john has a routine for dinner. cook everything, set the table while it's cooking, plate up and make sure you're sat down first. you get the biggest portion, the first pick of any extras.
the boys are well trained. john can raise his hand and they'll wait in the doorway. panting and drooling and hungry, but you're taking your time, choosing what you'd like to eat.
(you know exactly what you're doing btw)
and the shower caddy is completely full. one set of body wash (3 in 1, ew) for the boys, and everything else for you. shampoo, conditioner, razors, body wash, facial wash, exfoliating soap and so much more. you've got more in the cupboards - face masks and hair mask and mousse and hair oil and that peel face mask stuff. fucking hell you've got everything (and john bought everything for you).
the boys aren't always allowed on john's bed, but you are. literally, it's not just john's bed anymore. sometimes the boys can join. maybe not all the same time, but you get to make that decision now. because it's your bed too. cushions and blankets all over the place.
the pack grooms each other. like animals, you groom each other, ears and tail, combing your hair down. johnny loves a face mask with you. kyle loves watching you peel off those peely face masks. simon accepts you grooming him, lays his head on your stomach while you busy yourself.
and you guys know foxy is a pillow princess. it's johnny and kyle's fault. simon hates it, thinks you should work for your orgasm. of course, you don't have no, not even with him. because john is there, talking you through it, commanding him while simon growls. but he gives you that orgasm, as many as you want that night.
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And, and, and, Uncle!Simon doesn’t correct you when he starts dating you. Not because the relationship is new or you keep forgetting- no.
He’s cornering you into the bathroom sink, bending down to your level and gripping your chin in the palm of his hand, “still my little honeybee, tha’s not changin.” His lips are hovering over yours, you can practically feel his lips twitch upward, “Can’t help ‘m you’re favorite old man bastard, Tha’s not changin for you is it?”
You shake your head softly, heat forming beneath your skin. He pecks your lips once, another on your cheek then pressing his forehead to yours, “That’s good baby. Always gonna be your man, always have your back, hm?”
And just maybe it’s got his cock twitching when it’s just the two of you in the house, your back pressed to his front, folding you in half and your calf’s thrown over his forearm to keep you still, leaking cock rutting through your gushing folds again because you’ve got shit to do tomorrow and can’t be asked why you’re limping, but you’ve gotta cum at least once because you’ve been missing each other for a week. Your hand is covering his, head thrown back on his shoulder as you moan out, “Uncle Simon!”
Fuckin hell, do you get him hard.
Get his heart all soft and sweet you call out his first name ao he can come to bed. Always quickly making his way to you, who’s standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t sleep long enough Simon.” You say so softly, nuzzling your face into his chest.
And the kisses that reach the top of your head or your temple are endless, filled with murmured apologies that he’s sorry and he’s working on it.
a/n: nothing burger but this has to be posted for the next one to make sense
Johnny "Soap" Mactavish - I imagine Johnny's body temperature resembles a heater. Perfect for long ops in the winter and cuddling around Christmas time. Perfect for when you accidentally stay out playing in the snow to long and develop a cold and need someone to warm you up.
Unfortunately, summer isn't the same story. Due to Johnnys warm temperature and lack of knowledge on personal space, you find yourself waking up trapped in Johnny's arms. You squirm around trying to relieve yourself of the stickiness that has formed on your skin due to the heat, only to find his arms only lock tighter around you as he mumbles in protest.
Simon "Ghost" Riley - Simon would be the opposite of Johnny. His skin is cool to the touch, hands always sending shivers down your spine when they find their place on your body. He's capable at providing temporary relief from the miserable heat of the summer. Simon seems to find pleasure in planting his hands on your bare skin unexpectedly causing you to shriek.
While he's an amazing icepack for the summer, that chilliness stays around all year long. One winter morning, you find yourself awoken with a startled shriek when Simon decides he just needs to have his hands on you. His arms curl around you, his hands finding the warm skin of your chest. Your jolted awake by the sudden frigid touch. He shushes you softly as his hands begin to warm up and you finally begin to settle once more.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick - Kyle is the definition of perfection. From his skin to his personality, and even his body temperature. He's warm enough to keep you nice and content during cold nights but also cool enough you won't wake up in the middle of the night to find a puddle of sweat dripping off you.
You find yourself curled up tucked under Kyle's arm, some comedy movie playing the background. Your soft laughs echo the room quietly as Kyle's hand plays with your hair. It doesn't take long until you start dozing off as Kyle quietly coos, petting your hair. Absolutely perfect.
Jonathan "John" Price - Much like Johnny, this man runs warm. John resembles a bear, hairy and warm and the perfect candidate for cuddling. Somehow, you never find yourself awoken by excessive heat radiating from him. You do find his warmth is required for when he drags you along on early morning fishing trips.
The cool morning air nips at your skin as John loads the boat. You shiver slightly despite having multiple layers of clothing on. Your shivering only worsens as the boat begins to move and a breeze whips through your hair. You soon find yourself planted beside John, hiding inside his jacket as he gently rubs your back cooing and mumbling apologies. Despite his verbal guilt, the smirk on his face tells a whole different story. Of course, that jerk had planned this, he knew you would run to him the moment you got too cold. Luckily you needed his warmth at the moment, but he better watch his back later as you most certainly plan to retaliate.
Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.
Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.
Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.
Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.
And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.
He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.
Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.
And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.
You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.
It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.
A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.
It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”
You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.
In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.
Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.
You squeeze your knees to signal him to release you, though your legs are shaky and coltish without his heft under you, and release your pinching clasp off his arms. You try to take deep, regulating breaths.
Just as you start to turn, face wet and burning, he suddenly presses his entire body against you, suffocating you in against the door.
You finally feel his cock against the swell of your ass. He takes his own deep inhale, mouth and nose shoved against the back of your head, and exhales loudly. It sounds mangled in his throat, and you shut your eyes to soak it up.
When the nerves start pinching at you again — what time is it? what did you just do? — he seems to sense it, and hauls your hands behind the small of your back as you bleat in half-hearted protest. "Stay."
Cheeks burning, you tip your head forward and slam your forehead into the door, not even knowing who you'll see in the rearview mirror in your car later. His grasp leaves your skin, and you obey, keeping your hands clasped at your back like you're politely awaiting arrest. The door doesn't even feel cool against your hot skin.
Behind you, there's shuffling. Scraping. A squeal of sharp against steel. His hands find you again, calming your brain, and then he's got you sat up on a wedge of cleared stainless steel countertop. It's disorienting, face to face; laughable to call yourself an equal in this scenario.
"Cute trousers, these."
You look ahead to what he's getting at. He wants you to take them off. The only scrap of fabric holding your sanity intact at this point. How quickly a little attention has you under this man's boot, ground into dust, no longer yourself.
You take them off and he's going to fuck you. He won't surprise you by going easy on you or delaying it. He's not ripping them off you either, forcing you to bend under him. A simple statement said out loud, dropped into the room, and left to fester.
"They're new."
He laughs, a broken-up brutish thing that rubs you raw. "That right."
You nod. "Can you kiss me again?" You want to feel it at this angle, no height difference with a craned neck.
It's the only time he's looked surprised, but he smirks and it's gone in a flash. "Soft girl." He laughs roughly, then buries himself between your open legs, and sets his large hands high on your waist where it gives you a fresh fall of shivers. His fingers knead your flesh through your thin sleeveless top, nipping in, not gently. He knocks his head to the side and catches your mouth with his, and your eyes flutter closed. His lips are softer this time, malleable and forceful all in one, and he notches you open finally; his tongue entreats yours, and you eagerly accept. His groan meets yours, bullish breath fanning out of your noses, and his hands tighten considerably at your waist.
You slide your hands, timidly at first, from his wrists up his arms — the hair feels sparse in spots, likely burned off from close contact — and bulking biceps, shoulders. You breathe excitedly as you explore up his pillar of a neck to his stubbled face. When they meet the prickly fuzz of his shaved head, you shudder again, running your fingers over and over. Your legs wrap around his waist to the best of your ability with the size difference, hauling him in closer up against you, his sweat smearing against your clothing and skin.
The more you touch and grab and pull at him, his mouth and tongue get more frantic, the lazy and self-satisfied passes chipping away.
You break the kiss, pulling a rude grunt out of him, and grab fistfuls of his damp, sweat-stained t-shirt. His eyes are glassy and dazed, and you think maybe the kiss handed the power back to you somehow.
"God, I want you," he mutters, his head looking suddenly very heavy. He kneads hotly at your sides until you squirm. It's enough of a yes, and your top is being peeled off. Your thin summer bra, discarded with it. "Fuck." You're coated in a fine sheen of sweat in this airless room and he lowers his head more, swiping his large tongue along the underside of your breast where the sweat's pooled. Finishes it with a bite to the fat of you, up to your tightened nipple. He draws it in, sucks, and lets it pop out all in one long harsh pull. His other hand then squeezes the neglected breast, twisting at the nipple experimentally to watch your face for a reaction. Your mouth drops open in a little gasp, and he smirks again.
Power evaporated.
He pushes them up together, cupping in a display just for him, and buries his face. Plants a weird mix of slobbery kisses and bites and suckles across both nipples until he growls frustratedly. "God, you're so fuckin' soft." Almost angry about it.
You know it's coming.
Your squirming, hitching breaths, and damp patch on your pants all tell Simon the story he's been getting you to write this entire time. Minutes ago, a I'm not going to remove my pants has changed to well maybe they can slide down a bit. How easy you went down; no fight at all.
"Simon," you whisper, your voice catching, and he lets a long, snarling groan out hearing it.
It's the yes.
Do it for me. I can't do it myself yet.
"Such a sweet girl, huh. Bein' a bit bad with me like this." He grunts, his hands dropping your breasts and dropping heavy and flat against the tops of your thighs. He rubs them up and down like you're freezing and he needs to warm you up, move the blood back around, like it's not already pumping thick and hot.
When you moan, he smiles tightly, stretching across his face. "Open your mouth."
You expect another kiss.
You get a sudden glob of saliva spat onto your tongue with a satisfied smirk.
"Hold it."
Your eyes bug out, making him laugh low and dark. His spit tastes like beef and cigarettes.
His thick, blunted fingers, nails bitten to the quick, tug at your zipper. He lifts you up so you can shimmy the pants down, lightweight things that flutter down over your feet and onto the dirty floor.
Glazed, hungry eyes latching onto your basic seamless underwear. "You're a sight, love." As if he's returned from war. He sucks in a sharp breath. "So fuckin' pretty. You're gonna ruin me."
His final words are more scorching than his gaze, and you want to hide, shrink away.
A large finger traces your labia through the opaque cotton, and your mouth breaks the spit down, flattening into across your gums and teeth until it fills you up, smoke and meat suffusing you.
"I'm gonna make you feel good again. Lemme do that for you."
You nod.
"That's a love. You're gonna make me feel good too, yeah?"
You nod harder, your thighs clenching around his feather-light fingertip.
"You want some more, love?" You don't need to nod. He fingers your mouth open, spits again, closes it back up. Smears his thumb across the seam of your lips. His head drops down; the scarring continues across his shaved head, breaking up the swaths of shorn hair like circuitry. His other thumb swipes up and down over your clit, and you shudder, grinding your hips against the countertop.
Just his thumb. Pulling your underwear teasingly to the side of your lips then letting it snap back into the crease. He moans appreciatively, a starving man sat down to sup on his feast.
Achingly slow and yet abruptly fast, his own zipper is being pulled down, his hard cock released from the depths. You try to control your reaction, but it looks intimidatingly big and mad about being caged up so long without release. Large and heavy, bobbing up, wet at the throbbing darkened head. Heavy sac. Hairy pillars for thighs. And you with your cunt squished by a pair of underwear squeezing your labia to the side.
He has the same revelation and his expression is far more wicked.
"Put your hand on me, love. Before we start."
Your stomach plummets at those words, like you haven't taken every step here yourself.
A hand droops down between your legs, past the soaked cotton of your underwear, until he's surging into your loosely curled palm and fingers. It feels like a fucking weapon. Your mouth hangs open dumbly, making him laugh, his cock jumping in your tightening grip in response.
"Christ, you got some soft hands there, bird."
He hauls you more forward off the counter, balanced precariously so he can fuck you at a good angle. Then he commandeers his cock out of your hands, setting yours back against the steel surface to rest back a little. Brace yourself.
He sets a thumb down into the wet shallows and drags your liquid up and up, around your clit until you're hissing. "S'good." You both watch as he sets the head of his fat cock up against your plumped lips, and you moan before he's even made contact, like wincing away from a needle before it's even pressed to skin. "Greedy, huh."
Just seeing the way his fingers hold his cock gives you shivers. He brushes up against you to find that sweet, slick glide, and you both make noises then. Your hips shift impatiently without you even meaning to. A smirk, low and dark.
"What if I just tease you like this, eh?" His eyes blink slowly up to yours, watching your face.
You shake your head.
"No?" He presses the head a little further, and you try to clench down on it right as he withdraws just a little. A fucking game of slap hands.
You finally swallow his spit angrily. "No."
"Mmm," he groans at the bite in your voice. His face mirrors yours — eyebrows drawn down tight tight tight, mouth hanging open in anticipation — mockingly, as he pushes deeper. Rocks in an inch, maybe two. Your cunt grabs at him and he gives, releasing a near-whine that seems to surprise him. "Alrigh', alrigh'. Give you what you need."
It's slow, but steady, and you can't keep your eyes off him until he bottoms out, the tops of his thighs meeting the fat of your ass hanging off. "Christ. Fuck me, girl."
You clench harder and he hisses sharp at you. "What, girl? You wan' me to just be done like that? Come in you like a young lad?"
Yes.
You can't even hide it. He sees it on your face and there's another wash of surprise, something he doesn't expect you to want or ask for. "You don't want me to fuck you nice an' slow?"
Head shake, then a full-body shudder when his cock pulls almost all the way out.
"Hm. Nice, sweet girl…maybe you'll just take what I give you, even if it's scraps." His voice is gritty, rubbing raw across your flesh, might as well be a thumb to your clit. "Hungry thing."
Your eyes flutter shut and it's a mercy that he lets you keep them closed as his cock works back into you, harsh and perfect against your soft. You lean back on your hands and instead of focusing on his cock striking true, you smell him. Inhale the stale, grease-laden air with his cigarette smoke and sweat and low-lying body odour working too hard over cheap antiperspirant and cooked meat and onions and everything that should repulse you, should have you marching out that door, but whatever the fuck it is — something chemical and sick — is like a immurement of your own design.
He grabs your ankles and props your feet up onto the edge so he can fuck you without your legs in the way, and you could just collapse back for all you care. You feel the ghost of his thumb over your clit every now and again, but it's as if he has to keep reminding himself not to work your clit; feed you the scraps.
Hungry thing, you do. You clench and pull and work at your own orgasm despite his strokes that aren't really paying attention to how you like it, trying to claw something out of it just for you, and you can practically hear him smirking behind your closed lids.
"You got me fuckin' close, lovie."
You could scream.
"I'm gonna come in this gorgeous fuckin' cunt of yours. You know that?"
Some garbled monstrous noise works it way out of you at that and your hands claw at the countertop ledge for something to grip before he slams you up against the shore.
"Yeah, you do. Dirty fuckin' bird takin' what I give her. Got some bad news for you, lovie. Real bad."
The worst fucking timing to reveal 'bad news' and your eyes fly open wide.
"You're it f' me now."
And then you're shattering up against his jagged rocks — taking what you can get, ripping it with your sharpened teeth, and then baring them like a wild thing.
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He scrapes stubble against smooth, rubbing against you like it'll reveal something underneath, almost like a cat with its scent glands, marking you. He holds your face still beneath his and does this quietly until your face is moving up with his, mirroring him, trying to find and bring his mouth to yours. Now, you actually are trying to kiss him, your lips finding purchase over his, neck tipped high and yet cupped so firmly by his hands.
His thumbs stroke down over your trachea, running along it to feel the ridges.
He doesn't let you kiss him yet; he teases you away from a full one, even though your mouth is opening to press the wet silk of your tongue against his. He seems to find this funny, especially when a tiny whine gets needled out of you after the third pass.
"Come on," you sigh against him.
"What's that, love?"
"Kiss me."
Oh, his eyes. Danger lurking brightly, luminescent under a filmy veil.
"You want me t' kiss you, hm?"
"Why am I here?" You suddenly break out, pushing at him to no success, feeling a pinch of embarrassment at your cheeks and and eyes and tits and cunt. He's barely left you space to slide off the stool. "I-I gotta go. I'm gonna be late for work."
"Mm, she doesn't like t' be teased, eh."
