers wrap around your chin and turn your face a little more in his direction, so that simon can press the fabric of his mask into your ear.

— “we can pretty stay here, darling, if you won' me to bend you agains' shop's woll and fuck you for everyone to see?„

of course, the question is nothing more than rhetorical, because you won't agree to this, but it's worth it to see how your eyes widen and round like beads, and your skin definitely flushes, you can't utter a word, your lips parting silly like one of a fish, while simon takes advantage of this moment to put you on his horse before untie it from the rope, and climb in after you, sitting comfortably behind your back.

a position that allows him to grab your hips to pull you closer to him, making the softness of your ass brush against tenting hardness in his trousers, which pokes in the swell of your ass that is definitely not his revolver.

pleased, simon grabs the reins and tugs them, lightly tapping the sides of his black stallion with his feet, as his chin suddenly touches the curve of your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine.

— “i think i need to leave another one in more visible place, wha' do you think, dove?„ drawls his smoky voice, when he pulls the sleeve of your dress slightly with his chin, looking at the devil's mark, his bite, on your shoulders skin for anyone to see, if it weren't for the clothes behind which it can be hidden, not that he likes it, simon himself would have liked if you had worn it openly.

— “s — shush it„ you mutter, looking at him out of the corner of your vision with a little seriousness, adjusting the sleeve of your dress with slightly trembling fingers before continuing to stare ahead, while his broad muscular chest behind you quiver in a hoarse laugh, as he quietly, meant just for you, adds — “course, darling, i'll save this for later, yeah? sure you would be more talkative in bed, hun„

and he may be right, but it will be for his ears only.

— “when i would be balls deep in this little cunt of yours, birdy„

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hyperactively-me · 7 months

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Ok, for King!Ghost, how ab Graves as a hunting dog handler who the reader happens to run into one day while at the stables with Soap, and his gaze lingers a little too long 🫣. Soap, being Soap, tells Ghost ab the encounter and he threatens Graves that if he ever talks to his queen again, bad things are coming his way. Sorry if this is a terrible idea, I just have King!Ghost brain rot 😔😵‍💫

omggg great idea for some drama! coming right up!!

warnings: non-con touching (only area of unwanted touch is on princess's hand)

It was a warm, sunny day outside. Spring was such a lovely season here in Kastron. As you entered the stables, the earthy scent of hay and gentle sounds of horses greeted you. You approach your mare, waiting patiently in her stall. She always brought you comfort, a welcome break from your responsibilities in the palace.

“Hi, baby,” you smile at her. She nuzzles you affectionately, her snout pushing into your hand. You begin to brush her mane, each stroke calming you down from a hectic week.

Just as you were about to saddle your mare for a stroll, a familiar voice broke your reverie.

“Your majesty! Well, if it isn’t the fairest queen in the land.”

You turn to find the grinning face of Sir Soap, a pleasant surprise for your day. He bows dramatically yet again, making you giggle lightly.

"Johnny," you greet him with a warm smile, "what brings you to the stables today?"

"Ah, Your Majesty," Johnny replied with a glint in his eye, “I thought I'd pay a visit to my trusty steed.”

“Didn’t you say when we first met that we should go riding sometime?”

“Ah, yes, I think I suggested the idea!”

“Well, I was just about to go for a ride, would you want to accompany me?” you ask with a friendly smile.

Before Johnny could respond, a tall and sturdy figure approached the two of you. He was scruffy looking, yet his physique was lean and athletic. He had a beautiful yet intimidating dog on a leash in his hand. It was the kingdom's hunting dog handler, Graves, renowned for his expertise in training the finest hunting dogs in the kingdom.

He bowed deeply. "Your majesty, it’s an honor to finally meet you" he said, "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Sir Soap. I want to introduce myself.”

He takes your hand in his, squeezing it with a firm hand, but not tight enough to hurt you. He leans down, bringing the back of your hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to it, and you swear you feel the tiniest tip of his tongue over your skin.

You immediately shudder, wanting him to let go of your hand. You yank your hand from his grip, laughing awkwardly as Soap eyes your reaction, unbeknownst to you. Soap steps closer to you, hand resting on the hilt of his sword for Graves to see.

“I’m Graves. Phillip Graves. I’m the one responsible for handling the hunting dogs for the palace,” he explains, motioning to the dog on the leash.

“May I pet it?” you question, admiring the dog.

“Only briefly, your majesty. They must be kept disciplined.”

You paused for a moment, then gracefully lowered yourself to your knees, extending a hand to gently pat the dog on the head. Unbeknownst to you, Graves's gaze lingered on you a bit too long, his eyes roaming your figure without restraint. After a moment, you rose to your feet, giving the dog one final scratch under the chin. Graves reached down and offered his hand to help you stand, but he held it just a bit too long, causing you to clear your throat awkwardly, silently signaling him to release your hand. He complies, straightening his posture.

"Forgive me if I was impolite. This is my friend, Sir Soap."

“Oh, I’m well aware of who this is,” he snarks, rolling his eyes at Soap. “No need for an introduction, your majesty.”

Soap remained silent, but his grip on his sword hilt tightened, and a frown creased his features. After a lingering look at Soap, Graves turned his attention back to you, his gaze making you feel vulnerable as it roved over your form.

“Well, I must be on my way, my lady. If you ever require assistance, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

Your mouth flounders, unsure of how to respond. The way he says “assistance” makes your insides turn.