You don't want to put your hands on him, so you lock your forearm ups in a dukes-up position and push toward his body. "No! I don't." It surprises you by how raw it comes out.
Simon's arms are coming up and his hands are now cupping your face, which would look romantic but for his thick, scuffed elbows resting on your shoulders, nearly weighing you down. He probably looks like he's going to pop your head clean off the rest of your body. "Sweet girl like you. Too soft for those games, eh."
"No." Defensive. Too defensive.
He gives you a humiliatingly knowing smile, almost a mercy. "Yeah. Too soft. Maybe you just wanna feel good, huh." No question mark in the gravelling, thick voice.
You don't answer, you can't, but your thighs squeeze together and he knows.
Gently and slowly, he takes your cross-body bag off, setting it on the counter. Your only barrier. A loud skidding sound and he's dragging the stool away and chucking it behind him, clanging onto the grease-marked floor. "Shut the door."
You pull it closed, or try, but it's got a funny sticking latch that you can't figure out and the longer it takes you, the more embarrassed and inflamed you feel. Then, there's a dark rumble of a chuckle at the back of your neck — god he's so quiet, how the fuck did he get closer in this already-cramped space without you noticing? — and he reaches over you, the curve and sanctuary of his armpit resting on your shoulder damply as he pulls the latch and twists it funny. Cranks it once to test it. You turn your head slightly, and the wave of him pouring off his skin and t-shirt is thicker than the humidity.
You're the type who has sex almost exclusively after showers, and your cunt is throbbing at the acridity of him, that nose-crinkling density of smoke and sweat and grease. He doesn't smell like sex, but he smells like how sex with him might feel. Harsh and staggering and obliterative of anything else but.
"You smellin' me, love?" Fuck, his voice is right there, pressed into the hollow of your ear. He's not touching you anywhere else, but his fingers might as well be in your cunt. A cold shiver runs over you, setting goosebumps across your bare flesh.
You turn your face, shamed, back to the door, staring blankly at some certificate taped up shoddily. Simon Riley, it says his full name. You're not sure it suits him.
His arm presses down harder, and then the other one is doing the same on the other side, until he's got you in some strange MMA-like hold, chin propped closer to the crown of your head than your shoulder. You almost laugh, and then his hands land on the door. Your head, between his locked arms. A dark laugh heating your neck.
A gasp slips out of you when he breaks up your soft summer flats with his steel-toed boots, widening your stance. Then, a heavy knee and thigh are braced between your legs, and all of a sudden, you are pressed against the door. Forehead under the certificate.
"Think she wants t' feel good. Wants me t' take care o' her."
A moan as diaphanous as late summer steam pours out of you, like a teakettle announcing itself.
"Ohhh," he breathes out, ghosting your crown. "I'll take such good care of you," he croons, and then he begins to rock his thigh up until it hits your cunt squarely. Your head punches back, nowhere else to go. Trapped in this cage and rutting against it like an animal desperate for any sort of substance.
"That feel good, love?" He repositions slightly, raises his leg higher until you're lifting off the floor, the slippery soles of your flats scraping gently. As you lose your balance, your tits push out to overcorrect your tipping. "Where you gonna hold on?"
There's nowhere else. You hook your arms up until your fingers curl around the meat of his forearms, holding on tight. Hysterically, you think that it looks like his arms are next going to come down on you like a rollercoaster restraint, the steel band that cages you in and keeps you from falling out.
He shifts his leg back and forth, holding you up. A fucking thigh for a seat.
"There you go."
You breathe out a whining sound.
"Nah, don't be embarrassed. I got you. Y'wanna feel good, use me, love."
It's not the rough texture of his jeans against the thin fabric of your pants. It's not the breadth of him pressing everywhere, nearly hitting every spot under you. It's not his thick, tattooed arms banded on either side of your head, your fingers gripping for dear life.
It's his voice, telling you that. It's his smell, drenching your back, dripping down, way deep down.
It's not embarrassment that stills you. It's the wanting. The sheer intensity of it engulfing you out of the blue.
Your fingernails bite down into his skin and he groans coarsely and that's when you start rocking. A slow measure, testing it out, unsure. He can't see your face. All he knows is your first name. These are the things you hold onto as you start to keen, clamping and unclamping your dangling legs around his, still uncertain that he's got you.
Your hips begin grinding faster, deeper, rocking your clit downward to find the friction, and he works with you now, shifting his thigh exactly so it resists where you need it to, the hard grip of denim making you moan even through two layers of cotton.
"Oh my god."
Despite the strangeness and newness, you are bolting to your orgasm like a wild horse that's been penned in, frantic for the exit, for release.
His stocky arms are holding you up. Damp with exertion, marked up from your fingernails, but steady. His breath is hard and laborious behind you, nearly against you, so fucking close.
"'m taking such good care of you, huh?"
You squeeze your inner thighs and eyes at the same time, clenching everything down to ride him, sweat running through your hair now, down your nape. "Oh, fuck. Oh my god."
"Nah, lemme hear you." And then he bumps his thigh up abruptly, jolting the start of the orgasm through you, as your fingers nearly pry off his arm, so slippery now.
It's a sobbing, breaching orgasm, rushing and hitching out of you, and it feels like you're on a fucking rocking horse, grinding yourself to a screeching finish. You feel a nail break skin but you can't stop the sounds, the words, the onslaught of everything pouring up and out of you —
— under your sounds, his own — sweet thing, s'good, that's fuckin lovely now, feelin' that pretty cunt on me — until you're drenched in tears or sweat or him.
cw/tags: 18+ (eventually). food truck owner simon x reader, eventual sexual content. cis-female reader. unedited.
part 1
Cheapest food truck around. Stuck haphazardly in the middle of a dirty industrial park, tucked between HVAC and roofing buildings. Shit signage — hand-scribbled nonsense that you have to squint at to decipher.
All it — he — serves are burgers and fries ("chips").
His line's long, but you watch him whittle it down with sharp teeth, big fast hands, and a loud barking voice. Thank god, it's so fucking hot out, standing out in the scalding sun with no relief of clouds is your worst idea in awhile. Rumour has it, if you don't answer his first call to grab your order, he gives it to the next customer in line and tells you to fuck off. If you're busy on your phone while trying to order, he shunts you to the back of the line.
You had flipped open the app to check his reviews while you stood in line behind a bunch of workers from the nearby businesses.
buddy needs an attitude check. good food though.
told me to fuck off then gave me the best burger i've ever had. will be back!
absolutely horrible service!!! he's lucky he only charges $5 or else he'd be OUT OF BUSINESS!!
You think there's no way a man like him cares about reviews in the first place. You internally practice your order — literally just 'burger with cheese and extra pickles with fries, please' — as you get closer. Tap at your phone nervously, watching how his looming body fills the order window. He leans over the window frame to hear properly, tilts his right ear down to the customer; his left ear doesn't seem to work as well. When he leans like that, his big tattooed arms press against the counter behind. He bites on his lower lip in concentration when he's listening, eyebrows drawn down tight. He can somehow ignore everyone else around him to focus just on the single person ahead of him at a time.
The two workers in front of you are next up to order and yapping about a job when a third, then fourth buddy call over to them, then melt themselves into the line like they were there all along. You were already on a tight lunch, adding two more orders ahead of yours is going to eat up your time.
It's petty, but you sigh loudly and pointedly.
One of them turns around, uses his height to look down at you disgustedly, and says, "Fuckin' relax."
"Excuse me?" You scoff, heat itching across your face and chest instantly. You glance behind you, but everyone's either glancing down into their phones or chatting with buddies.
"You fuckin' heard me."
"Oi." The voice is like a sudden clap of thunder over your house in the night, startling your whole body awake in a single crack. Your head snaps up, eyes wide, to see the man's arms punched fist-down on the countertop like a silverback, dark flat eyes fixed on the men ahead of you. "Get the fuck outta here."
"C'mon, man," one of them pleads. "S'just a joke."
You have only ever seen the look on the man's face on television before. A predator baring its teeth, dead-still like a stone dropped flat into a stagnant pond. A shudder runs through you as you stare at the men, who're all squawking complaints and fussing like babies.
He whistles so sharply, you press your hands to your ears and wince.
"Don't make me come out there."
You start to drift away, the heat washing over you too intensely to withstand. You don't want to order or be here. You just want to slink back to your car, drive to work around the corner, and grab something from the vending machine to tide you over until the day's done. You're not cut out for confrontation like this, a soft thing that can't take the heat.
"You. C'mere."
Everyone left in line is staring at you, open-mouthed. You want to disappear into the steam of today's heat, evaporate until you're a puff of something that melts away without notice.
His eyes on you. You couldn't possibly prepare yourself for it. Worse than the sun. He chucks his chin to the side, his eyes sliding slowly to tell you to walk around back. You move with shaky, locked-up knees, avoiding everyone's stares, head down. It feels like being sent to the principal's office. Shame and hot frying nerves soak your skin as you slink around the side of the fixed truck, eyes frantically assessing the environment. Dumpster. Broken-down boxes. The typical detritus, you imagine.
And a short set of stairs leading up to the back of the food truck, a door hanging wide open.
"All out f' the day. Fuck off til tomorrow." You hear the man bark, then there's a loud metallic shuttling sound, and when you glance behind you, the tail-end of the line are all throwing their hands up or groaning in frustration, starting to walk off.
Then, the man appears in the doorway and you suddenly think of Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the bulk of him, the dirty apron knotted at his thick waist, his stomach fat plumped over it, and the eyes that don't move when they land on you.
You hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.
"Up y'get." Like a child attempting stairs for the first time.
There's no railing to trail a hand over. You knot your hands on the cross-body bag strap in front of you, wringing it as you step up one by one. The heat is foggy in here, thick and weighty.
"They givin' you trouble?" He walks over to the far end of the truck interior where you can see fryer baskets and crooked stacks of take-out containers. No order notes at all. Must be all in that big head. It's so much darker in here with the order window shuttered closed.
"No…why'd you close up?"
There's a shrug across his hefty, rounded shoulders. His white t-shirt is filthy, the collar ringed with yellowed sweat stains, dried and fresh, long scoops of sweat darkening from his armpits to where his pecs must rest, a unique pattern set-in. The lack of light doesn't give you much of his face, but it's scarred and heavyset, a strong set of mouth and brows.
"How d'ya take it?"
"Pardon?"
"Pardon," he smirks down at the fryer, his body moving smoothly through the motions of pressing a fresh meat patty on the flat-top griddle. The meat steams up toward his serious face.
Why are you here?
"Just…whatever is fine."
You try to find the smallest corner you can occupy in here, unobtrusive. You don't know if he wants you to watch him, but you do anyway. His large arms, full sleeve tattoos curling up into his t-shirt, working diligently on flipping and pressing the patty. A little stack of onions on top, cooked together for a few seconds to melt them together a bit. Bun slathered with whatever he uses here. Melted cheese on top of the meat, over the fried onion. A dribble of liquid down the side of the bun as he delicately places each topping on top. Wrapped into burger paper. Fries pulled from the basket, shaken, salted and something else. Scooped hot and stiff into a take-out container.
He uses a steel-toed boot to pull out a stool that's pushed under the corner counter. Tips his chin up at you. "Sit. Eat."
You tell him your name as you stumble onto the tall, tippy stool, pulling your wide-legged dress pants up. He just grunts in response. "Simon."
Okayyy.
He turns his back and starts to put the little compact kitchen to rights, clanging around. With nothing left to do but eat your burger and fries, you dig in. Tentatively at first, self-conscious sitting here as some strange guest that somehow earned scary food truck guy's full attention and his preferential treatment. Sweat slides down from your neck to spine to ass under your thin office top. You take small bites until the relief of a good lunch melts over your taste buds. It's everything a burger should be: crispy, crunchy, melty, packed with flavour. Nothing fancy or stupid ingredients complicating it. You sigh a little, then jam a few of the hot fries in with a bite of meat. They're spiced with something you can't quite name, and when he finally looks back at you, there's a determinedly puzzled look on your face.
"Summat wrong." Should be a question mark at the end of his words, but no.
"No!" You realize you're hunched like crazy over your container, back molded in a c-shape, and spring back up. "It's so good. I was just wondering what you used on the fries, that's all."
A coarse grunt. Dishes slipped into hot soapy water.
"Turmeric." He mangles the word. "Lawry's." Better.
You savour a fry, trying to parse those out. "State secrets, eh."
"Not tellin' you everythin'. Nosy."
A laugh of surprise huffs out of you. "Oh, I wasn't ask—"
"Just fuckin' with you, bird." He might as well reach out an arm and shake the stool beneath you for how off-centre you makes you.
You let out a puff of nervous laughter. None of the reviews said he pulled me into his food truck and force fed me, so you were shit out of luck on what to do. How to act.
"Cute watchin' you eat all prim." He leans against a stainless steel countertop, some damp raggedy dishcloth folded into the fat of his crossed arms. "Makes me wonder what else you do proper."
Your mouth falls open, a round of tart pickle plopping squarely on your lap. Before you can gather up wits and senses not fizzled out by the heat in the truck and Simon's presence, he advances on you, pulling the shadows of the space with him. His huge arms prop up on either side of the corner counters, triangulating you right inside. Up close, you can see the beaded sweat at his hairline. Behind his ears. Where it's tracked down inside the t-shirt. You wonder what his armpits look like; if the hair there is pressed with moisture and a morning application of antiperspirant. His fingers strum on the stainless steel calmly. Deciding what to do.
Stupidly, you stare up into his eyes. Stupidly, you think of telling him that his eyes look like onions that have been caramelized on a stove for hours.
"You like my food?" Leaning on the muscles of his arms, playing with you, coming down a little to your height.
"Y-yeah," you laugh.
"Like watching you eat it."
The pickle round is soaking through the thigh of your pants. You're going to go back to work smelling like pickle juice and grease and fries. You shift on the stool anxiously.
"Gonna give me a kiss me then?" An old stitch near his lip pulls the corner of his mouth, but it widens further with a smirk. Dark tea-brown eyes flashing.
Your world shrunk down to a claustrophobic corner of a sweating food truck, wedged in by a man three times your size, feeling like you've just surfaced from a pool only to find yourself still underwater. "What?"
Closer, he smells like cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat has your top and pants plastered to your entire backside. It's breaking out on your upper lip. Your breath has shallowed out to thin short pants.
"I'll let you. For bein' so sweet an' cute."
Let you? Let you kiss him?! His audacity won't strike you until much later, unfortunately. Oxygen is low. Heat is swamping.
"Oh."
"C'mon then."
He lowers himself, arms still propped up and out on either side of you, until he's flush with your face. Lets you snap your mouth closed and hover forward on the stool precariously until your lips have pressed firmly over his.
"S'nice. Were I still in Year 6." You pull back and his eyes are nearly electric, how alive he looks, mouth tugged up.
In grade 6, you were a compulsive liar at your new school, desperate to make friends. You bragged that your dad was famous because he travelled all the time for work at a pop company and that was why you had to live with your cousins. You were bug-eyed and scrawny with a huge gap between your teeth. You certainly weren't being kissed like this, or at all. Simon seems like the kid who understood what all the bases meant and showed the other kids porno mags in the forest. Those boys frightened you.
Still do.
Suddenly, he cranks up to his full height. Arms down to his side. Boots wedging the stool in place, big pillar-like thighs covered by a nasty apron pressing into your kneecaps.
You are going to be late back to work.
His hands surprise you by drawing up your neck, setting loose a big shiver that you can't hide, and cupping you there. Large hands, damp with soapy water or grease or something else altogether. His thumbs make little circles on your jawline as he manipulates your face to tilt up toward him, and you realize then, with crystalline and unnerving certainty, you have never been kissed properly before this moment.
His fingertips curl around the tops of your ears, bumping over the flatbacks of your piercings, rounding out the cartilage and bone under his mapping.
Kisses that made you smile, kisses that melted into foreplay or sex, goodbye kisses with no eye contact. Lots in between.
But a kiss that demands nothing else of you except your eyes on the other person, watching them begin to dismantle you.
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored he’s ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipate—flow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.
"Right. I shouldn't have asked—" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profile—stubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I just—" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, I—we—"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. He’d wager it’s been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck he’s had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctor’s appointment. It’s not the longest break, and he’s aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he could’ve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though it’s you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. It’s the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. It’s the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they don’t remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when you’re feeling good—when he’s making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. He’s human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight that’s suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
“Well, I—I can’t stop this—” You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if it’s there where it all festers. “—Sense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? I—I know you’ll say I shouldn’t—”
“Aye, you shouldn’t.”
“—But,” you interject, pointing a finger at him. “I still do.”
“Love,” he insists, but not unkindly. “Won’t fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.”
“I do!” You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. “I swear I do! I just—"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
“I—I don’t think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,” your voice cracks. “I hate it. I hate how I can’t control it anymore.”
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, you’ve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.
“And I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.”
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
“But it’s weird to… get ready for it.” You cinch your shoulders. “I don’t want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, because—because it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that it’s just… gone.”
Simon thinks about it.
It would be odd, he doesn’t deny that. Doesn’t know what you like to watch when he’s deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while he’s fucking you. Doesn’t care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.
You’ve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?
He knows he’s got one of you that he can’t get tired of.
You’re lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted it’d be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when he’s away, and he joked about how he’s not a fan of his ugly mug.
“Can’t have a wank an’ look at this mug now, can I.”
Your face, mainly. That’s what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, there’s you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like you’re an instrument—moans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.
It’s your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
“We could watch anything,” you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Your favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I don’t know, you can take the lead on that—on everything, actually. I—I need to—”
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. “I need to feel like you want to fuck me. I—I want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.”
Your chest heaves. “Please tell me I’m making sense.”
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. “It’s okay if you don’t wa—"
“I got an idea.”
────────────────────────────────────────────
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” you blabber breathlessly.
Simon’s fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.
“Met you halfway, didn’t I?”
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. He’s got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
“But I—” You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. “—I don’t like to look at myself.”
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.
“S’porn, innit?”
You groan. “God, Simon—”
“You asked for my favourite,” he rumbles. “There y’go.”
There’s a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.
“But this won’t make me horny,” you whine, though there’s a telltale weakness in your statement that doesn’t manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still can’t. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouth—lips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. You’ve never been one, but he reckons there’s nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
“Won’t it?”
He’s kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. He’s got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it ends—two tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.
Fuck you’re a painting, aren’t you?
“Look at yourself,” he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. “Look at how good you were feelin’, mh?”
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that you’re not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead you’re opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
There’s the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smile—all teeth and wrinkled nose.
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed “thank you”.
Simon’s cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.
“Can—can you do that?”
Simon’s pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
“Do what, swee’heart?”
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve he’s witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. “Can you spit in my mouth like that?”
And it goes straight to his cock.
Don’t need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
“Open up.”
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simon’s eyes roll back.
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
“Thank you,” you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simon’s left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settle—he shouldn’t devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should be—
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simon’s heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, should—
—give you more.
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simon’s hungry, he’s always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-lived—promptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.
It’s the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isn’t supporting your weight anymore, you’re using him as leverage—pulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simon’s hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
“Remember tha’?” He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And you’re so diligent, following his lead. “Yes.”
“Mh,” he rumbles. “Felt good, didn’t it?”
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
“Yes.”
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
“Wanna cum on my cock like that?” He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. “Wanna feel like tha’ again?”
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. That’s one of the things that has changed. He’s always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly was—mere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how you’re trying to be rid of it.
It’s why he’s more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chains—forever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
“Oh fuck,” you groan.
Simon’s hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voice—some raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
“Like tha’, pet,” he snarls. “Fuckin’ take it.”
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. “Y’liked that, uh?”
Another tug, another helpless moan.
“Ah fuck, yer close,” he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. “Listen to tha’. Yer gonna cum, love?”
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
“Can feel ya getting’ tight.” His lips brush your skin. “Go on, sweet girl.”
Before leaving the grip in your hair.
“Cum on my fuckin’ cock—"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
“Fuck me,” you heave. “Fuck me like that again, baby.”
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He kisses his teeth. “C’mere.”
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isn’t about to give in already.
“Fuck me, baby,” you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. “Please fuck me. I—I want to feel you inside me, please. Please.”
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
“I want it,” you whimper. “I want you.”
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until he’s drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
“Missed it, haven’t ya,” he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. “Feel tha’?”
He’s never been this hard in his life—never been this turned on either.
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesn’t. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
“Missed you too, pet.”
He’s barely been inside you, and if he doesn’t truly, really, focus, he’ll ram his cock and come so fucking deep you’ll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.
“Yer gonna take it, yeah?” He grunts, moving forward with his hips. “Gonna take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
A pleasing sob. “Please.”
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he is—
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
“Oh my fucking—" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. “Fuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please move—”
Simon’s mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.
It’s the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
“I got you, pet,” he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. “I got you.”
You’re incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungs—though he’s just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons you’re far from done, too.
He’s deliberately slow, savouring each second that passes—but sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you come—
“Fuck,” you pant, hissing through your teeth. “Ngh—keep going. God, plea—keep going—”
“Yeah?” His voice purrs. “Fuckin’ feel that—Christ yer dripping.”
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
“M’gonna come again—”
“Go on then,” he rumbles. “Do it, love. Cum all over me.”
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds.
But then, there’s the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. “I missed you.”
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.
“I missed you.”
It’s said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
“I love you,” you say, placing your lips on his. “I love you so much.”
Simon’s chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesn’t want this to end so abruptly.
“Christ,” he mutters, “Yer killing me, pet.”
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. “Mh. And we don’t want that.”
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
“Aye, we don’t,” he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. “But I love you.”
Simon groans. “Yer a cheeky fuckin’—”
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isn’t received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you on—you moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. He’s missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
“Missed you,” he croaks in your ear.
His pace picks up.
“Missed this voice ‘ere.” His mouth latches onto your neck. “Missed yer fuckin’ taste. Missed this fuckin’ cunt.”
Doesn’t care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
“Fuckin’—” He stutters. “Love ya. Wanna fuck you every day—”
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.
“When yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop an’ bend over to pick up some shite—”
“Oh fuck, Simon—keep going—”
“—Fuck, yer made f’me. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.”
“I’m—oh fuck—I’m gonna come—”
And he can fucking feel it.
“That’s it, pet. Give it to me.”
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how he’s coming, too. It’s all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for control—steal it from the tight grip of his hands.
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
You’re soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.
“I missed you,” you say wetly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon brushes his nose against yours.
He knows how that type of guilt feels—the misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesn’t care about the damage it yields, because it’s not how it operates.
It’s unfounded. Still, he knows words won’t be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still can’t. It takes balls to survive a life you don’t want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
“Don’t gotta be,” he whispers. “Proud of ya.”
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
“For what?” You chuckle dismissively. “Having sex?”
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasn’t granted in a while.
“Yeah,” he concedes, because you need time. “Tha’ too.”
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that you’ve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
“Thank you,” you say. “For being here. For being proud of me.”
Always.
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 1
masterlist
It must be the mother of all quarter-life crises for you to be as torn up about this as you are.
(‘Mother of all’—what an apt phrase for a time like this.)
Two of your friends have babies and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Chubby cheeks and wrinkly fingers; diaper bags stuffed to the brim and shrill baby screams piercing through the house.
You try to help them out as best you can in those first few months, coming over with dinner wrapped in foil and snacks in Tupperware for the exhausted parents, offering to help run errands or tidy up the place while they try to catch up on sleep. The picture perfect friend.
You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder.
It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it.
All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance.
They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another.
You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually.
Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke.
You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy.
Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying.
Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them.
So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story.
A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way.
It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method.
And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months.
It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.
The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.
There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch.
And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in.
A man this time, all by his lonesome.
And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.
After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours.
Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you.
In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.
Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey.
The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.
You swallow, that thought catching you off guard.
Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity.
He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.
It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.
“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment.
“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”
Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”
“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”
You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.
“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”
His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest.
You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse.
He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”
It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”
“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”
It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused.
“Excuse me?” you ask.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”
“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”
“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”
“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned.
“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”
You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order.
“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out.
That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”
“You do know we’re in public, right?”
“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”
The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”
Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”
“Not what I meant.”
Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates.
“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”
He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight.
He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave.
And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down.
“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”
You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid.
That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you.
The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.
You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall.
And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand.
Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.
Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?
“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price.
That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.
“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.”
IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to just and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop.
“There’s no…first time discount?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”
She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”
It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”
You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.
No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate.
You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive.
If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take.
Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning.
It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back.
Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality.
This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.
There’s got to be another way.
It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it.
You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all.
A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.
You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: a charged, late night encounter with ghost leaves you wondering when your feelings towards the masked outlaw shifted.
word count: 9.2k
cw: depictions of blood/minor injuries, brief mentions of death and domestic abuse. light harassment. mdni, 18+
You were finally beginning to settle in, finally beginning to accept your new life as your own.
The morning after Kate and John Price arrived, you were put to work. It had been a nice reprieve — those first few days, you’d had nothing to do but sleep, eat, shop, read, and wander around town — but you’d begun to grow bored. You’d never had so much free time in your life, and you weren’t sure you liked it all that much — at least not for the foreseeable future. The idea of it seemed much better in theory than in practice, to have nothing but time for days and days on end.
You’d been grateful to finally have something to do, something that made you feel useful. Something that made you feel like you could pay them back for all that they’d done for you, for all the trouble they’d taken on by bringing you into their fold, even if they insisted it’d been no trouble at all.
Kate had assigned you with the task of some light cleaning, some basic maidservant duties. Upon her apparent return to town — because it became increasingly obvious she wasn’t new to this place, just like the men weren’t — she had assumed the role of proprietor, of manager of The Prairie Rose.
It seemed that everywhere she went, every space she entered, she was in charge. Everyone listened to her, heeded to whatever she said, whatever order she gave — even the men, who you thought could never be tamed, could never bend to the will of another — god forbid that of a woman. It was impressive, the way she commanded a room, the way a simple string of words had everyone falling into line.
You wanted to please her, to impress her even. You wanted her to be satisfied with the work you’d done, with the tasks she assigned you. The effort you put in to sweeping, to scrubbing, to stripping used linens and dusting shelves had nothing to do with the fear of retribution for a poor job done and everything to do with appeasing her, of gaining her approval you so desperately craved. It didn’t hurt that you were paid a small salary, too — the first time you’d ever made money of your own.
It gave you a renewed sense of purpose, you realized. It was easy work, simple; nothing that required much thought or skill, but you were more than happy to take it on, to be of service. It wasn’t an obligation or a chore that could bring about any kind of punishment for anything less than perfection — not anymore.
That alone gave you a sense of peace.
Once your cleaning duties of the day were fulfilled, Kate let you have the rest of the day for yourself. Usually, you strolled through town, exploring streets and shops you hadn’t yet visited and getting to know the city. It was vast, expansive — seemingly never-ending roads of uneven cobblestone and dusty paths winding every which way, stretching endlessly for what felt like miles. You tried to take a different route each day to see more, to learn more about your new home — for however long it would be your home, at least.
These days, you never knew what to expect.
Sometimes, when she was free and willing, Roze joined you. You’d found out that she worked at The Prairie Rose, too, mostly serving as a barkeep in the saloon. She’d tried to get you to work the night with her, had suggested it once while you were out on a walk together. You’d immediately declined, shaking your head at the mere idea of it.
You had yet to venture back down there since that first night you’d arrived, when you’d almost been swallowed whole by the chaos and drunken raucous of the night crawling crowd — so, you couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be on the other side of things, trying to manage the madness, to keep up with shouted demands and orders, the spills and the inevitable mess patrons left behind.
The thought alone stressed you out, much less the reality of it.
You knew that the men often spent their nights down there, drinking and smoking and generally taking part in indulging their vices. It was why Ghost came to your shared room late every evening, the moon high in the sky, sweat and smoke and liquor clinging to his skin, his breath, and his clothes. He’d never mentioned it to you, never confirmed where he was, but he didn’t need to. You knew.
Not that it was really any of your business what he did with his time, how he spent his days. You didn’t see him nor the other men much as it was. He always slipped into the room late at night like clockwork, well after the sun had set, and he was gone long before you woke up, nothing left behind but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him etched into the wrinkled linen.
Sometimes, it felt like he was just a figment of your imagination, like he was someone your twisted and tired brain conjured up to make you feel less alone.
After all, it’s not like you had any real idea of what he looked like.
As the days stretched on, as the nights came and went, you felt yourself growing more and more comfortable around him, sharing that room and that bed with him. It was a gradual transition, a slow change over time — it didn’t happen overnight, wasn’t something you were doing consciously. In fact, you weren’t even sure when it shifted, when his mere existence around yours didn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, didn’t make your spine stiffen and your shoulders bunch up to your ears.
It was just something you finally noticed, a feeling you finally acknowledged. You were half asleep, drifting towards unconsciousness, when you heard the telltale creak of the hinges, the leaden footsteps you’d learned to recognize as his, that slight hitch in his left leg. You didn’t react, barely even stirred as he went about his routine — stirring the ash and reigniting the fire, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes. The mattress dipped beneath him, the ropes underneath creaking as he climbed in, tossing the quilt aside like he always did, his body running like a furnace and providing him with more than enough heat for the cold desert nights.
The familiar smell of him filled your lungs, clouding your thoughts as a soft hum slipped from your lips. Eyes still closed and brain still a little foggy, you readjusted instinctively, drifting closer to him without even meaning to. It didn’t occur to you to move away, to put space between your body and his. No, if anything, you were waiting to feel the weight of his arm around your middle, the warmth of him at your back — a sensation you’d grown accustomed to, the way it had been since you’d arrived here.
And it was like he noticed the shift in you, the absence of any hesitation and tension; saw the way your body remained relaxed, your breaths slow, sleepy, and even. Comfortable. Cozy.
He took all of one second to hesitate, the only evidence of his surprise, before he shifted closer to you, erasing the small gap that remained. His thick arm was a band around your stomach, pulling you the rest of the way against him, his neck craned and gaze silently locked on your face to watch for any signs of that usual agitation, the typical discomfort your body showed even when you couldn’t find your voice.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
It wasn’t until the morning — his warmth long gone — that it occurred to you how monumental that was, how big of a change that had been for the both of you.
You never thought you’d ever be comfortable around a man again, much less one whose face you’d never even seen. Much less one tied to you by these circumstances — a man who’d killed your husband without hesitation, who’d defended your honor without even knowing your name, who’d saved your life and given you a future you never thought you’d have.
So maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that you felt more at ease around him, more comfortable. It wasn’t like your uncertainty around him was completely gone — of course, the man still terrified you in more ways than one. You’d seen what he was capable of, witnessed why his reputation preceded him. Capable of taking a life in cold blood, firing bullets without pause, utterly unmoved and unbothered by the bodies that dropped or the last breaths stolen from gasping lungs.
But you’d seen another side of him, too. One that most people never got close enough to witness, never even considered to be a possibility. A side that those who whispered his name, who shivered at the mention of the man behind the red mask, could never possibly fathom.
A side that was aching gentle, painstakingly kind. Caring, even if it came off as blunt and crass and sometimes rough around the edges.
He cared about you. Whether or not he would ever use his words, would ever admit it to you, it showed. He’d come to your rescue more than once and not just when he killed your abusive ex before he could kill you.
It showed when your father had turned up, demanding to take you back after your husband was no longer able to call you his property. When you’d almost gotten swept up in the tide of the rowdy saloon. When he helped you on and off his black stallion, your legs too short and too weak to mount the giant animal by yourself.
When he let you doze off on the ride towards town, tucked right into the crook of his arm without complaint. When he, and admittedly the others, provided you with lodging and meals every day, multiple times a day.
He slept beside you each and every night, the first line of defense against any threat that might come your way from beyond those four walls. Yes, it was possessive — that much was painfully clear. The way he claimed you in front of others, called you his; the way he refused to let you stray too far from his sight or someone he trusted for too long. But beneath it, there was something else too. Something protective. Preserving. Quietly safeguarding you in a way you’d never known before, had never experienced.
Or maybe, you were falling victim to another version of Stockholm syndrome.
It made you question everything, overthinking it all as you went about your day, changing used sheets and sweeping rooms, scrubbing down surfaces and washing the bathing spaces.
Was it wrong that you felt safe around him, or were you losing your mind? Was it wrong that you were slowly beginning to trust another man after everything you’d gone through, or were you completely brainless?
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, what you were supposed to think. If a more sane, a more reasonable person would feel the same in your position, under your circumstances.
It had been three weeks since you’d arrived in town, about two weeks since Kate and John Price followed behind. Your bruises had long since faded, and the aches in your body had dissipated; the cut on your temple nothing more than a thin, reddish scar. Kate had taken the stitches out awhile ago now, aiding you in keeping it clean. She always checked in on you, always made time for you even amongst her busy schedule, the full plate you knew she had every day without fail.
Now, nothing from your previous life remained but your old brown boots and the old scars scattered across your body. You’d even thrown out your old white dress, the thin hand-me-down that you’d had for far too long — the one that you’d been wearing that day when you’d stumbled into their bar, the one Kate had scrubbed your husband’s blood out of.