“Good afternoon,” he smirks at you, turning on his heel to walk away with the hunting dog in tow.

. . .

“Yeah, I’m telling you, the way he was eyeing her like she was a piece of meat…” Soap trails off, anger seeping from his voice.

“Downright disrespectful,” he spits, clenching and unclenching his fists as he paces the room in front of Ghost.

Ghost's mind churned with a mixture of anger and concern as he absorbed Soap's words. The image of Graves disrespecting you with his lecherous gaze filled him with a burning desire to rip him limb from limb. But he wouldn’t.

Ghost cleared his throat, looking at Soap pointedly. “I’ll be dealing with Graves soon enough.”

“Ay, you should. Otherwise, I would be doing it myself. Jus’ thought to tell you, being her husband ‘n all,” Soap explains.

“Thank you for informing me, Johnny. That’ll be all.”

. . .

That night, you slipped into bed with a sigh of relief, your body sinking into the silky sheets.

You let Simon pull you into him, his hand cradling the back of your head with a certain firmness.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, hands moving up to wrap around his torso.

He tenses for a moment, his jaw ticking.

“It’s nothing, love, go to sleep,” he whispers, pressing the small of your back into him.

You cuddle into him, ignoring the anger rolling off of him in waves. You already know what it's about, you’re just too exhausted to deal with it.

You’ll let him deal with the issue. After all, he is your doting, protective husband.

. . .

A single, harsh knock resonates in the study.

“Please, come in,” Ghost says, rifling through stray papers strewn across his desk.

Graves takes a few steps into the room, standing before Ghost’s desk.

He takes a quick bow, muttering a hurried “Your majesty” as he bows.

“How may I assist you today?” Graves questions, standing firm.

Ghost leans forward on his desk, hands folded in front of him.

“Don’t speak to the queen again,” he says simply, a sharp edge in his voice.

“Your majesty, I have no idea what you are talking about—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Ghost says, pushing himself up from his seat.

He strides to the other side of his desk, standing in front of Graves menacingly. The tension in the room grew palpable as Ghost’s imposing presence loomed over Graves. His stern expression and unwavering demeanor sent a clear message: there would be no room for evasion or deception.

Graves shifted uncomfortably under Ghost’s unyielding gaze. His voice wavered ever so slightly as he responded.

“Your majesty, I assure you. I have always acted with the utmost respect towards the queen—”

“Do not test my patience.” Ghost’s piercing eyes bore into Graves, and he lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. “I heard the way you looked at her. The way you treated her in the stables. It will not be tolerated.

Graves swallowed thickly. He had never encountered Ghost in such a formidable state, and the weight of the situation pressed upon him. “Your majesty, I meant no disrespect. I...I simply admired the queen's beauty.”

Ghost leaned even closer, his voice a low growl. “Admiration is one thing, but your actions were far from innocent. If you dare to approach her, touch her, speak to her, or even glance at her again, you will face consequences that you cannot even imagine. I’m protecting her honor. Protecting her.”

Graves nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I understand, your majesty. I apologize if I gave you any reason to doubt me.”

Ghost straightened up, his expression unrelenting, his seriousness remaining. “Consider this your final warning, Graves. Do not forget the position you now find yourself in. You have been granted a second chance. Do not squander it.”

With that, Ghost returned to his desk and continued to sift through the scattered papers, leaving Graves to exit the room with a sense of anger and fear instilled in him.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x you #hyperactivelyme

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lethalchiralium · 1 year

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Happiness Masterlist

A collection of Simon “Ghost” Riley and his daughter, Winnie, and his wife, you.

SERIES PLAYLIST | Simon’s Playlist | Your Playlist

AO3 Link!

Raindrops

It’s the first night home with his little one, and he’s trying to remember every moment.

Angel

“Can you please explain to my Captain why I am an hour late?”

Little

Ghost has somewhere to be.

Tattooed Heart

The 141 meets the mysterious Lieutenant's daughter.

You Belong With Me

It’s your 21st birthday, yet you sit in a nice restaurant in a beautiful dress and tears in your eyes - until someone comes to your rescue, like a knight on a white horse.

Dear Winter

Simon had to find a toy for Winnie, but discovers what finally pushes him over the edge to confess his love for you.

Diamond Ring

“Wear it on your hand, tell the whole world that I’m your only man.” Simon dodged death so closely that it finally snapped him from his stupor - he needed you to be in his life for the rest of time.

Wife content below!

Tonight, Tonight, Tonight

It was a long deployment, Ghost wanted nothing more than to come home and be Simon again.

A Little More

It’s Simon’s first late night and morning with his new daughter, Mellie. And you and him have an important conversation.

A Little More [2]

A simple day of mundane domesticity, life isn’t always jammed packed full of events + Simon still has a lifetime of making it up to you.

That Happy Feeling

“say hello, winnie.” “say hello, mellie.” + a text conversation with the 141 + los vaqueros!

Dramatic

Simon’s been sick for three days and has refused any medication, claiming the cold medicine you brought from your home in America is poison and he’d rather die. You are convinced that the British medicine does nothing. Only one will win.

Lover

Christmas Eve is over. With enough paper cuts to last a lifetime, you just want Simon to know how much you love him with a song.

Twice A Question, Once An Answer

Two times you asked your husband a question, and the one time he had the answer you needed.

Imagine It

It was just a nice afternoon, your husband’s brothers in arms trying to name your imaginary baby for you.

Almost

Just a doctor’s appointment to find out baby three’s gender.