You wanted no evidence, no piece of your old life to taint your new one — ridding yourself of anything left behind, anything tangible that could be tossed. You wanted nothing to show for that time — that dark, endless pit that you endured for far longer than any person should’ve.
Later on, once your work for the day was complete, you mindlessly ambled around town, alternating between left and right turns, letting your feet take you wherever they wanted as your mind went elsewhere. You were still completely and utterly fixated on your inner self, overanalyzing and scrutinizing every thought, every feeling, every choice made that related to Ghost. Considering whether or not you were being idiotic and foolish, whether you were letting yourself fall into another trap set by a man with nothing but bad intentions.
You must have been wandering for hours, lost in a mindless haze as the sun dipped toward the horizon, beginning to slip behind the orange mesas far off in the distance. Thankfully, you ended up just a few blocks away from The Prairie Rose, able to spot the red brick building from where you stood. Even though dusk approached, the town was still as busy and vibrant as ever — clomping hooves from passing horses, ragtime tunes spilling out from open doors and windows, laughter and loud chatter, street vendors shouting over one another as they peddled their goods.
You knew better than to linger, quickly making your way back to the saloon and inn. It wasn’t safe to be alone out there once evening fell, once the night sky blanketed the town in darkness. This place, like most towns, morphed into a different beast entirely — people emboldened by their liquor, believing that the twilight hid their depravity, their transgressions.
You always made sure to get back before then, well before then — but you were so caught up in your own head that you hadn’t even noticed what time it was.
Thankfully, you made it back without issue, slinking through the saloon before it got too full. There were already a good number of patrons occupying spots at the bar, lounging in booths and taking over a few tables. You spotted Roze behind the counter — dark hair pinned up, a few loose tendrils hanging around her pretty face, framing her strong features.
Just as you were about to dart into the lobby, you heard her voice call out to you, catching you before you could disappear.
“Fawn!” Her slightly raspy tone rang out, cutting through the loud conversations and clinking glasses. “Don’t think I don’t see you over there!”
Heads turned and bodies shifted, attention drawn to you as you came to a sudden halt, closing your eyes in resignation. You felt your cheeks heat, not all but most observing you, regarding you with intrigue. You tried to ignore it as you made your way over to your friend, who wore a knowing, amused smirk.
“You really thought I wasn’t gonna catch ya?” She arched a dark brow at you as you approached, taking advantage of the few empty spots near the corner of the bar.
You shrugged, propping your elbows up onto the counter. “I mean, I was really hoping not.”
She chuckled as she continued to polish the clean glass in her hands, rag buffing out any leftover streaks and smudges.
“Nothing gets past me, sugar. You know better than that.”
You smiled — because yeah, you did — but it vanished as soon as you glanced over to your right, catching leering gazes already fixed on you. The way some of the men looked at you, watched you, made your skin crawl, eyes dragging over you like you were a slab of fresh meat.
“You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” One of them jeered with a low whistle, a greasy grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with something wicked, something that made your spine stiffen.
You immediately looked away, shifting uneasily on your feet, fingers nervously picking at the skin around your nail beds.
“Hey. Enough.” Roze snapped, slamming the glass she’d been holding down on the counter, rattling the cups already resting there and gaining everyone’s attention. “Say another word to her and I’ll cut your fucking dick off. That clear?”
The culprit and the others around him straightened immediately, nodding obediently at her warning before pointedly turning their attention anywhere else. Relief loosened the knot in your chest at how quickly they listened to her, how none of them dared challenge her twice.
It, also, thoroughly impressed you.
“Wow.” Your voice was low as you leaned forward, watching the way the men all went back to their business as if you were never even there, didn’t even exist. “How’d you do that?”
Roze didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t seem to be fazed as she started polishing off a new glass. “Do what?”
“Uh, that. Just now.” You tilted your chin subtly in the direction of the chastised patrons. “How you managed to get them to fall in line.”
She scoffed, rolling her blue eyes.
“They’re pigs. All of ‘em.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice as she spoke, completely uncaring whether or not they heard her — and they definitely did. “Gotta treat ‘em like it. And—” she shrugged, “they know there’s a long list of people willing to follow through on the threat I just made. Myself included.”
You had a feeling you knew the entirety of who made up that list.
You bit back a smile, that increasingly familiar warmth unfurling through your chest once more — that same strange sense of safety that seemed to follow you wherever you went these days.
“Can I get you a drink before you disappear for the night?” She asked, eyes flicking back over to you as she topped off a glass of what appeared to be whiskey for one of the patrons who’d actually been quiet during the whole exchange. “On the house.”
You shook your head. “I’m alright. Promise.”
Your gaze drifted over her, taking in her appearance — eyes lined with kohl, black and red corset cinched so tight that her breasts nearly spilled over the neckline.
“You look good,” You complimented her earnestly, even though it wasn’t your own personal style, wasn’t something you had the nerve to ever wear yourself.
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Really? Huh. I was aiming more for ravishing.” She adjusted herself shamelessly, pushing up her ample chest even higher as she leaned closer to you, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “Gotta make coin somehow. Like I said.” She wrinkled her nose. “Pigs.”
You laughed, the sound catching the attention of a few of the men, but their eyes darted away just as quickly once Roze turned sharply toward them, sending them a warning glare.
You exchanged goodbyes and good nights shortly thereafter, very much ready for the safety and solitude of your room. The music started up as soon as you reached your door, the sounds of the piano and the fiddle traveling all the way up to the third floor.
For the rest of the night, you let yourself relax, your mind and body too worn down from the day’s strain to do much else. You pulled your new book out from beneath the mattress, still wary of Ghost discovering it, of him taking issue with you having it at all.
Deep down, you knew he likely wouldn’t care, probably wouldn’t even mention it — but you still weren’t ready to take that chance, to give him any reason to snap the tenuous balance between you.
You tried your best to focus on the words, to absorb the tales of the dime western you’d purchased with your own earnings, but you couldn’t concentrate, the faded black ink on the page blurring into indecipherable blobs. After a few more minutes, you gave up, finally accepting that you were too tired to actually comprehend any of it. You tucked the book back into its hiding spot and blew out the oil lamp on your bedside table, leaving the other one illuminated for Ghost for whenever he returned, knowing he’d need the small bit of light when he came back.
Settling under the covers, your head resting on the fresh pillowcase you’d changed that morning, you drifted off almost instantly, falling right into a restful sleep.
You weren’t sure when you woke, how much time had passed since you’d first closed your eyes. The fire in the hearth had long since fizzled out, the room significantly cooler. It was quiet, dark — save for the dim glow of the oil lamp still flickering weakly on the far nightstand. Slivers of moonlight trickled in through the sheer curtains, hinting to you of the late hour.
Everything felt normal, typical — except for the fact that beside you, the bed was glaringly empty.
There was no sign, no indication that he’d ever been there, had ever come back while you were sleeping like he usually did. No pile of clothes thrown over the chair, no boots left by the door. Nothing.
It settled over you, your stomach dropping like a stone in a lake as worry seeped through your veins.
He was always back by now. Always.
Sure, he often returned late, never quite at the same hour and usually well after the moon had risen. And sure, it wasn’t as though you had a clock to measure the passing time, but you knew. Knew it was later than it had ever been before.
Something was wrong.
You sat up straight, the sheets pooling around your waist as you stilled, training your ear and listening best you could, trying to see if you could hear any music or sounds or voices trickling in from downstairs.
It was quieter. Much quieter than usual — the faint melody of a guitar, chatter so distant and muffled you could barely make it out. Nothing like the loud, lively revelry that usually raged into the wee hours of the night.
Your heart stuttered, anxiety flooding your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t ignore the way your gut insisted that something was wrong.
But you were being ridiculous, weren’t you? This was Ghost after all. The man with a reputation that far exceeded itself, a notorious outlaw with a body count higher than you could ever possibly imagine and more blood left in his wake than you cared to know about. He was the biggest man you’d ever seen — the kind that could kill without flinching, could instill fear with just a simple look. You still weren’t even sure he was human, was even susceptible to the same type of harm the average person was.
He was more than capable of handling himself.
Right?
You tried to convince yourself that he was fine, that everything was fine. That you were just overthinking, stressing out about nothing. That you were being completely unreasonable.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling, the unease that took root in your stomach.
You threw off the covers, bare feet landing against the cold floorboards as you rose from the bed. You didn’t know what you were thinking, what you were even doing. Where would you even find him? Where would you even start? Would you go down to the saloon to try and find Roze? Kate? The others? What if they weren’t there? What if they didn’t know where he was, assuming he’d been with you this whole time?
As the questions and uncertainty swirled around in your head, you kept hearing that small nagging voice in the very back corner of your mind — this was absurd. You were absurd. What on earth could you even do in this situation, if he wasn’t down in the saloon? March out into the streets in the middle of the night and search for him yourself?
It didn’t stop you from pulling on your stockings and stuffing your feet into your boots with shaking hands, your pulse thundering in your ears.
He was probably downstairs. He was probably just having an extra drink as the night wound down, draped over an old leather booth with Johnny and Kyle, women all on their laps and begging for their attention.
Wait — where did that come from?
You paused, shaking your head to yourself. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have cared that he was gone or what women, if any, were wrapped around him. In fact, you probably would’ve relished in his absence, the freedom it finally gave you, the reprieve from the attention and strange interest he had in you. Sure, you’d gotten used to his presence, the safety he provided by sleeping beside you; comfortable in the way he’d never tried to hurt you, to force himself on you — even if he called you his, claimed you as such in every opportunity he had in front of watching eyes.
And sure, he’d scared you once before, that night not all that long ago where you hadn’t seen him or the others all day and night, when you thought they’d all left you behind. But he’d come back then, and even though it had been late when he did, this surely surpassed it.
…right?
God, were you truly losing your mind?
Swallowing hard, you ignored the racing thoughts, the competing emotions that threatened to take over and render you completely useless. You needed to focus, needed to get your head on straight.
You were just going to look downstairs. If he was there, good. If he wasn’t…well, you’d deal with that when the sun rose.
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment to center yourself, to steel yourself for whatever you were about to find, whatever you were about to encounter. The wooden planks creaked under your feet as you crossed the room, tugging the quilt off the bed and throwing it over yourself — there was no way you were going down there in nothing but your thin, white nightgown.
Your hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, fingers curling around the metal as you pulled the door open and nearly jumped right out of your skin, a startled gasp escaping you at what — or rather, who — awaited on the other side.
Ghost. In the flesh.
You stumbled over your own feet, your grip tightening on the handle to keep you from toppling over. You blinked — once, twice — just to make sure you weren’t seeing things, that your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you.
But no, he was there, right in front of you. Cloaked in black from head to toe, his Cattleman pulled low over his eyes, the dim hallway lamp glinting off the red metal of his mask.
“Jesus Christ almighty,” You clutched at your chest as your eyes swept over him, almost like you were looking for further proof that he was real, like your initial glance at him wasn’t enough to prove it. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”
He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring down at you through the holes in the mask, dark eyes barely visible. Watching, waiting. Taking in the frazzled state of you, the blanket wrapped around your body and the worn boots on your feet.
A beat passed and then another before his eyes lifted back to yours. You could almost picture the raised brow, the small smirk beneath the mask.
“Going somewhere?”
The low rumble of his voice, the knowing edge to it — it made your cheeks heat, embarrassment crawling through you. There was something infinitely more humiliating about being caught like this than pretending to be asleep.
“I-I was just…” You trailed off once you saw it, having somehow missed it during your first pass of him.
Skin. Pale hands, stark against the black fabric of his clothes. It took you aback for a second, the rare glimpse of it — the flesh of the man that was so often concealed beneath layers of leather and cloth.
But the lack of gloves wasn’t what truly made you pause. No, it was the blood that caught your attention, dark and red and splattered across his battered knuckles.
“You’re bleeding.”
It was obvious, of course it was, but the words slipped from your mouth anyways. Your gaze traveled back up to his, noting his lack of response. There was no urgency, no concern. Not even a twitch of discomfort.
He merely tilted his head in the barest acknowledgment, as though you’d only pointed out a bit of dust on his coat.
“Ghost.”
His eyes remained fixed on yours, seemingly ignoring the worry in your voice, painted all over your face.
“’s not mine.”
You huffed out a breath, as if that was supposed to make you feel any better, to reassure you. Your attention flicked back down to his hands for a moment before you tentatively peeked up at him — almost shy as though you couldn’t fully look at him, like you hadn’t shared a bed with him every night for weeks.
“Can I…” The rest of your question was left unspoken, unsaid. He knew what you were about to say, knew you were looking for permission to approach him, to touch him.
As if you ever had to ask.
His eyes held yours, neither of you making a move, the quiet tension making you swallow to try and soothe your suddenly very dry throat. You thought he was going to ignore you entirely until he shifted, extending a hand out in your direction. It was slight, just barely an adjustment, a gesture so small that anyone else was unlikely to notice it.
But you did. You knew that it meant, what he was allowing you to do. You had a feeling not many people could safely lay a hand on him, could touch or even glimpse at the skin beneath the mask and the darkness he wore like a shield, like a coat of armor.
You shuffled forward, taking a step into his space, your movements so slow as if you were afraid to make any sudden movements, to scare him off like he was some kind of petrified animal. You could feel the weight of his stare the entire time, silently observing as you cautiously took one of his hands in yours and turned it over beneath the candlelight shining in from the hall, examining the split, broken skin marring his knuckles.
“Not yours, huh?”
Your voice was little more than a murmur as you absentmindedly dragged your thumb through the dried blood, smearing it across his skin and revealing more of the damage beneath.
He didn’t say a word.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you weighed your next move, unsure if he would even allow it, if he would hate what you were thinking, what had suddenly popped into your head. It was a foreign feeling, a thought that hadn’t once crossed your mind before, but somehow, it still felt right. Like you owed it to him, at the very least.
“Stay here. Please.”
You hoped he’d listen but doubted it nonetheless, tacking on the polite request more for yourself than for him. He wasn’t exactly the type to bend to the will of anyone — the only exception being Kate, which you only believed because you’d witnessed it with your own two eyes.
He tracked your movements as you stepped around him, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Letting the quilt fall off your shoulders to the floor, you ducked out into the hallway and hurried off to gather what you needed, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of fresh water balanced against your hip and a clean cloth draped over your arm.
To your surprise, Ghost was right where you’d left him, leaning against the wooden dresser with his arms folded across his chest. His head lifted the moment you stepped back through the doorway, his gaze immediately dropping to the items in your hands, lingering on the pitcher and cloth before returning to your face — but he still didn’t say a word.
“Do you, um…do you think you can…”
The request trailed off awkwardly as you gestured toward the bed with your chin. A low grunt escaped him as he pushed off the chest, silently crossing the room and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, resting his forearms on his thighs. You blinked in slight surprise, not expecting him to acquiesce so quickly and without argument, but you were quick to move into action, not wanting him to give him a chance to change his mind.
You set the items down before crossing over to the hearth, crouching before it as you stirred the ash and brought the fire back to life. Once the familiar warmth and light slowly spilt into the room again, you moved back over to Ghost, his dark eyes still pinned on you. Your feet brushed his as you stepped closer, eyes sweeping over his bloodied knuckles.
The room was completely quiet, not a word exchanged between either of you, the crackling logs and flickering flames the only sounds breaking up the silence. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze — heavy, unblinking — as you knelt, dipping the cloth into the pitcher and dampening it just enough before your free hand slowly reached for his, fingers gingerly circling his wrist.
You glanced up at him, wordlessly asking if it was okay, but he still said nothing, did nothing other than stare.
You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the task at hand. As gently as you could, you dabbed the damp rag over his skin, watching the white cotton stain with every careful pass, deep, crimson red soaking up into the fabric. Your movements were tender, delicate — almost like you were afraid of hurting him further, worried that your efforts would somehow worsen his wounds — because it was becoming increasingly clear that the blood was, in fact, his and, very likely, someone else’s. Maybe even more than one someone.
With each swipe, the extent of the damage came to light. The cuts were shallow, likely only surface level, his knuckles scraped raw and beginning to swell in places, violet bruises blooming beneath the surface. You gently flexed his fingers, testing the joints, listening for any pops and watching for any winces of pain, but he remained utterly still as a statute.
If it wasn’t for the visible flesh and blood, your lingering suspicion that he really was anything but human would’ve taken further root.
“Do I even want to know?” Your voice was soft, nothing more than a hush, gaze flickering up to meet his.
Ghost merely grunted in response. You weren’t sure why you thought you’d even get a real answer out of him, anyway.
Dipping the cloth back into the pitcher once more, you wrung it out before you returned your attention back to his hand. Your efforts were more focused now, more thorough as you carefully scrubbed at the blood caught under his nails, between the creases of his fingers.
His hands fascinated you. You couldn’t stop staring at them, and you couldn’t chalk it up to the sole purpose of cleaning them. No, it was the sheer size of them that caught your attention. They were enormous, just like the rest of him, probably double the size of yours if you lined them up. Broad palms, thick fingers, callouses built over years of riding, shooting, and lord knew what else. A number of scars crisscrossed the backs of them — some thin enough to be barely noticeable, others larger, thicker, and raised with age.
Your thumb grazed over one in particular, the largest of them, tracing over the path between his middle and ring finger and snaking down to his wrist, following it until it disappeared beneath the cuff of his sleeve. You could’t even imagine what had caused it, what he’d gotten himself into that nearly cost him half his hand and probably his lower arm if it continued as far as you guessed it did.
You decided you didn’t really want to know.
Satisfied with your work, you gently placed his hand back down on his denim-clad thigh before reaching for his other, the skin just as bloodied and battered there.
“There,” You murmured a few moments later, draping the stained cloth over the lip of the pitcher, the water now a cloudy pink. You turned his hand gently, inspecting your work in the light the fire provided. His knuckles were raw, slightly swollen, but clean.
“They’ll heal.”
He let out a low hum as he straightened, causing you to instinctively lean back on your heels, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, eyes level with his abdomen.
“Always do.”
You glanced up at him with a small frown tugging at your lips. If the old scars scattered across his hands were any indication, he knew better than anyone that they would heal up fine. This wasn’t exactly new to him, after all. With enough time, they’d fade into pale, silvery lines just like all the others etched across his skin, just another addition to the collection spanning there.
“You should, um…you should probably wrap them up tomorrow.” You stood from your crouched spot on the floor, knees stiff and aching after kneeling on the wooden floor for so long. “Make sure they stay clean.”
Still, he said nothing, those dark eyes still half-obscured from beneath his Cattleman and giving nothing away. You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself, something akin to disappointment seeping under your skin as you bent at the waist to grab the pitcher, avoiding his gaze.
“Leave it.”
His gruff voice stopped you, the low rumble sending shivers down your spine. All the time you’d spent around him hadn’t eased the effect it had on you since the day you’d met.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He rose from the bed, unfolding to his full height until he towered over you, tall and broad and looming at least an entire foot or so above you. In an instant, the whole room seemed to shrink, drawing inward as though it, too, had to readjust to the fullness, the intensity of his presence. It was like you forgot how big, how imposing he was when he wasn’t sitting before you.
Your head was level with his chest, the familiar scent of him filling your nostrils. Worn leather, whiskey, woodsmoke, and tobacco. Something heady, masculine; something else just entirely him that you recognized immediately.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you’d grown to it.
The silence that enveloped you this time felt heavier, thicker. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had changed, but you knew that it had. The closeness, the proximity, the lingering feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he’d allowed it — it was all too much all at once.
You took a step back, desperately needing to put space back between you. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was about to say something, anything — but instead, he kept quiet, jaw clenched under the fabric covering the bottom half of his face. Your neck craned slightly, your eyes drifting over the red mask as though it would reveal what was going on inside his head, what he was thinking.
It never did.
With a quiet breath, you tore your gaze away, stooping to collect the quilt from the ground where you’d let it slip to the floor. Giving it a quick shake, you crossed back to the bed and spread it over the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the worst of the creases with the flat of your palm.
The simple task gave your hands something to do, somewhere to look.
Anywhere but at him.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind you, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved towards the door, the hinges creaking in protest as he yanked it open. You stole a glance over your shoulder — a small, foolish part of you worried he was going to disappear again — until you spotted the pitcher in his hands, realizing that he was following through on his word. Without so much as a glance back in your direction, he stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind you, the room falling quiet once more.
You knew, this time, he’d be back.
You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off your boots and your stockings that you’d thrown on in a hurry, cheeks flushing as you recalled your panic, your inner turmoil at his absence. What could he possibly have thought of you once he’d seen you on the other side of the door? Looking at him as though you'd been expecting the worst, as though you had any right to fret over where he’d been or when he’d return.
The truth was, you had no idea what he thought of you at all, what he saw in you. Why he’d kept you around all this time. Why he’d claimed you as his. Why, after three whole weeks, he hadn’t gotten his own room when another had more than likely opened up by now.
Why his presence made your stomach dip and your skin hum like a cicada on a summer evening.
There was so much uncertainty, so much uncharted territory that you didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t even know if you’d wanted those answers, if you wanted a glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. Ghost was an enigma — every answer seemed to give rise to two more questions, every small bit of kindness and humanity at utter odds with the ruthless reputation that followed him from town to town.
The first hints of dawn were beginning to break through the darkness of the night outside the window, reminding you of how late it really was, how soon you would have to wake to start the day. You slipped back into the bed, facing away from the door as you settled under the covers.
Not long after, those familiar leaden footsteps returned, growing louder and louder until the doorknob twisted and the hinges creaked, the lock sliding back into place. You didn’t turn, didn’t look back as he undressed, the thud of his boots, the clink of his belt buckle and the stretch of fabric filling the air.
Your body didn’t tense, didn’t stiffen up as he slid in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A soft sigh fell from your lips as you nestled deeper against the pillow, the exhaustion and crash of adrenaline hitting you all at once, your eyelids growing heavy.
There was a moment of comfortable silence, of nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional hiss of the flames across the room. You were beginning to doze off, finally able to relax and get some rest now that you knew he was back, knew that he was in one piece, when you felt the mattress shift beneath you, his arm wrapping around your middle and drawing you back against his chest. Your heart fluttered but you didn’t say a word, didn’t even open your eyes, instead letting his warmth and weight settle over you like a familiar, worn blanket.
Before long, the crackle of the fire and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you right towards sleep. You were on the precipice, just about to tumble headfirst into the darkness when you heard it — so faint, so low that you barely registered it, almost missed it completely.
“Thank you.”
When you woke that morning, you were sure you had dreamt it. That it had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination, of fatigue. But you were sure you felt it, the rumble of his chest against your back as he whispered the words into the night, likely believing you were already asleep.
Even if it was all in your head, even if it was just your brain conjuring up what it knew you wanted hear, you chose to believe you’d heard it, anyways.
As always, the bed was empty when you came to. You didn’t think much of it, of the way he always disappeared when morning came. It was just routine, just part of his procedure.
You let yourself linger in bed for a few minutes, listening to the city outside as it came to life under the morning sun, before you forced yourself up. You had things to do, daily tasks to complete for Kate.
It was just like any other day.
After you combed your hair and dressed — a standard, simple black dress that swished around your ankles, clean white apron tied around your waist, old worn boots on your feet — you headed downstairs into the empty saloon to get started.
Except, that morning, it wasn’t empty. There, beside the bar, stood Kyle and Johnny, chatting away with Kate. Your footsteps alerted them of your presence without you having to say a word, all three of them turning to you as you entered.
“There’s our girl!” A bright grin stretched across Johnny’s face as he wrapped his arms around you in a big hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you from how tight he squeezed.
“Haven’t seen ya in ages, lass.” He gripped your shoulders as he pulled away to get a good look at your face. “You been alright, Little Fawn?”
You smiled back, just as glad to see him. You didn’t get to see them much these days, so any glimpse you got of the men who’d done so much for you was entirely welcome.
“Not too bad.” You turned towards Kyle, who tipped his hat at you in greeting, his warm brown eyes and kind face a sight for sore eyes. “You men make yourself scarce around here, don’t you?”
The corners of his mouth curved upwards.
“Laswell’s got us on a tight leash,” Kyle teased, shooting the blonde woman behind the bar an amused glance before turning back to you. “Kept us far too busy lately.” He gestured towards you with a hand. “Eye’s all better now, yeah?”
You nodded, fingers instinctively brushing the spot on your temple where the wound had been, the scar that had been left in its wake.
“Can’t complain.” Your eyes met Kate’s, remembering the day you’d met, the way she’d taken you under her wing and fixed you up with a second thought. “Helps when you’ve got a very capable hand to stitch you back together.”
“Aye.” Johnny agreed with a wink. “Would cheers to that if I had a drink.”
“So, what are you guys doing here?” You asked, settling your hip against the bar top, unable to help your curiosity at their surprise appearance. “You here to help me with my job today?”
“Nah,” Kyle shook his head, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his light denim jeans. “Don’t think Kate trusts us enough to give a proper clean to those washrooms.”
“You’re right.” She nodded as she polished off a clean plate. “I don’t.”
Her eyes flickered with amusement as she turned her attention to you. “But you’re off for today, Fawn. Best take that apron off.”
You had to do a double take at her words, unsure if you’d heard her correctly, divots forming between your brows in confusion.
“What? Why?” Dread filled in your gut as your biggest fears began to take root in your mind, panicked that you’d let her down in some way. “Did I do something wrong? I swear, I can fix it, whatever it is, I—”
“Fawn. Honey.” Kate cut in, gently interrupting you before you could continue to spiral. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing at all. In fact, you’ve been absolutely fantastic. It’s just an afternoon away from work.”
Her eyes were kind, her tone reassuring as she smiled warmly at you. It instantly settled you, calmed your racing thoughts and worries. You cared far too much about what she thought of you, never wanting to disappoint her in any way, shape, or form.
“Well.” Johnny shifted the wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth, leaning back against the counter with his forearms braced against the edge. “Think y’all forgot the most important part.”
All three of you turned to him — you with a confused frown, Kate with an exasperated sigh, and Kyle with an amused chuckle.
“Would it kill you to have a little more tact, MacTavish?” Kate fixed him with a look that you could only describe as one you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of, one that promised she’d get him back for needling her.
Johnny, however, was utterly unbothered by it, just flashing that gold tooth of his in a wide grin before spitting into the brass spittoon at his feet.
“Probably.” He turned his attention to you with a shrug, but you saw the way his gaze flicked up and over your shoulder, catching on something behind you. You turned to follow his gaze, your pulse quickening when you spotted him leaning against the doorway, Ghost’s hulking frame nearly swallowing up the entirety of the open space.
“You’re coming wit’ me.”
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest, the way it always did when he was near, when his eyes locked on you.
He must’ve been the important piece Johnny was talking about, likely the reason you had the day off at all.
“For what?”
You couldn’t help the question from slipping from your lips, always showing your cards without meaning to, a slight bit of unease and apprehension painted across your face. While you’d never really been given a reason to doubt them, to believe that they were leading you into some sort of elaborate trap, you still found yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was instinct now, an unfortunate habit carved into you over long years of experiencing that very reality, the part of you that expected kindness to come with a price refusing to quit.
Maybe over time, it would, but certainly not now. Four weeks were not enough to erase that kind of trauma.
But, as usual, Ghost didn’t respond, didn’t utter another word. Just jerked his chin towards the door and expected you to follow. A silent command, like that was all the instruction you needed as he left through the swinging doors just as quickly as he came.
With a sigh, you untied your apron and draped it over your shoulder. You had to change first, certainly not about to run amok in your maidservant clothes.
“If he comes looking for me, will one of you mind telling him I’ve just gone to change?” You directed the question to all three of them, hoping at least somebody would relay the message. You knew making Ghost wait was a bit like tempting fate, so to speak, but you didn’t have much of a choice. If he’d just stayed in bed that morning for once, you wouldn’t have to make him wait at all while you readied yourself.
The man could survive a gunfight without so much as blinking, yet carrying on a normal conversation seemed beyond him.
“Sure thing, doll.” Kyle gave you his customary tip of his hat, two fingers brushing against the brim like he always did — the perfect gentleman. You still weren’t quite sure how he fit in with the band of outlaws. You smiled in return, about to head back to your room when you realized what you’d been meaning to do for far too long.
“Oh, Johnny?” You doubled back to the young man while Kyle and Kate fell into conversation, paying the two of you no mind. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for my dress for ages.”
You hesitated as you considered that wasn’t quite encompassing all of what he’d so kindly done, a sheepish smile on your lips as you shrugged.
“Well, dresses, I should say. It was incredibly kind of you, and I cannot tell you enough how much it meant to me.”
A puzzled look flashed across his face, his pale blue eyes — clear and bright as the afternoon sky — searching yours for a beat before understanding dawned, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“Well, I’d love to take credit for that, lassie, but—” Another wad of tobacco pinged against the metallic tub next to his boots. “—that wasn’t me.”
For a moment, you thought he was joking, thought he was just messing with you like he seemed to have a penchant for, particularly with the others.
You blinked, staring at him like his answer would change. “What?”
Johnny shook his head, still wearing that easy, boyish grin as he held your gaze casually, like everything you thought you knew wasn’t suddenly crashing down around you.
“Nah, wasn’t me. I don’t got that kind of coin.” He gestured towards you with his sun-spotted hand, tanned from years beneath the unforgiving sun and dusted with tufts of dark hair. “But seein’ that look on your face…can’t say I ain’t tempted to claim it myself.”
“But…” Your chest tightened, throat strangely dry as your mind raced a mile a minute. “Why would…”
Johnny huffed a laugh through his nose. “Lassie, you’re askin’ the right questions to the wrong man.”
You started to believe that maybe you’d gotten it all wrong. That maybe, you had just let yourself believe it had been Johnny all along, had wanted him to be the one who’d gone out of his way for you. It made sense, after all. He was friendly, kind. Easy to talk to. Had always treated you like he’d known you all your life, were a close friend instead of a mere stranger.
After all, it made more sense that it had been him instead of the man who slept beside you every night, the man who hadn’t strung together more than five words in your presence. The man who couldn’t even wait past sunrise to leave you behind.
But, you distinctively remembered what Roze had told you that morning when she’d come knocking on your door. That it had been Johnny who’d sent her, claiming that she was there to take you into town for some new things. That he’d given her the pouch of coins to pay for it.
So, why had she lied to you?
“But if it wasn’t you…” You trailed off, all of the pieces beginning to fit together. Now, seeing it with fresh eyes, you knew it could only have been one person, one man — the only one with a key to your room besides yourself to have left that blue dress there for you in the first place. Even if it didn’t make sense, didn’t seem like something he’d do, something a man like him was capable of — it had to be him.
And he hadn’t said a word about it.
The corners of Johnny’s mouth twitched as he watched you put it together.
“My, my, I wonder who it could be.”
a/n: i am so so sorry this took so goddamn long to update, but i hope you enjoyed <3 words cannot describe how much i love and appreciate you all so much for your patience, kindness, and support of my little passion project!! hopefully this longer part makes up for it for now :)
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outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: you begin to adjust to your new life in the new town.
word count: 5.9k
cw: mentions of domestic abuse, death. mdni, 18+
You woke up that morning cold and alone.
The fire had long since gone out, nothing but a heap of ashes in the hearth. The sun poured through the curtains, flooding the room so brightly that you had to shield your eyes when you first opened them.
You’d slept well, better than you had in a long time — longer than you’d like to admit.
You had a feeling you knew why.
It was as if it had been a dream, a product of your half conscious and slightly delirious imagination.
The corded arm over your torso. The heat and weight at your back. The glaring, cold absence that morning, the reminder written in the wrinkled sheets beside you.
He’d been there. You’d fallen asleep without him, but he’d come back under the cloak of darkness, slipping beneath the quilt mere hours after midnight.
You thought you’d feel violated, uncomfortable. Ashamed. Troubled by the fact that you’d shared a bed with a man you barely knew, a man with a rap sheet longer than the main road in this town.
But all that coursed through you was disappointment.
It was an odd feeling, one you weren’t quite ready to make sense of, to admit to yourself nor anyone else. For chrissakes, it was too early for it, too early to dissect the confusing thoughts and feelings stirring inside your brain, your heart, your soul.
You threw the sheets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. There was a dull ache in your limbs, in your back, but most of the pain from the past few days had eased. Not gone, not healed, but better. Even the ache in your temple had subsided, the swelling at your eye nearly gone. The wound was healing but still angry, still red and stinging.
Still in your undergarments, you bent down to pick your white dress off the floor when you saw it — a pile of garments folded neatly on the otherwise barren dresser. You stood up, straightening as you approached it, sorting through the stack tentatively, as if you weren’t sure you were supposed to be touching it.
A dress, the cotton dipped and dyed a sky blue accompanied by a matching top with long sleeves, white lace trimming the necklace, small brown buttons trailing down the bodice. A new, fresh set of undergarments, the linen and muslin starched and clean, along with two pairs of stockings and socks laid out for wear. And finally, a brown belt, the leather carved with intricate swirls and lines, the buckle polished and gleaming gold.