Will Never Be Enough

"Simon, I need you." The Lieutenant dropped the papers he was holding, they flew across the office floor. "I'm on my way." OR, Simon comes home to find you in a puddle of blood.

Bigger Than The Whole Sky

It’s hard to get over something like this, it’s hard to feel like this. Loss is difficult. OR, your husband tries his best to comfort you, but he’s finding this new challenge difficult.

Ducks

It’s hot in England, so it’s time to pull out the plastic kiddie pool and dip toes in the frighteningly cold water. Winnie finds a new friend.

More Than I Could Ask For

Losing a baby is difficult, Simon knows that. But as he takes care of you, all he wishes for is for you to not feel the pain anymore.

All I Ask

Simon tells you why he feels ashamed, plus Mellie decides to be a comforting little baby.

A Late Night Last Minute Request

Laswell catches Simon at the supermarket, to which he brings bad news home. There's only one thing he wants - a late night last minute request.

Four

It’s cuddle time for your girls.

White Carnations

Simon spends time with Winnie before he goes, he reminisces on the time he’s had with her.

The Love You Want (NOT POSTED)

It’s late at night, it’s his last night home before he leaves and he needs you like he needs oxygen.

Fearless

With Simon's new deployment comes a surprise guest, Kate Laswell, and some very unwanted company knocks at the door.

Window to the Abbey

Winnie and Mellie are cautious of the two new operators in their house, Simon’s calling, and Mellie’s sick. To say you’re handling it with grace would be an understatement.

Dial Tone

It’s the afternoon, rain thundered against your home so you couldn’t hear the footsteps that backed you into a corner.

Drag Me Under

One moment, you’re home - the next? You’re somewhere you don’t recognize with people you don’t recognize either, holding one of your most precious valuables.

High Water

Price has to make a tough decision.

The Death of Peace of Mind

…

I Will Think Of You As I Surely Drown

…

The Drabbles:

Burps

Little Letters

Christmas Closet

Melody

Mummy

Don’t Jump

Mum and Baby

Dinner Plans

Just Five Minutes With You | Interrupted

Bye Bye Beard

Be Home Soon

Halloween

Sleep Patterns

The What Ifs:

Home or Hospital | Porcelain | Piece of You In The Morning

Drifting

Careful What You Wish For | 22 Years

If Simon was with you when you went into the OR.

The promise that John Price keeps. | The Locket

Comfortable (18+)

#simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x afab!reader #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x fem!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x wife!reader #simon riley x afab!reader #simon riley x wife!reader #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley call of duty #simon riley x you #simon riley #lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium

3K notes · View notes

macfrog · 8 months

Text

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

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luboy7rt · 10 days

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What Animal Task Force 141 Would Randomly Bring Home To You (Headcanons)

(Remember This is just what I (My headcanons), enjoy reading!) (Platonic, romantic) (Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz) (GN Reader)

John Price:

- Accidentally finds a horse while out on a mission, the horse is a black with white spots on her.

- The horse clearly was trained but no owner in sight, even when John asked around, so John had a choice to make, 1. Bring her to other authorities and let them deal with the horse. 2. Look around longer for an owner despite finding the horse in the middle of nowhere. 3. Bring her home.

- He brought the horse home. The man has no clue how to care for a horse, but ends up bringing her home as it was late at night, and the poor horse was a bit skinny.. So does John just walk into the house with a horse, the horse peeking her head through the window? Yes. That's what happens.

- John gives a small chuckle, and a tilt of his head when you spot him feeding the horse through the window.. Say bye bye to all your carrots and apples.

- John kept the horse in the backyard for a few days, feeding her and getting a vet to check up on her and tries to do his best to care for her.

- If he keeps her.. it's all up to your reaction, if you don't like the horse, he will find an appropriate farm to ensure to care for the horse for him and give the horse a lot of room to live her life. (He would visit the horse when he has a time about once or twice a year just to check up on it)

- if you do like the horse, he'll figure it out. Getting a bigger backyard or house? Alright, let's do it, he's down as long as you both are responsible about it. if he had time? He would personally build the horse a stall in the backyard, if he doesn't, he would get professionals to build it for her to be nicely built.

- Man would do research, he doesn't usually get pets so swiftly, he likes to be a responsible pet owner. He would end up buying the horse toys, lots of food, annual vet visits, gear, cleaning supplies/tools, and etc.

- If you want to learn to ride the horse or you know how and you want to ride this specific horse. He would have mixed feelings on it.. He would just cross his arms and think about it for a while..

- He ends up letting you do it.. if you both get to see the horse trained first, wanting to make sure it was safe to do. He would always be close whenever you are riding, always ensuring to be close, making sure you wear horse-riding gear.

- If you don't want to ride, he sighs filled with relief, he's just a tad bit nervous, But he's content just watching the horse fool around or watch alongside you.

John (Johnny) ‘Soap’ Mactavish:

(Btw: Just calling him Johnny because of John above this)

- Racoon. This man comes home in the middle of the night, ‘smuggling’ the raccoon into his apartment. Laughing softly when he accidentally wakes you up.. Quietly tries to shush you, and snickers at your confused face.

- He would do a tad bit of research about raccoons.. ends up just feeding the poor little guy some leftovers…

- Raccoon stays, he apologizes but even if you want him gone.. everytime Johnny tries to get rid of the guy.. He just comes back, always manages to find the way back, and breaks back in.. the little guy always manages to sleep on your couch, gets comfortable real fast.

- Johnny would say, ‘Aye, this lil’ shite will protect ya while I'm away’ and the raccoon Does. If you feed him, bites people when they come over. ‘Johnny JR.’ Was the name you came up with and it fits quite well after the little guy manages to get into the cabinet and eats all the food, like what Johnny does when he gets home late after missions.

- The raccoon becomes a life-long pet, he's an indoor raccoon now, you can't kick him out, he just comes back. Becomes an overweight raccoon slowly over time.

- This raccoon has a little walking machine and mimics Johnny on his treadmill, Johnny would grin wildly at you, whenever the raccoon mimics him.

- The little guy will mimic you too, likes playing with cat toys as well, if you just like sitting and relaxing, he's sitting next to you, you're going outside? You're not going alone, better get him on a leash, oh you want to go to the washroom alone? The raccoon is always watching.

- Raccoons are actually quite smart, he learns how to get all the food in the house, and Johnny ends up needing to buy a dog cage, and makes the raccoon sleep in there at night. (The little guy got into the fridge the night before and ate the groceries).

- Johnny is banned from bringing home any other animal, but hey, ya got a raccoon for life.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick:

- Kyle brings home a military dog from work, a retired one with a few healing injuries, he makes a sheepish face when you see him carry a K9 into the house.

- He's the only one that actually offers an explanation for bringing an animal home, he would say that the poor boy was retired early, and no one wanted to deal with the vet bills… So he decided to adopt him due to the fact he wanted this guy to have a safe time recovering.

- Only one to apologize too, if you don't want the dog, he'll be upset but he'll compromise.. You both keep the dog until it's all healed up and then he'll find a nice home for him.

- (If you are allergic, Kyle is apologetic, keeps the dog in one room allowing it to heal up, he takes full responsibility, ensures he doesn't get in your space, takes care of the dog, takes the dog on walks about three - five times a day then ends up rehoming him with a trusted family friend once he's on the right track to healing)

- If you want to keep the dog? Great! Kyle's excited, all ready for this new responsibility. The dog becomes one of the greatest home guard dogs. He's an amazing dog, very loyal and makes a great recovery.

- You have watched Kyle make breakfast for this dog Every. Morning, the dog gets a forehead kiss before you do at this point.

- Kyle is always upbeat with this dog around the house, always ‘sparing’ the dog, or running around the house with him once he heals up.. Much more smiley and upbeat, does more stuff around the house for you too, want breakfast In bed? You'll get it more often, you'll get gifts from a shop when Kyle and the dog goes out for walks, basically just more ‘active’ around the house with his little buddy around

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

- He doesn't really say anything when you see him walk Into the house, at about 2AM, with two grown cats, one on his shoulder and one in his arms, he just gives a nod.

- Simon.. adores these stray cats, but he doesn't show it, he feeds them a bit of fish he bought earlier, and ends up cutting it in half and fair amounts for both cats.

- (If you are allergic to cats.. He instructs you to please go to your room for the night, and he will drop them off at the vet than a shelter in the morning but they are staying the night, he does a half asses sorry apology but makes it up to you by showing pictures of the two cats after he separates you from them, he makes sure you are alright and they don’t go near you)

- Simon practically doesn't really ask, but he gets toys, a cat tree.. a litter box, all of the above, as a silent, we are keeping these cats, they are moved in within a week. If you are happy, he's happy.

- If you really don't want them.. He'll sigh quietly, a bit upset but does move all the stuff and the two cats to a friend's (sorta friends) house, he still goes to visit them.

- Simon's alright with doing most of the chores for the cats, they actually get him to start relaxing a bit more around the house, and he's less on edge when the cats start ‘attacking’ his feet, or jumping out at him, like he's expecting it to be cats now instead of a intruder.

(What animal do you think other characters would come home with? I need more ideas, thanks if you comment, I hope you enjoyed these headcanons :)

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padfootdaredmetoo · 3 months

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Can you write something for: "being Tommy's wife"? Please. The girl would have been raised by Polly, who raised and loves her like a daughter. She grew up with the boys, especially Tommy. She witnessed Finn's birth and everything. When he goes to war, he promises to stay with her when he returns. Another, Tommy's brothers have her as a sister so they will defend her as one, Ada and her are best friends and Isaiah had a crush on her as a kid... Kisses, sorry for the long thing, I love your stories, see u later 🩷.

Hey Love,

I am deeply sorry this took a million years to write. Thanks for sending this in and for being so kind. I'm so happy that you enjoy my writing. Hope you like this one <3

Warnings: Peaky related themes like violence, murder, drunk dads, beatings, suicide, childbirth - and of course kissing and cuteness

You had always been close with the Shelby Family. Your mother died in childbirth leaving you without siblings, something that was easily remedied with the constant chaos of your next-door neighbors. You were often lumped in with them as your father worked constantly. You traded what extra things you had for their company. You weren't rich living on Watery Lane, but you always had extra bread which was kind of like being rich.

As you got older you started to understand what happened down at the Betting Shop. You remembered Arthur taking Tommy aside and telling him to keep you as far away from there as possible. So he took you down to the cut and you spent most of your time with the horses in Charlie’s yard.

Those moments were your happiest. Tommy was always around to get into trouble with. One night when your dad had laid a beating on you for ruining a pair of shoes in the stable he’d helped you climb out of your window across the ledge and into his bedroom. He’d fixed your swelling cheek with some ice wrapped in a kitchen towel.