You were speechless. A gift, a present — for you.
It’d been a long time since you’d received one — not from your family and definitely not from your husband. After all, you’d been wearing the same clothes for so long they’d begun to rip at the seams, holding onto dear life by a needle and thread.
Your fingers traced the fabric, running over the intricate stitching — the sign of a professional, not some amateur with shoddy handiwork, which was what most of your garments back home had been. Hand-me-downs or throwaways taken from the church donation bin, most in desperate need of repair. This set, it had to have been expensive. The color, the lace — even the buttons.
A knock at the door made you jump nearly right out of your skin. You dropped the clothes back on the dresser like your hands had been set on fire, quickly yanking the quilt off the bed and wrapping it around your body before you answered it.
An unfamiliar woman with a kind smile and what looked like some sort of standard uniform stood on the other side, a silver platter in her hands. When you shook your head, insisting it was some kind of mistake, that you didn’t order anything, that she had to have had the wrong room — she simply waved you off. Already paid for, she told you.
Biscuits and gravy, a small stack of hotcakes, ham and eggs. It was the most delectable and luxurious breakfast you’d ever seen, had ever tasted. Nothing like it had ever been prepared for you — not once, not ever. You practically licked the plate and your fingers clean, devouring it without leaving a single crumb, a single trace of the feast. It hadn’t helped that you didn’t have much to eat the day before.
You weren’t sure who’d sent it, but you were grateful for it. Grateful to have food in your stomach — warm and delicious.
Although, you had your suspicions about the sender.
Not long after you’d finished eating, there was another knock on the door. Another woman stood behind it — her skin a light brown, her hair dark and braided, her lips full and her nose wide. You’d never seen her before — yet, you hadn’t seen much of anyone in this town, so that didn’t mean much.
“You Fawn?” She asked, piercing pale blue eyes scanning you up and down, her thick brows raised at your appearance, at the state of you.
You clutched the bedspread tighter around you like it could shield you, your hand wrapped around the edge of the door, using it almost as a barrier between you, one that you could slam shut at any time. The use of that name — Fawn — it was the only reason you had to believe that she had to have been a friend, not foe.
Only the men called you by that name.
“Who’s asking?” You regarded her cautiously, hesitantly — looking precisely like your nickname implied. Timid, wide-eyed, skittish. A mere second away from closing the door in her face and running until your wobbly legs collapsed.
The corners of the woman’s mouth tipped upward in a smirk, like something about you amused her. Like she was thinking the exact same thing.
“Yeah, you’re her.” She nodded to herself, eyes continuing their appraisal of you before landing on back your face, finally meeting your gaze.
“Rozlin,” She informed you of her name with a tip of her chin. “You can call me Roze.”
You just stared at her for a moment, still skeptical of what she was doing here, what she wanted. How she even knew your name, where to find you.
“Okay.” You inclined your head slowly but still unsurely. “Roze.”
A beat passed and then another. Not a word exchanged, the air filling with wariness, confusion — at least, on your end.
“Can I help you with something, Roze?”
“Johnny sent me.” She explained, folding her arms across her chest, the cream colored girdle she wore pushing her breasts up so high that they were almost spilling out. Your eyes couldn’t help but flicker down, tracking the movement. “Said you were in need of a new wardrobe.”
Your attention shot back to her face. “A new what?”
She shrugged, like she didn’t quite know herself but was merely relaying the message. “That’s what he told me. Said you needed some things, that I ought’ta take you into town. Said you hadn’t come here with much.”
Well, she was right about that. You had nothing but the undergarments you wore, your dirty white linen dress, your worn-in cowboy boots, and the shawl Kate had lent you — all that you had to your name. And your new set of clothes, of course, but still. They were only things you could claim as your own. Not much at all.
“Johnny told you that?”
“More or less.” She reached into her leather satchel and produced a small navy pouch, the felt cinched tightly with a drawstring. She gave it a little shake, and the sound was unmistakable — coins clinking, solid and metallic. “Handed me this himself.”
You were confused, surprised — the prospect of the man you’d just met mere days ago thinking of you kindly, entrusting you to a woman you’d never met but he must’ve known well enough to take care of you, to buy you some more new clothes with money of his own. It was a kind of care you’d never been given, not by anyone.
Of course your original, quiet assumption was wrong. The man you’d slept beside the night before would’ve never arranged this — not the dress, not the food, not the acquaintance nor the money. Of course it had been Johnny.
Ghost would never. He wasn’t that type of man. You didn’t know much about him beyond the legends, but you knew that. You shook the thought away, the naive notion that he was anything other than the man in those stories and tall tales.
“Get yourself dressed.” Roze nudged her chin at you, fingers tapping against the wooden doorframe, slightly scuffed and a little splintered around the edges. “We’ve got a busy day ‘head of us.”
And so, you did. You hesitated only momentarily after you’d shut the door, the pile of new, beautiful and clean clothes staring at you from the dresser. Tempting you, calling to you.
Who were you to let them go to waste, to collect dust? Unworn and unseen?
You tossed the quilt aside and shed your old undergarments with haste, taking great care while slipping in the new ones, their fabric so spotless, so delicate and silky — nothing like the itchy, rough ones you’d worn for far longer than you should’ve.
Giddy excitement ran through you as you dressed, fingers combing through your tousled locks. Your lips stretched into a smile, a real one — your first in ages.
You stepped out of your room, finding Roze leaning against the wall outside of it. She took in your appearance, eyes scanning you up and down.
“New wardrobe, huh?” She huffed under her breath. She let out a small sigh before waving you forward. “Alright, let’s get a move on.”
You followed after her, new skirt clutched delicately in your hands as you descended the steps into the lobby, stepping through the archway and cutting through the saloon. It was empty, save for two people you presumed were employees — a man and a woman, one sweeping up the floor while the other polished some glasses behind the bar. They gave you both a nod in silent greeting, but their eyes lingered on you as if they were assessing, appraising.
You weren’t sure you liked it, their attention.
Your steps quickened, your head down as you shuffled closer to Roze. She was still as just as much a stranger as they were, but at least you knew her name.
She tossed you a look over her shoulder, lips curved in a knowing smirk as she led you outside.
The town was in full swing as you stepped out, people milling about everywhere. Women and men, children running amuck, horses tied to posts or clopping noisily down the cobblestone streets. You’d never seen so many people in one place, walking like they had a purpose, a place to be. Some pulled off to the sides, taking solace in the shade as they chatted with others, likely friends or acquaintances.
You couldn’t help but stare, taking it all in. It was a much larger settlement than the one you’d lived in, the one you’d grown up in all your life — the one you hadn’t realized you’d ever leave until a few days ago. The buildings seemed to go for miles; blacksmiths and apothecaries, dressmakers and cobblers, saloons and eateries, bakeries and butchers, tenements and hotels for as far as the eye could see.
A city. You were sure of it.
It was a word you’d heard before when your husband spoke about business. Trips that took him away every so often, presenting you with the rare occasion where you could take a breath, where you could let your tears fall in private without fear of retribution, of punishment.
No. You wouldn’t think of him. You wouldn’t let him sully this moment, this place. This town, this city — wherever or whatever it was.
Your fresh start. Your new life.
You walked for some time, following Roze down that main road, the two of you side by side. You were quiet and so was she. Thoughts and questions, curiosities and considerations popped into your head, weaving through your mind, but you didn’t voice them. She seemed content with the silence, and you didn’t want to bother her. Didn’t want to poke the bear or make an enemy of a potential friend.
You really hoped she could be a friend.
She finally came to a stop in front of one of the many buildings, its brown brick facade much like the others around it, sun-faded and streaked with dirt and dust. The blue and white striped awning fluttered in the slight breeze, the two large glass windows beneath it displaying pretty dresses and skirts behind the sand-dusted panes.
“First stop,” She informed you, ushering you towards the door. You swallowed your buzzing excitement, trying your best to tamper your eagerness as you pounded up the wooden stairs and heaved open the heavy door. You must’ve not done too good of a job, though, as you heard Roze chuckle softly behind you as she followed you inside, the little iron bell ringing out to announce your arrival.
You spent quite a chunk of change that day, in that shop. It was the place of your dreams, cluttered with all types of fabrics and mannequins showing off the latest fashions. Bows and lace, ribbons and silk, petticoats and chemises, dresses and stockings — they were everywhere, littering nearly every surface and free corner. It was lively and warm, floral perfume and the faint scent of cotton and leather dusting the air.
It was your most favorite place you’d ever been.
The seamstress and her assistant were happy to oblige you, especially when Roze tossed the pouch of silver onto their counter, their eyes lighting up like freshly struck matches. They ushered you to the back, taking your measurements and draping fabrics over you, fussing over the color, the cuts, the hems and the seams.
You’d walked out with two dresses, three skirts, a new shawl, and a corset stitched with a floral design, one apparently made to wear over a dress, not hidden underneath. They urged you to come back, to make you some custom pieces from scratch. You were hesitant to make any promises no matter how badly you wanted to follow through, knowing that you couldn’t take advantage of any more of Johnny’s generosity.
“She’ll be back,” Roze answered for you, shuffling you out of the door, your bags nearly knocking into the doorframe as you went. You managed a wave to them with a wide smile, feeling all too spoiled and very reluctant to leave.
“Pretty sure you just financed them for the rest of the month,” Roze teased as you walked back down the main street, a teasing lilt to her voice and a smile that confirmed her jest. “Lucky girl.”
Lucky. The word struck you, stuck with you. It was never something you’d felt before, had resonated with. Luck seemed more like a taunt, a jeer — a cruel twist of fate that you’d never experience, something meant for someone else entirely. The opposite end of the card deck. Something utterly out of reach for a girl like you.
But for the first time ever, you began to understand what it meant. You were lucky, weren’t you? Lucky that your legs hadn’t given out on that day, that you’d stumbled into the right bar at the right time with the right people behind those saloon doors. Lucky that Kate had stitched you up, given you a place to rest, food to eat. Lucky that they’d taken you in, had whisked you out of town before you had to answer for your husband’s death.
Lucky that Ghost had taken that fateful shot.
Luck. It was a funny feeling, indeed. New and unfamiliar.
When you arrived back at The Prairie Rose, the sun much lower in the sky, you looked for Johnny, wishing to thank him for his kindness, his gifts — but he was nowhere to be found. Nor was Kyle. Not even Ghost.
Panic seized you for a moment before Roze answered your unspoken questions and concerns.
“They’re just out for the day. Taking care of some business.” A pat on your shoulder that was supposed to be comforting. “They’ll be back.”
You weren’t sure if that were true. As the sun set, you stayed holed up in your room, your new belongings tucked neatly away into the drawers of the dresser. The music and the revelry of the saloon returned at the first sign of dusk, but you were too afraid to venture downstairs alone, too afraid of getting swept up in the crowd of drunken strangers and wandering eyes with nobody to save you if you needed it.
You thought for sure that they’d left you behind. That Roze and your little excursion had been some sort of ruse, a distraction so that they could slip out and get the hell out of dodge.
But dinner had come, delivered with the same knock on your door from that morning, paid for and taken care of. Roast beef and stew, cornbread and potatoes, green beans and okra. Just as delicious as breakfast had been. It had given you a sliver of hope that they hadn’t abandoned you.
But as night fell, your confidence faltered. You considered slipping out, going down to check if they were just simply drinking at the bar, taking part in the liveliness and debauchery below, but you couldn’t. You were paralyzed, afraid — too scared to find out the truth.
You were sure they weren’t coming back.
Your fingers trembled as you finally undressed, folding up your new blue dress and top before sticking them in the dresser with your other new purchases. You tentatively climbed into bed, the quilt wrapped tightly around your body as you sank into the mattress. The faded notes of the piano, the violin, and the fiddle traveled up through the cracks in the floorboards and those beneath the window, doing little to settle your mind, ease your fears. The oil lamps flickered, the fire that the maid had lit for you adequately warming the room, but you still shivered for an entirely different reason.
This time yesterday, you’d prayed for your own space, desperate to get away from him.
Now, you ached for a glimpse of that red metal mask and the big man hidden beneath it.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The sun had fully set, the stars twinkling as the crescent moon rose high in the sky, the fire nearly gone out by now. You weren’t sure what time it was, but it was late, far too late for you to still be awake.
You’d just about given up hope of his return, beginning to accept the fact that when the sun rose that morning, you would be alone, when you heard those heavy footsteps outside your door.
The hair on the back of your neck prickled, your stomach dropping as your heart thudded wildly in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t twitch — too afraid to break the spell, the possibility that it was all just a figment of your imagination.
The rusted knob twisted, the door creaking open slowly.
Your breath hitched but you still made no movement, showed no sign that you were awake. Those heavy footsteps thudded against the old wooden boards, slow and leisured like you’d come to know them, expected them to be. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut, unable to bring yourself to look, to confirm.
You heard the scrape of the poker, the soft stir of ash; felt the rush of heat as the fire came blazing back to life. You heard the sound of fabric rustling, a low grunt as boots were pulled off, as clothes were shed, falling to the floor in a careless heap.
Those footsteps drew closer, pausing right beside the bed. Your eyes stayed shut, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it. The mattress dipped under his weight, the hulking presence settling in beside you, your back still turned to him.
You could smell him, that familiar, heady scent — leather, smoke, a little bit of liquor; a tinge of tobacco and something tangy, coppery. It made your pulse thud in your neck, relief seep through your veins.
He was here. He hadn’t left, hadn’t abandoned you.
Ghost was here.
It was an overwhelming solace you never thought you’d ever feel, especially not in his presence. Especially not for him.
You could feel the heat of his body, the closeness of him. There had to have been less than a foot between you, the bed barely big enough to accommodate him, much less the two of you.
You thought you had him fooled. That he truly believed you were sleeping, that you were not completely and utterly wide awake.
Then, you felt him. The light caress of his hands in your hair, strands twisted and wrapped around his thick fingers. You choked on a gasp, held in the sharp inhale for dear life. Your eyes still squeezed shut, your lips clamped together as you tried to remain still, tried to regulate your breathing.
He shifted, his chest just mere inches from your back, hands moving down to the exposed skin of your arm, fingertips gently stroking there — a touch so soft, so tender, you almost couldn’t believe it was real, that you weren’t dreaming. A man like him — a man so brutal, so rough and rugged, touching you like you were something precious. Something breakable.
That same hand shifted down to your hip and your heart stuttered, tripping over itself in your chest. Another slight shift of his body had his lips grazing the shell of your ear, warm breaths fanning across your skin, your lashes fluttering instinctively in response.
“Go to sleep.” His voice, lower and deeper than usual, crackled and fractured at the edges; the scent of whiskey and smoke on his tongue, as that hand on your hip tightened in what felt like — what sounded like — a warning.
A reminder of the beast, the devil that lay at your back, lying in wait. Barely restrained, barely tethered.
You gulped, saying nothing — afraid to speak, to utter even the slightest sound. Unfamiliar heat surged through you, temptation curling around your mind like a thick fog, pooling low in your belly at the rough scrape of his voice — but you shoved it down, bottled it up, forced it somewhere dark and buried deep in the farthest crevices of your mind, places left untouched for months, for years. Certainly untouched during your unhappy marriage.
You did your best to listen to him, to abide by his command, but you couldn’t. Not with him so close behind you, his grip on you long gone but the lingering touch seared into your skin. It drove you mad, made your head spin, but you couldn’t make sense of it, couldn't sort through all the contradictions. Your body’s reaction, your heart’s song, your mind’s momentary lapse in its usual judgment.
It kept you up for hours before you finally succumbed to the heavy weight pressing down on your eyelids.
⋆˖𓄀˖⋆
Three more days passed before Kate and John Price finally arrived.
Three days left wondering if they’d ever make it, if they’d ever join you like they said they would, like Kate had promised.
Three days left wondering if you were now left in the hands of three men you barely knew for the foreseeable future, a future you couldn’t quite picture as your own.
Three nights sharing the bed with Ghost. Three nights of him slipping into the room late at night, liquor on his tongue. Three nights of him shedding his layers and sliding under the covers beside you.
Three nights of the brush of his limbs against yours when either of you shifted. Three nights of his abnormally high body heat that chased away the chill in the room once the sun set and the fire burnt out. Three nights of his heavy breathing and yours synchronizing in the darkness.
Three mornings of waking up to an empty bed and wrinkled sheets. Three mornings of him gone without a trace, nothing more than the faint, groggy memory of his arm around your middle left behind.