There was an unspoken easiness between the two of you. John and Arthur were different. John was always teasing you loudly and Arthur was always laughing. Always fun and games until someone was giving you a hard time, then they were all business.

You’d been there for Finn’s birth. A memory that was both happy and sad. You normally avoided the Shelby parents at all costs. Mrs. Shelby had a dead look in her eyes and she would twirl around the kitchen talking to ghosts, other times she would cry out in the night so loud you could hear her in your own apartment. Mr. Shelby was mean. Not much to him other than that. Finn was special, he was the first baby you ever held. You had to help Polly clean him off and get him sorted when he was born. You remembered sitting down once he had been fed and fallen asleep. You sat down covered in after birth swearing you would never have children. Ever.

Watching Tommy come into the room and hold his sleeping brother with a look in his eyes, something deep inside you reconsidered.

Polly was alright, she’d always put bows in your hair and read your tea leaves. Out of all the adults in your life, you had the biggest soft spot for her. She had all the juiciest stories that made you want to go out and start living your own life.

Something you were just on the cusp of doing before the war started.

The boys left and you tried not to let it break you. The unmovable safety they had brought you was gone and the city seemed vicious. Tommy wasn't there when your father was drunk… Tommy wasn't there at all. You’d stayed awake all night before he left. Laying there with him talking about everything you wouldn't be able to talk about while he was gone. Well, almost everything. You held his hand and laughed till your ribs hurt at all his jokes about what it would be like and what he would do while he was gone. Anything to keep the truth of it at bay. You wanted to tell him how you felt but you didn’t want him to carry more burdens with him when he left. You promised him that Ada, Finn, and John’s kids wouldn't starve and he’d kissed your cheek and promised he’d come back for you. Those words haunted your every moment.

To avoid your father and the emptiness of missing Tommy you threw yourself into your job as a mid-wife. At the end of the day you would sneak food out of your pantry and bring it over to Polly. She ran a tight ship void of all the things you had enjoyed about her when you were a kid. She was hard on the kids and they were mostly Ada’s responsibility as Polly shouldered the betting shop. There was a balance, most of your money went to the household and Polly was always grateful for your help. Things were fine until they weren't. Young boys who weren't quite yet fighting age had started up gangs and more drugs and conflict swept through the streets of Birmingham. You ended up working while also causing lots of trouble.

The worst night of it came just before Tommy had come home. You’d killed another stupid idiot pushing his wrapped body into the cut in the middle of the night. It was exhausting, for every life you brought into the world you ended another. A cycle you didn't think you would ever end up in. You knelt by the side of the river letting the rain soak through your clothes. Looking down into the black water you could feel the same pull that took Mrs. Shelby. It was calling out to you softly but you shook your head. You had a lot more fight still left in you.

______________Tommy’s POV

Coming home wasn't the relief he thought it would be all those years ago. He came home and you hugged him tightly. While you looked like you were bursting with life he felt like like he was dead on the inside. Your cheeks were flushed and your eyes bright. Your fingernails had a pink tinge to them. He’d hoped it was from your job as a midwife but he knew how bad things had gotten here. He could feel it in the way people looked at you on their walk home from the train station. Settling in was awful. The nightmares that kept him up at night, the sad sense of rejection that was growing around you. But the weight of the business is what was crushing him. He needed you and Polly out of it, he needed to step up as a man should. You especially should have never had to get your hands as dirty as they were. But there you were all those names etched into your soul, and you still looked at him with girlish adoration, as if he wasn't the man who had commended your life.

Things between him and Polly had never been worse, any move he made she would disagree. You still kept looking at him with your big eyes full of emotions he didn't know how to feel anymore.

Ada was a few years younger than you but you were both old enough now that it wasn't noticeable. He saw the both of you sitting on the front step watching some men moving furniture out of the house down the street. There were glasses of wine between you and the sun made the flush of your cheeks look so red. Ada mumbled something and waved to Isiah as he passed by and both of you burst into giggles. That’s when he realized if he didn't make good on his promise, you wouldn't be around. Men looked at you with fear, but they also acknowledged the fierce competence and loyalty you have. By the time he got the business up, and then got it legal, you would probably be married off. He hated the sense of panic he felt bubble up in his stomach. Just once he would like to feel something pleasant.

All day he thought about what to do. They were drinking beer around the table. He was always happy listening to John and Arthur tell jokes. It made him happy that they had managed to keep more of themselves alive than he had himself.

“Going to head out for the night. I’m on call tomorrow so I can only help around the house.” You looked at Polly who nodded. Your eyes flashed to him for a second before wrapping your wool shawl around your shoulders.

“I’ll walk you home.” He could feel John and Arthur’s eyes narrow in on him as the silence rolled through the room.

“You haven't forgotten I only live next door have you?” You smiled at him and gestured for him to come along. He followed you down the stairs and out the front door. Three steps to your front door and you turned to look at him.

“Well, this is me.” You pointed at the door giving him a smile. “I’d invite you in for a drink but my father wouldn't approve.”

“Walk with me?” He asked and he wished there was more emotion in his tone. You raised your eyebrows and he almost wanted to laugh.

“A private meeting with Mr.Shelby. Wow.” You linked your arm in his and he could tell that there was hurt under your humor.

“Things-” His voice trailed off as he lost all the things he had thought about telling you. He wanted to tell you to marry him but that was much to forward you deserved something nice and for it to move at your own pace.

“Are different” You finished. “You're not you, Polly is pulling her hair out, and your secret-keeping is making it impossible to help with the business.”

“Precisely.” He said in a cold tone. He wanted to explain but the words were still gone.

“Well, fix it then.” You said in a short tone. “You came home and made a mess of things, so fix it.”

“It’s not that easy.” He pulled a cigarette out and offered you one. You nodded and he lit one, taking a drag then watched as you took it from him. Your lips perched where his had been a moment before. His eyes focused on your mouth and he could feel the tension become obvious.

“I want to make things right between us. I’m just not sure how.” He said the words slowly finally dragging his gaze from your mouth. Your cheeks had flushed again and he fought the urge to stroke your cheek.

“Thomas. All you have to do is trust me. Then talk to me. We spent our whole lives that way. Only four years were apart.” There was pleading your eyes and he wondered if he would ever be able to deny you anything.

“Alright. I want to shoulder most of the business.” You sighed and he continued on. “Not because you and Polly aren't competent, but because things are even higher risk than they have been. I want to shoulder the consequences. To do that I need to keep you out of it.”

“I don’t want you to face things alone. Not the risk or the consequences.” It was his turn to let out a sigh.

“I know you don't, that’s why I -” He what? Was in love with you, wanted to marry you? Wanted to build you a life that would make any other woman on the planet die of a jealous heart?

“You what?” They were by the cut now and you turned to look at him. You were angry and you had every right to be.

“I want to marry you.” He blurted the words out and ran a hand through his hair. Your hands flew to your mouth and you looked at him with wide eyes illuminated by the moonlight. Was this positive or negative? The regret and embarrassment started to creep up his neck when you lunged at him.

He stumbled slightly before properly handling your weight. Your arms were tight around his neck and all he could smell was the perfume along your neck. He took a deep breath, the first real breath he had taken since leaving France. He wanted the weight of you pressed up against him all the time. The feeling you brought him was enough to keep the demons at bay. How selfish was it of him to take this easy path out. He should have worked out a proposal and should have courted you properly.

“We don’t - we could -” He tried to figure out what he wanted to ask.

“Shut up and let me have my moment.” You said before pulling away enough to kiss him. It was soft and slow and he knew without a doubt he was yours forever.

After a good amount of kissing, he smiled at you and meant it. He walked you home and then took his beating from Arthur and John.

“I don’t care if God himself descended from the sky to claim her. She’s my sister and you won’t hurt her Tommy.” Tommy couldn't remember the last time he heard his brother’s voice sound so lethal.

“You’ll be held to the same standards as any other dumbass wanting to date her,” John added.

“Trying to do the opposite of hurt her.” He said wanted them to see he was trying to make you happy too.

“That’s what they all say,” Arthur said with pointed eyes before bursting out into a booming laugh. “I want this to happen, brother I do. Just don’t mess around with her.” Arthur gave him a rough pat on the back and John started to make jokes about all the ways Tommy could disappoint you.

Eventually, they let him go up to his room. You had already climbed across the ledge to his window and gotten into his bed.

“Took you long enough.” You said it as a joke but there was something in your voice that gave you away. You were starting to think he wasn't going to show up.

“Boys had to rough me up a bit first.” Tommy shrugged his jacket off.

“Why? what did you do?” Her eyes looked him over with concern.

“Showed an interest in you. They had to do the usual.” He said absently changing into his pj’s trying to seem unbothered by your gaze watching him closely as he undressed.

“What’s the usual?” You whispered.

“Bit of a beating, the usual threats. Part of dating someones sister.”

“You mean any guy that’s wanted to date me has been roughed up by the three of you?!”

“Yeah.” Tommy leaned against the wall looking at you laying in his bed in your night clothes. Head propped up on your arm.

“I thought I was ugly.” You whispered still in shock over this news.

“What?!” Tommy laughed again.

“None of the boys ever asked me out over the years. I thought I was ugly.” Tommy moved across the room and into the bed to assure you that you were never ugly.

_____________________________

It took a lot of time to get out of that house on Watery Lane. Your father had passed before your wedding and Arthur walked you down the aisle. Ada and Poly felt all was right in the universe once you joined the family properly. They had a lot of fun planning the whole thing out. Your honeymoon was in the new house, a massive thing that Tommy had built for you. It was large but warm.

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #shelby family #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader

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moongreenlight · 5 months

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Ptolemaea P. 1- Huntsman!Ghost x Runaway Princess!Reader

CW: BRIEF mentions of animal death, description of gore and violence, noncon implied. No smut yet.

Your kingdom was once powerful, revered by others for its political prowess and strong army, but it does not have the sway it once did. Hordes of wealth dwindled into something unrecognizable. Subjects growing poorer and more restless with only wormy apples and stinking meat and moth-eaten fabrics to barter at the market. War raging to the East, word of civil unrest in the West. Your father was left with few other options than to auction off what little possessions of worth he had left.

He was given four daughters, you, the youngest and the last to be married off. Sold like swine to the highest bidder with no consideration for character or condition.

All your other sisters went gracefully save for a few tearful goodbyes in the privacy of their quarters. Bowed heads pushed together, shaking hands clutching and grabbing at others for stability. Weeping softly for the loss of company, for the fate that awaited them, for the mystery of when you’d be reunited. Four, then three, then two, now one.

You’d been trussed up in your best dresses and jewelry. Made a spectacle of for a few days as suitors came and went from the great hall. Slobbering their way through promises of riches or alliance or armies in an attempt to win your father’s favor.