He didn’t call you out again during those three nights, didn’t accuse you of fake sleeping even though you absolutely were — and you knew that he knew it. He didn’t let his hands roam over your body, twist in your hair. Didn’t say much of anything, actually. In fact, you barely saw him when the sun rose — not in the hotel, not in the saloon, not around town when you and Roze wandered about in the afternoons and window-shopped. You barely saw any of the men, save for Kyle, who you’d run into once. He’d simply smiled, tipped his hat, and hustled out of the hall.
Though, you knew you would’ve had to venture beyond your room if you’d truly wanted to find them, to converse with them. You knew that if you went down into the saloon at dusk, you’d be more than likely to find them at the bar, if Ghost’s strong scent of booze and tobacco every night was any indication.
But, admittedly, you were still afraid. Still afraid of the large, rowdy crowd, of the leering men and the curious stares — even though the swelling around your eye had gone down significantly, your bruises fading to yellowish, purple tinges. Nobody would likely pay you any mind.
You hated it, hated that you were still too scared to venture down there, into the drunken, smoke-filled abyss of raucous laughter and loud music. Scared that the men — your men, if you wanted to call them that — wouldn’t want you there. Scared of provoking them, of provoking any intoxicated stranger who came too close, who wanted a piece.
Scared of adding new bruises to your old ones.
They never invited you, and you were content to stay inside the four walls of what had become your room as soon as the sun began to set. Dinner was always delivered — hot, fresh, and already paid for. A maid always came to light the fire for you, to ignite the oil lamps on each bedside table, providing just enough light for you to read the novel you’d purchased one of those days with Roze. There’d apparently been enough left over from Johnny’s gift to you that you’d been able to, and you were grateful for it.
It’d been a long time since you had time for yourself. No chores to do, no meals to cook, no livestock to attend to. No beatings to take, no glass to sweep, no blood to clean. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d picked up a book — so long that you were honestly worried you’d forgotten how to read.
It would be so easy to give into the slices of peace, of comfort, of the safety you’d been provided thus far. Because you knew, against the voices in the back of your mind whispering your deepest anxieties and darkest fears, that you were safe. For now, at least.
And what worried you and prevented you from doing so was that you weren’t sure how long it would last. How long it would take before the other shoe dropped. Because it always did. Always.
With the pillows at your back and the quilt thrown over your legs, you read your novel by the fire and candlelight until your eyes hurt and your vision blurred. You folded the corners of the pages when you reached your stopping point for the night and tucked it under the mattress, afraid what would happen if Ghost found it. If he came back early one night and saw you reading it. Your husband would’ve hated it, would’ve struck you with it before taking it away.
But he wasn’t Ghost. Ghost wasn’t him. It was something you always had to remind yourself. That — for all the unease he brought you, for all the discomfort and fear he stoked in you — he’d never done anything to hurt you. To prove to you that he was anything like the man you’d been married to.
But old habits died hard.
That sixth morning since you’d arrived in town, you awoke to the same empty bed and rumpled sheets, that potent, familiar scent still clinging to them — the only proof he’d been there at all.
You went about the routine that you’d adopted since that first, full day. Breakfast was dropped off and devoured. Your hair was brushed, your face was rinsed. You dressed, slipped into your worn boots, and headed downstairs to where Roze usually lounged in one of the leather armchairs in the small lobby.
But, unlike usual, the brown haired beauty you’d come to call your friend wasn’t there.
The frown on your lips formed, your brows crinkling in confusion. She hadn’t mentioned anything the day before, hadn’t said that she wouldn’t be able to join you.
Though, Roze never did say whether or not she’d come into town with you. It was just that she’d always been down there waiting for you since that first time she’d knocked on your door with your nickname on her tongue and a pouch of coins in her satchel.
You tried to shrug off your dismay, your disappointment at her absence — your first real friend in a long time.
When you wandered into the usually empty saloon, though, you found out why.
“There she is.”
That familiar cadence, that kind and easy tone with the slight accent spanning from another region somewhere in the vast country, called out to you. Your head shot towards the direction it came from, shock and surprise stopping you in your tracks, your footsteps stuttering against the dusty floorboards. There, standing beside the bar with the other men you hadn’t seen much of these days, stood Kate and John Price.
You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips, the relief that seeped through your body and your bones, relaxing and dropping your unintentionally tensed shoulders. Kate laughed at your visceral reaction, pushing off the edge of the counter with her hip as she headed towards you, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace.
“It’s good to see you, honey,” She spoke into your hair as you hugged her back tightly, uncaring of the watchful eyes. She pulled away enough to smooth your hair and examine your face, hands on your shoulders as her gaze flitted from your hairline to jaw to temple. “Eye’s healing up nicely, yeah?”
You nodded, just barely wincing from the faint, leftover ache as her fingers softly brushed over the spot she’d stitched up a week ago now. She smiled, more to herself and her handiwork than to you, before her gaze found yours again.
“You been okay?” She asked, her voice lowered to an octave that only you could hear, the question only meant for your ears. “They been treating you alright here?”
You didn’t hesitate to nod once more, knowing that even if they hadn’t been, you could tell her. There was something about the woman — another person you barely knew, could barely call your friend — that told you she’d take care of it if they hadn’t. That she would make sure they paid for any digressions they caused you, any lack of care they hadn’t given you in her absence.
“You’re sure?” With the way she scrutinized you, waiting and watching for any signs that indicated the opposite, you knew for a fact that you could unequivocally trust her, that she wouldn’t be okay with anything other than the absolute truth.
“I’m gonna need you to use your words, sweetheart.”
“Christ, Laswell,” Johnny blew out a disbelieving breath from where he stood just a few feet away. “What do ‘ya take us for, barbarians, huh?”
“Yes.” She answered without even turning to look back at him, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Her eyes seemed to brighten at the sound, one that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to conjure up any day before this one, in that very moment.
“I’m sure,” You assured her, wanting to give the men credit where it was due. You knew, without any specific or direct confirmation from them, that they’d been the ones making sure the meals were delivered to your door, all three a day. They’d given you lodging — albeit, making you shack up with the scariest of them all — and new clothes, courtesy of Johnny.
“I promise.”
“Good.” Satisfaction bled into her features before her eyes scanned the rest of you, taking in your new clothes — you again wore the blue one you’d been left that first morning. “Nice dress.”
“Thank you.” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Johnny got it for me. Well, at least I presume so.” When she raised her brow in question, you continued. “He—he left this woman named Roze with a bag of coins to buy me new clothes and this one…this one was left in my room that morning before, so…”
You trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Kate’s eyes widened slightly, head tilting back in what seemed like understanding.
“Ah, I see.” But her eyes, the way they shone with something else, something contradictory — something that looked a bit like surprise and mischief — told a different story entirely. Like she was privy to something you weren’t.
You glanced over her shoulder and met Ghost’s gaze, already fixed right on you.
“So,” You cleared your throat, pulling down the blue sleeves over your wrists, fingers clinging to the fabric for some sense of stability. “You’re here to stay?”
“For as long as we all are, I reckon,” Kate replied, arm thrown over your shoulder as she led you back to the group of men who waited, sitting or standing by the vacant, unused bar counter. No one else was there — no staff milling about, no workers polishing off glasses or cleaning off tables.
John Price tipped his hat to you in a wordless greeting, and you gave him a soft smile in return.
They spoke for a bit about things you didn’t understand, conversations that sounded like business and profits and loose ends John Price and Kate had finished tying up in your hometown before they’d made the trek here. You tried to listen but ended up tuning them out, picking at the skin around your nails and trying your best to ignore the heavy stare that never left the right side of your face.
“I’m going to take Fawn around town,” Kate eventually announced to them, your ears perking up at the mention of their name for you. “Catch up with her, maybe meet up with Roze. Haven’t seen her in a bit.”
You noticed the way her eyes traveled over Johnny, lingering on Ghost’s red mask. Like usual, he said nothing. Gave away nothing.
As you waved your goodbyes to the men, as you followed Kate out of the saloon, you couldn’t help but feel like you were missing something.
You remembered then that you hadn’t gotten to thank Johnny yet for the clothes, for the book — but Kate tugged you on and out of the room before you got the chance.
a/n: i am so sorry this took so long. this past semester absolutely wore me out, taking my creative process with it. hoping to crank out some more since i love this story and have so many ideas swirling in my head with where to take it. thank you for sticking with me <3 hope you enjoyed this little chapter and i hope to have more for you soon
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: you finally arrive in a new town with the men, where you find yourself alone with a certain masked outlaw for the first time.
word count: 5.4k
cw: minor depictions of violence and gore. mentions of domestic abuse, death. mdni, 18+
You didn’t reach town until sunset.
You’d been riding for hours, traveling on horseback through rolling hills of green, jagged peaks of red and orange-tinged mesas towering in the distance.
It had been so long since you’d seen any bit of civilization, any sign of life and community. You were beginning to think you’d have to set up camp somewhere in the middle of the fields at the rate you were going, having to hunker down for the night by a makeshift fire.
And then, it finally came into view. As the horses climbed up the ridge, you could see it — the faint outline of buildings, the smoke curling out from chimneys, the twinkling lights.
It was a town much larger than the one you’d called home. As you grew nearer, the sounds and the smells and the structures came more into focus, bleeding into your senses, making you perk up in the saddle. Multi-story buildings of stucco and brick, of timber and stone, clustered together for as far as the eye could see, winding streets of knobby cobblestone and dirt weaving and connecting them to each other.
There were people everywhere. Folks big and small, young and old — they milled about, horses and children, full baskets and rolling carriages, dogs and even some chickens everywhere you looked.
It was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, had ever experienced.
Your head was on swivel, taking it all in with bright eyes and a bushy tail. You’d never seen so many people in your life, so much hustle and bustle. It was like you’d entered a whole new world, some sort of foreign place.
As you rode through town, you could feel the eyes on you, could see the watchful gazes for yourself. People stepped aside as the three horses passed, not just out of courtesy but out of recognition, of acknowledgment of the men astride them.
There was fear, sure. It was palpable in the eyes that darted away, in the figures slipping into alleyway shadows to get as far away as possible.
Others just flat-out didn’t care, didn’t turn your way at all as you made your way through.
But from what you could tell, from what you could glean from the many curious faces that turned your way and the gazes that lingered, there was also respect. Awe.
You thought for sure you were seeing things, were misreading the nods and the wide eyed stares. Surely, they couldn’t be revering the men you rode with — the outlaws, ones with hands bloodier than thou. Men who killed, men who stole, men who had no regard for the law and little for human life.
The people here — had they heard a different version of the legends that had spread through your town? Tales that painted them in a different, brighter light?
The men carried on, unaffected and unperturbed — as if there weren’t any set of eyes on them, any spectators at all. You couldn’t tell if it was because they were used to it or that they were purposely ignoring it, not wanting to engage.
Except for Johnny, of course. He tipped his hat at a pretty young woman as they passed, her cheeks flaring crimson before she turned away, flustered. You could see his grin from your spot, could hear the sound of his low chuckle carry over to you.
Finally, they drew the horses to a halt before a three-story building, its red brick facade trimmed with dark green. Warm light and music spilled out from the ground floor, an energetic medley of fiddles, guitars, and violins drifting through open windows and filtering out into the dusty street.
The Prairie Rose.
Kyle dismounted first, swinging down from the saddle with ease. The reins still in his grip, he looped them around a nearby post out front, already crowded with others’ horses, Johnny following suit moments later.
You stiffened as Ghost shifted behind you, his large hand sliding from your waist, the heat of him vanishing with it. The absence made you shiver, leaving you colder than before, colder than you realized you could be as the sun set over the horizon, whisking away the sweltering heat of the afternoon and early evening.
He was on the ground before you knew it, standing beside the stallion and peering up at you through the holes of that red metal mask, his gloved hand raised up in offering.
You hesitated for a moment, your brows furrowed. He let out an impatient huff, rolling his eyes at your reluctance, your ever-present trepidation around him. You knew your unease, your apprehension was not well hidden — not around him.
Begrudgingly, you took it, slipping your hand in his as you swung your leg over the saddle. The stallion was too big, too tall for you to smoothly dismount on your own. Your heart caught in your throat when his hands slid up your waist, bracketing your ribs, catching you firmly beneath your arms as he helped you down to the ground.
“Thanks.” You muttered under your breath, dusting off your skirt and avoiding his gaze at all costs, even when he continued to stare.
Johnny and Kyle were already walking up the wooden steps of the building and you rushed to follow, eager to get away from the man you’d been pressed up against for hours, sharing the same horse and small sliver of space all day long. The proximity, the perpetual closeness — it was beginning to chafe against your skin, your mind and body.
He was right behind you, his gait unhurried, leisured — the tread of his boots as he trailed after you was haunting, predatory; the sound of his heavy footsteps sending a slight sliver down your spine.
He knew you wouldn’t go far, couldn’t even if you tried. He’d never allow it.
The saloon was rowdy, packed full of bodies — the smell of sweat, whiskey, and tobacco nearly suffocating as you entered, the music seemingly twice as loud inside. Smoke curled through the room, making it harder to see in the already dimly lit space. You nearly lost sight of the men as they twisted and twined through the crowd, not even aware that you’d gone after them; their strides much larger and longer than yours, the space between them and you beginning to grow as you lagged behind, caught up in the swarm.
Panic seized you for a brief moment, at the way the room seemed to shrink, the air beginning to thin. You suddenly felt trapped, pressed in on all sides, swept into the current, the uproar threatening to drag you under — especially when two drunkards barreled past, knocking you hard enough to trip over your feet.
A large palm settled between your shoulder blades, fingers digging into the tense muscle there. You didn’t have to turn around to see who it was.
And for the first time yet, you felt nothing but relief at his presence.
He tugged you close to him as he carved a path through the crowd, your back pressed to his chest like you were back atop the saddle. Unlike you, Ghost was too big, too large to ignore. Those too slow to move out of his way were shoved aside, stumbling under the brute force of his broad shoulders that knocked into them. The few bold enough to confront him froze, immediately losing their bravado when they saw him, their protests shriveling up and dying on their tongues.
He steered you toward the far side of the room, all but pushing you through the open archway there.
It led you into a small room, a lobby of sorts. Nothing more than a tall counter, the chipped wood painted a dark red, the walls a pale yellow, and a handful of worn leather armchairs tucked in the corners, a large wrought-iron chandelier dangling overhead.
Johnny and Kyle were standing at the counter, deep in conversation with the lady standing behind it, barely paying you any mind as you and Ghost entered.
“You’re telling me you ain’t got nottin’ but two?” Johnny was saying, holding up the number with his fingers. “‘cause that ain’t gonna work for us, lassie.”
“I-I’m sorry,” The woman replied with a shake of her head, seeming genuinely regretful. “But that’s all we got tonight, boys. If we knew y’all were coming, well.” She shrugged. “Different story.”
“Two is more than fine.” Kyle pulled Johnny back, leaning against the countertop and giving her a charming, boyish smile. “We’ll make do just fine for the night, won’t we, Johnny Boy?”
He scoffed, shoving Kyle’s hands off his shoulder while the other man chuckled. “You snore like a fuckin’ moose, Garrick. That ain’t fine by me.”
“What are y’all on about?” You asked as you approached. Three pairs of eyes flicked over to you, and, almost in unison, lifted past you, up and over your shoulder to the man still looming just as close as he’d been in the saloon, atop the saddle.
The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of him, immediately mumbling something intelligible as she shoved two sets of metal key rings on the countertop before scurrying off into a back room, out of sight and out of the line of potential fire.
“They’ve only got two beds for us,” Kyle answered you, but his eyes were focused on the man at your back. “Said they’re booked up otherwise.”
Your stomach dropped at the sound of that, the grim realization that came along with it. “Two?” Your voice was a mere squeak. “But — there’s four of us.”
“Good counting there, bonnie.” Johnny teased, but the humor wiped off his face at whatever warning look he received, one you couldn’t see from where you stood.
Two beds. Two rooms.
The reality set in, your body beginning to tremble at the thought of it, the awareness of how this would go, how it would play out. You wouldn’t be alone — not tonight. Not when three intensely large men surrounded you, when two of them would barely be able to squeeze onto one mattress — let alone the man behind you, the biggest of them all. You hadn’t seen it yourself, but you had strong, sincere doubts that any person would be able to share a bed with him and not fall right off the edge.
How desperately you wished to be back home, to turn back time to this morning, when you’d had your own room, your own bed, all to yourself.
“She’s with me.”
He spoke before you could process it, before you could object — but you’d known it was coming anyway. Knew that you wouldn’t be so lucky as to bunk with Johnny or Kyle, to room with one of the two. You barely knew them, either; had spent just as much time in their company as you had in Ghost’s. They were all strangers in their own right — but you felt much more comfortable, much safer at the idea of sharing with one of them instead of him.