Their eyes were wild and hungry when they threw spare glances at you. Lecherous smiles showed sharp, clenched teeth. And each offer of an extra five men to an army or hundred gold pieces more than the last brought you closer to being shoved to their chests. A twine-wrapped packet of mutton scraps tossed to a pack of starving dogs.

It was a heavy feeling, sinking ever deeper as each new suitor strutted down the long walk toward you. Peacocking and vying for favor. You imagined it felt like watching the executioner approach the stand while you waited with your head laid on the chopping block.

You’d read your sister’s letters after they left. Poured over every word and learned of their new realities. Their dogs and horses slaughtered, gowns burned, all former possessions seized and thrown to the river to be replaced with tokens of their new kingdoms. Branded over their old marks like cattle in a trade. You noticed that as the weeks and months drew by, the letters became more and more censored. Stopped detailing the further horrors and discomforts they faced at the hands of their husband and opted to regale you with detailed descriptions of their gardens or their plans for children.

The same wretched sickness you felt when you read the letters ate its way into your belly as you watched the funeral procession of suitors and remembered the way your sisters’ neat, loopy writing slowly turned into something rushed and sloppy. You imagined the way it would happen to you.

Perfect cursive lettering that had been learned to you for years by a sour schoolmarm that rapped your knuckles with a ruler when you dawdled during your lessons shoved from your mind to make room for brainwashing. You sat on your hands and dug your nails into your palms until they bent backward to keep your attention away from the scream packing itself into your chest.

You were promised to a king from the South. Some larger country near the capitol that wielded far more power than your kingdom, even at its pinnacle. The new king brought to you from across the channel because of his surliness. You’d heard stories of him whispered among the maids. He was cruel and choleric by all accounts. Not to mention fat and old and ugly and impatient to produce an heir. Made it all but impossible for him to find a bride.

He brought lavish gifts with him to sway the vote. Chestfuls of diamonds and precious stones and gold that his men laid at your father’s feet. Thick furs, expensive perfumes, and silks in colors you’d only ever heard of for your mother. A new dress in his kingdom’s colors for you.

You were escorted from the room by your father’s guard when he began negotiating a deal with the new king. You’d tried to sink your slippers into the stone, tried to kick and scream your desperation for your father to reconsider. But you were thrown from the room. Dragged out under the armpits by knights whose armor shone so brightly you were able to see your teary, crumpled form on the floor reflected in their chest plates before the heavy door was snapped shut on your nose.

You heard your maids and the castle guards whispering after the new king left. Saw your mother gracefully swipe away a single tear after dinner when she kissed you goodnight. The new king’s guard would be by early the next morning to snatch you up. The narrative you knew to be true only confirmed further by gossip. Two or three days of showboating, a decision made, negotiations, and then the next sunrise another sister is plucked up.

So you waited until darkness was cast over the castle. Until you were certain your maids and the guards at your door had gone to their own quarters for a few hours rest. You made your escape barefoot and in your thin nightdress. Stole one of your mother’s new fur cloaks to help protect yourself from the bitter cold that had settled over the land. Padded down the winding halls and staircases until you were able to slip through the grand double doors of the front. Evaded the indolent guards that were no doubt sneaking a smoke or a nap in the garden and moved quickly down the path to the stables. Tacked your horse with a knight’s saddle and took off into the night.

It took no more than four hours for the castle to know of your absence. Your maid had gone to wake you up in the wee hours of the morning, pack a bag before you were picked up by your new husband, and all but flew to your father’s quarters to alert him of your empty bed. It wasn’t half six before both your father’s and the new king’s men were set out on the land in search of you. Horses and hounds kicking frost off the lawn as the sun rose.

You managed three days without capture. Traveled through the skirts of the forest. Slept for a few hours at a time huddled close to the belly of your horse wrapped in your fur cloak. Ventured into small villages and cities to see if you couldn’t convince a vendor to spare you a cup of soup or a stale loaf of bread. Heard snippets of the news of the nearest kingdom who’d lost their last princess and tucked your chin close to your chest on your ride out.

The deep woods were unforgiving. Thin, winding paths that connected kingdoms littered with wolves and marauders and hunters. It was safer to stick to the edges where trees were younger and light could still filter in. Moving West as long as you could with no real plan as to what the permanence of your situation could look like. Maybe find a city far enough away from your kingdom to settle. It was a half-cooked idea from the beginning, you knew that. Born out of fear and anxiety and bull-headedness. Freedom without direction was better than being forced into the arms of a man that would sooner cage you like an animal than see you leave.

So you followed the wood and the few slow-flowing creeks that were not dammed by slush or ice. Kept your head on a swivel and your guard up. Anyone you ran into was presumed foe, so you set a punishing pace to minimize the chance of an encounter.

–

It was an act of desperation when your father called on a huntsman. Needy for the power trade tied to the contract of your marriage and looking to stop the simmering of his people under him from boiling over. His guards had returned in couples every few hours to give him bad news. They’d sent ravens to ally cities asking them to look for you and still they’ve come up empty.

Ghost refused to meet with your father or the new king directly. Sent a tawny hawk with a scroll tied to its leg that detailed the conditions of his employment. Your father promised anything for the return of his youngest princess. The new king offered obscene riches and painted whores. And privately, in a post script penned in tiny font on the back of the scroll, he promised an opportunity for Ghost to lay with you after you’d produced an heir.

Ghost sent his hawk back a few hours later. His letter was short, only responding to your father like he couldn’t be arsed with the superficial promises of the new king. He requests ten gold pieces, some of your perfume, and a cutting of fabric from one of your dirtied gowns.

–

It’s the eve of your fourth day out before you run into trouble. Great plumes of thick black smoke alert you to either a brush fire or a village close off your side and it drives you further into the forest. You move slowly through the dusk, even slower as the light stops being able to filter through the dense leaves and branches. The ground is lost to darkness, and you’d already made the mistake of trying to stumble your way over the uneven terrain barefoot, so you opt to stay on your horse’s back until you find a clearing to settle in.

In the blanketed silence of the wood, it was easy to remember how alone you were. How defenseless. You cursed yourself every night for not swiping a kitchen knife or a hunting blade so that you had some security. Not that either would have done you much good, but it would have served to give you some peace of mind.

You were torn from your thoughts when you heard heavy footfalls in a thicket a few yards in front of you. Snapping of felled branches, two low voices carried to you on a breath of wind. You stopped your horse and tried to lay down close to its back, tuck your head in behind its big neck. You held your breath as the voices grew closer, tried to will your shivering muscles to still. But your horse is a massive beast; stark white and practically spotlighted by the faint light of the moon. It did nothing to hide you.

You weren’t sure if the men were poachers or thieves or member’s of the guard patrolling the area for you. It really didn’t matter because everything happened so fast. There was the distinctive thwack of an arrow burying itself in the tree just next to you. Bark exploded out like a bomb, grazing your cheek and spooking your horse. Somewhere in the chaos of the shouting of the men, and the hurried sounds of boots trampling crisp leaves and your lame sounding yelp of surprise, you were thrown from your horse. Sent crashing to the ground and landing so hard on your back that it knocked the wind out of you and left your vision spotted.

You would have cried out if you had any air left in your lungs. Your chest was burning. Legs weak and awkward from hours on hours of riding. All you could do was scramble back. Bury your fingers deep as you could into the semi-frozen earth and try to drag yourself away. Gasping for air, blinking away the flashes and pops of darkness that camouflaged your assailants.

You hit something hard, knocked your head on it in your rush and nearly went unconscious. It made your ears ring, adding yet another layer of distortion to your senses. A tree, probably. Or a boulder. You recoiled, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to make yourself small under the mass. Tried to make out where the footsteps and the muffled shouting were coming from. Your shaking hands felt clumsily along the ground, looking for anything you could use to defend yourself. A rock, a stick, a hard clump of mud.

There was a flurry of movement from a few yards in front of you, specifics of limbs or bodies lost to the inky darkness. And then your hands found something large and warm. Disturbingly so. Maybe a rodent or a stray animal caught in the crossfire. It takes two hands to lift the thing. You bring it closer to see if swinging the carcass of what could have been a hefty pest would provide you any defense.

Not an opossum or a raccoon struck down by an arrow. Not quite. It’s the head of a man. His face stuck eternally in a look of putrid shock. Mouth gaped wide, eyes bugging out, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He’s got a decent stump of what used to be his neck. Hot blood trailed down your wrists and arms and dripped onto your nightdress.

Someone was screaming. A tortured, twisted sound coming more and more clearly to you as you caught your bearings. The kind of mangled cry that tore its way up out of someone’s throat so ferociously that you were sure you could feel it in your own chest as well. The kind of scream that left your tongue bitter and filmed with iron.

You’re not sure where it’s coming from, but it’s loud. Almost deafeningly so. You wish it would stop. Wish whoever was making such a spectacle would realize the severity of the situation and pull themselves together for a moment so you could think. Maybe you’d find them and work together to get out of this mess. Get away from the forest and find your horse and get back on your path.

You think that maybe it’s the head still clutched in your hands. You remember a cook telling you stories when you were young about how the chickens from the farmers used to be able to run around for nearly eight minutes after they’d been decapitated. You wondered if their heads still squawked after they were severed. You wondered if humans operated the same way. If this poor man’s body was stumbling around meters away in search of his head.

A big hand clamps over your jaw. Forced your mouth shut with such punch that your teeth clack together. You taste blood and you’re not sure if you’ve taken off the tip of your tongue. The screaming stops. It takes you a long moment to piece the situation together. Sat there huddled in on yourself, still gripping at the head and letting the thick blood dripping from its- his- neck sludge down your shins and pool at your feet.

You almost forget about the hand shutting your maw in your daze. Muzzling you with the bitter taste of iron and leather and the vice grip of a bear trap. You’d almost returned to your mind. Remembered that this was not a friendly situation and the body attached to the hand was likely not of pure intention. But you were jerked up by the scruff of your neck. Another strong hand fisting a good portion of the hair at your nape in the process. It lifted you clear off the ground, left your feet dangling inches above the earth. Shocked you enough to get you to let the head tumble out of your hands and back to the ground from where it had come.

You tried to cry out, but your voice was shot. Shredded by the dryness of your throat or the screaming or pure exhaustion. You clawed at the hands, but they were wrapped in thick leather gloves that branched up the arms of your captor. Tried to kick out, but they were wearing thick armor that deflected the force of your blow straight back up into your leg.

You yowled as best you could from under the thick covering. Clawed and grabbed at the air feebly until you were shook by the neck like a rag-doll.

“You’ll quiet or I’ll cut out your tongue and quiet you myself.”

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