If you thought sharing a saddle was bad, the idea of sharing four walls — a bed — was much, much worse.
The momentary relief you’d felt at his presence disappeared as quickly as it came. Gone with the wind.
“I don’t—” You stammered pathetically, desperately fumbling for some excuse, something to absolve you from your fate. “I just don’t think—I don’t want to—”
“Tough.”
Ghost stepped around you, snatching one of the key rings from the counter, the metal instrument looking abnormally small in his grip, like some sort of child’s toy. His glower pinned you in place, enough to shut you up, to stop you from speaking, from protesting any further.
You swallowed thickly, your throat as dry as the desert sand. Johnny and Kyle said nothing, their lips sealed and their thoughts to themselves.
It was settled.
You had little choice but to follow him up the stairs, winding your way up to the third floor where the music finally began to dim, the halls much quieter than below. Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, your hands trembling as he slid the key into the rusted lock, kicking the door open the rest of the way.
It was a decently sized room, larger than the one you’d been given in the saloon back home. The uneven brick walls were painted a stark white, softened by the warm glow of the dual oil lamps flickering on the nightstands. Wooden support beams crossed the ceiling overhead, and the dark planks beneath your feet were mostly covered by a colorful patchwork rug that had to have been hand-stitched. A chair and an old chest of drawers had been pushed to the side, the bed taking up majority of the space, the quilt folded back and clean.
Ghost trudged inside, but you didn’t follow. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the floor, unable to move; frozen in place.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
He didn’t turn to you, didn’t face you when he spoke, instead approaching the fireplace. He picked up a few logs that had been stacked beside it and threw them into the hearth.
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out — no words, no sounds.
You watched as the fire roared to life, its orange glow spilling into the room and casting shadows across the walls, the immediate warmth chasing away the chill left behind by the now sleeping sun.
His eyes found yours as he stood there before the fire, the flames blazing at his back. It made him look all the more intimidating, all the more like he crawled from the very depths of hell, the pits of despair.
“In. I don’t bite, princess.”
You weren’t so sure about that.
But nonetheless, you shuffled forward, knowing you had no other choice other than to sleep in the hallway — and you weren’t that desperate. Not yet, anyways.
You’d never been alone with him before. It had never been just the two of you in one space, one room — there had always been someone else around, someone else as a buffer, a safety net. Another life source to cling onto. Just in case.
Now, there was no one. Nobody else but you and him.
The implications of it all began to trickle in, settling into the pit of your stomach, weighing down like a heavy stone sinking in a pond. The singular bed. The closed door.
The lack of a ring on your finger.
Your face burned, your skin red-hot and flushed. You pulled at the collar of your dress, as if it would offer you some reprieve — more air, more room to breathe. Anything.
The rustle of fabric pulled your gaze from the floor to Ghost as he shrugged out of his long leather coat, carelessly tossing it onto the wooden chair in the corner. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t help but stare as he rolled the black sleeves of his dress shirt up to his forearms, his arms thick and corded with muscle, light hair dusted over pale skin littered with scars — the first time you’d gotten a glimpse at him, at what was beneath all those layers.
A reminder that there was, in fact, a human being underneath the mask — a man. Living, breathing, in the flesh.
But not just any man, though. A man of strength, of power. Overwhelming in height, in breadth, in weight. In everything.
You blushed even harder, your skin as bright as the fire crackling across the room as your stomach fluttered, completely and utterly betraying you and your senses.
It was like he knew — like he could feel the heat and the weight of your stare, sheepish yet unwavering, fixed on him and his exposed skin as if you were caught in some sort of trance.
His eyes met yours, the brown of his so dark, so rich — they were like endless pits of earth, the deepest pockets of the night sky. The firelight reflected across them, his pupils blown out, seeming to devour the flames, smothering them in their depths.
Your breath caught in your throat, shame and embarrassment and fascination licking at your spine, curling in your chest. It was a pull you hadn’t felt before, an unexpected and unexplainable shift that threaded through the unease, the fear.
It didn’t make sense. None whatsoever.
His gaze narrowed, mouth curving slightly beneath the mask. It told you everything you needed to know — he definitely knew. Knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling. Every bit of it was written across your face, etched into the lines of your body.
You had never been good at hiding how you felt.
A low, throaty sound rumbled from deep within his chest — not quite a chuckle, not quite a growl. Somewhat of a cross between the two. He’d caught you, his gaze searing right into you, right past your flimsy, transparent defenses.
But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t taunt you, didn’t twist the knife of blatant humiliation even further.
He didn’t need to. His silence — it said enough. It said it all.
You cleared your throat, a strangled sort of noise as you spun on your heels and turned away sharply, finally freeing yourself from the spell that had fallen over you. Your cheeks, your skin — they couldn’t possibly be any hotter.
“I—” You struggled for the words, for any bit of sense as you squeezed your eyes shut, jaw tight and fingers clenched. “I need to…I need to wash up.”
A grunt, a creak of the floorboards under his weight. “Alright.”
He was behind you before you knew it, taking barely two long strides to get to you. You nearly stopped breathing as his gloved fingertips slowly brushed against your collarbone, your skin breaking out into goosebumps in response, your heart seizing in your chest like the traitor it was.
“W—what are you—” You gasped as he began to tug at the white fabric of your dress, dragging it down your shoulder. You recoiled instantly, spinning to face him, your hand swatting his away as you scrambled out of reach, your back hitting the far wall in the midst of your escape.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He didn’t even have the nerve to look guilty, to look ashamed of his attempt. Your heart was racing now, eyes wide and locked onto his as you yanked the dress back up and into place, body now fully in fight or flight mode — ready to scream, ready to run, ready to take the blow you knew was coming.
An all too familiar feeling, indeed.
His head tilted to the side, gaze flicking over your face like he was examining it, like he was trying to read your mind, to make sense of your thoughts, your fears.
But he didn’t move, didn’t tense, didn’t yell. Didn’t make a move to strike, to reprimand you for your refusal, your shock.
In fact, he did nothing at all.
“Your corset.” His voice was gravelly, steady, calm when he finally spoke. “Can’t bathe with in on, now, can you?”
It wasn’t a taunt, wasn't a dig. Nothing but the cold, obvious truth spilling from his lips in that no-nonsense way of his.
You stood there for a moment, chest heaving, short, panting breaths escaping you, eyes never once leaving his — never daring to, not even for a second. You stared and stared, watching and waiting for the inevitable, for the fist to follow his words. For the punishing grip on your hair, the smack across the face.
But it never came. It took you a few minutes to realize it was never going to. That he wasn’t him — he wasn’t your husband.
Your dead husband. The one that could never hurt you again.
“I just—I just thought you—I—What were you even—” You clutched at your chest, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress as if searching for some semblance of stability.
“You thought what?” He asked, poking and prodding at you, not ready to let go of whatever that moment, that reaction had been. He took a step towards you, and you flinched — just barely, unintentionally, but enough for him to notice, to pocket that bit of information for later.
“You thought I was gonna hurt you? Gonna force myself on you, eh?”
You nodded slowly, teeth sinking into your lower lip, your pulse still coming down, still trying to regulate itself back to normal.
He shook his head, clucking his tongue in admonishment. “That’s where you’re wrong ‘bout me, love.” He took another step towards you, your trembling body. “Don’t force myself on women. Don’t need to.”
“Why, because you’re a gentleman?”
The words slipped before you could think, before you could stop yourself. You were tempted to clamp a hand right over your mouth, to apologize and plead for mercy as to not evoke any of his rage, his anger.
But instead, he laughed. A deep chuckle, resonant and rumbling like a roll of thunder in an unrelenting storm. It shocked you, a reaction so at odds with anything your occasional sharp tongue had ever been met with before; a sound you never thought you’d hear come from a man like him.
“Never claimed to be a gentleman, love.” His eyes glinted with humor, with devilish amusement. You were sure you’d find something resembling a smirk under the mask if you’d been given the opportunity to look. “Never will.”
You could barely stop yourself from shuddering, from visibly reacting to his words, the thinly veiled implications woven within — you heard them loud and clear. And the way he was looking at you — you’d never felt more like caged prey, seconds away from being pounced on, from being devoured whole.
But he took a step back and then another, the space now stretching between you, giving you room to breathe. Your exhale was loud, audible, full of relief.
“You able to get outta that yourself then, yeah?”
It took you a moment to realize he was referring to your corset, the one laced up tightly under your dress. The reason for this whole mess in the first place.
Truth was, you couldn’t. You couldn’t get out of it by yourself. It was, unfortunately, a two person job. Kate had been the one to help you put it on this morning, and now, she wasn’t here to help get you out of it. Nobody was.
Nobody except him. Except Ghost.
It was wrong on so many levels to be in just your undergarments around a man you barely knew, a man who wasn’t your husband — for chrissakes, the man who had killed your husband. It was indecent, improper. It was downright unbecoming.
But you were left with no choice, weren’t you?
His eyes never left yours, never once straying from your face or your form as you kicked off your boots and slowly, carefully slipped the dress off your body, the white linen pooling on the floor at your feet, your cheeks crimson-red.
You still had clothes on, fabric still covering much of you by way of your chemise and your pantalets — but you may as well have been naked. You felt vulnerable, exposed; completely inappropriate.
It didn’t help that he was looking at like that. Like he could see right through your remaining layers, peeling them back one by one with his gaze until there was nothing left, nothing that remained. Nothing that protected you from him.
There was a sort of hunger in his eyes, something simmering just beneath the surface. Something that made your stomach twist, made the flush spread across the rest of your body, down your neck and to your toes. Something barely restrained, barely held back.
You weren’t sure if he would keep to his word, if he was just lulling you into a false sense of security, even just for a second so he could get his hands on you. You knew, just by looking at him, that he could overpower you, could subdue you with little to no effort.
You had no reason to trust him, no reason to believe he wouldn’t hurt you. No reason to believe that this hadn’t been the plan all along — to steal you from your home, cart you off to a foreign place, isolate you from the others, and utterly destroy you the second he got the chance for nothing but the sake of his own twisted pleasure.
You turned around, your eyes closed in resignation, having made peace with the fact that you had no other choice, no other option.
You felt your pulse pound in your ears as he came up behind you, towering over you like he always did, your head brushing against the top of his chest.
He didn’t touch you. Not at first. He hovered, fingers suspended above the strings, almost as if he was hesitating, stalling — for some unknown reason or another.
And then, he was there. Fingers caught in the laces, entangled in the woven strands of cotton and silk. Your breath hitched, trapped in your chest, unable to be freed — the corset unable to be blamed for it.
Cord by cord, he untied each one, unraveling them from their carefully constructed knots and loops. Each tug, each pull gave you a little more reprieve, a little more freedom from the binding restraints; the garment a cruel reminder of the life you once lived, the life that had trapped you for far too long.
Your fists clenched at your sides, your eyes squeezed so tightly it gave you a pulsing headache.
He worked methodically, unhurried, without a single sound, a single word. No reassurances, no commands, no snarky remarks. Nothing. Just you and him, the crackle of the fire, and the silence that stretched between you.
With deft fingers and quiet skill, the last string loosened, setting the corset free at last. Your spine caved in on itself, the relief so blissful that your exhale was audible. He let the garment tumble to the ground, landing at your feet, your dress softening its thud.
You wanted to scold him for it, for treating such an expensive, delicate piece so carelessly — but you couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come, any sensible thoughts barely forming. You couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, completely rooted to the spot as his warmth pressed against you from behind. His breath grazing your temple, his chest rising and falling, his hands hovering over your sides.
Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it, could feel it.
“There.”
You bit back a gasp, a squeak catching in your throat as the pad of his finger traced the line of your spine, the thin fabric of your chemise scraping against your skin, making you shiver.
It was too much, all at once. The proximity, the closeness, the touch, the warmth. His voice. You felt like you were on overload, your nerves frayed and your brain scrambled, your stomach pooling with something you wouldn’t dare admit — not even if there was a gun to your head.
You shot forward, right out of his embrace, out of his reach.
“T-Thank you,” You stammered, refusing to face him as you smoothed down the front of your undergarments, the reminder of just how exposed, just how close to naked you truly were in another man’s presence — a man you barely knew — like a bucket of ice cold water poured right over your head, seeping into your veins, your nervous system.
“I-I’m…I think…I’m gonna w-wash up now.”
You could barely formulate the sentence, words and feet stumbling over each other as you all but ran out the door like the coward you were, head down and eyes trained ahead.
You didn’t look back at him, not once.
By the time you reached the washroom, blessedly empty and unoccupied, you collapsed against the closed door, limbs heavy and weak, breath stolen from your body, unable to be found, caught, regained. It felt like you’d run for miles, sprinting the entirety of the distance you’d traveled on horseback.
As you shed the rest of your garments and slipped under the lukewarm water of the bath, you tried desperately to forget the exchange, the cacophony of thoughts and feelings swarming your mind, gnawing at you ceaselessly. You scrubbed and scrubbed at yourself, trying and failing to wash away the shame that coated you like an inky, oily film — as if that would work. As if it would erase your sins.
You stayed in that bath for as long as possible, much longer than justifiable or remotely reasonable. Your skin was pruny and red, nearly rubbed raw from your incessant attempts, the water nearly freezing, but you were in no rush to leave. No rush to get back to the man waiting for you in that room so far away from prying eyes and helping hands. Lord knows you were bound to need them if you spent another minute or two alone in his presence.
But when you finally mustered up the courage to head back, the room was empty. Vacant.
Hypocritically, you felt the tiny pang of disappointment at the realization, the discovery that he was gone, slipped off into the night and disappearing into the shadows he wore like a second skin.
You quickly scolded yourself, muttering how you were much better off alone as you pulled back the quilt, slipping under the sheets and settling into the bed.
You fell asleep without issue, the toll of the day and the traveling thoroughly wearing you out. You were utterly exhausted, dozing off the second your head hit the pillow, your body endlessly grateful for the rest and relaxation at last.
You were so tired, indeed, that you barely stirred when the door slowly creaked open a few hours later, the old hinges announcing the late night arrival. You didn’t so much as twitch as the bed dipped beside you, the sudden wall of warmth and muscle at your back, the low grunt in adjustment.
You only knew he was there when the sun just began to rise, your body still in tune with your old routine, your old life. You shifted with a quiet groan, groggy and slightly dazed as your bleary eyes cracked open, one at a time. The room was dark, the fire just a pile of smoldering embers in the hearth, the flames of the oil lamps long since blown out.
Only a sliver of reddish orange glow snuck in through the sheer curtains, just barely enough light to make out the thick arm thrown over your waist.
It took a moment for your brain to catch up, to make sense of what you were seeing. Your eyes widened, your inhale sharp — loud enough to disturb the owner of that arm, the rumble of his groan traveling through you, his chest pressed against your back.
You knew it was him without looking, without turning your head. Ghost. The man who had claimed you. The man who hadn’t let you out of his sight, out of his reach for hours.
But you snuck a peek anyway, needing to confirm it for yourself. Slowly, carefully, you moved, craning your neck to steal a glimpse, to make sure you weren’t imagining things.
You couldn’t see much, couldn’t get a good enough view in the nearly pitch black room — but the tiny scrap of early morning sunlight was just enough to make out the features of the man behind you, a man whose features you didn’t recognize upon first glance.
The outline of a sharp, crooked nose. A square jaw dusted with light hair. Thick brows. Plush lips, a scar cutting right across the top.
It wasn't enough to match a description, to pick a face out of a lineup — but it was enough to know that it was him. You knew it in your bones, felt it in your soul.
He moved in his sleep, arm tightening against your middle and pulling you tighter against him, trapping you in his embrace. Your head rolled forward, facing the wall, tearing your eyes away from what you would presume was the one, rare chance you’d get at seeing his face. Seeing the man behind the mask, the human hidden behind the black fabric and hard metal shell.
And when you woke up hours later, your room full of sunshine and natural light, he was gone. Like he had never been there at all.
Like it had all been a dream.
a/n: i am so sorry this too so long to get out. i hope it was worth the wait <3 more to come when grad school releases me from its clutches
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: you skip town with the band of outlaws.
word count: 5.5k
cw: use of guns/weapons. depictions of violence, death, domestic abuse. mdni, 18+
“She’s mine.”
“She’s mine.”
“She’s mine.”
The words, his voice — it clanged through every corner of your brain, replaying through your mind on an endless, merciless loop.
You couldn’t sleep. Not even a wink. You tossed and turned, wincing when your weight pressed into your bruised ribs. Flipping to the other side was no better, provided no more relief — a sharp, stabbing pain shot through your temple, the fresh stitches there a brutal reminder of the hell your body had faced.
But it wasn’t the pain that kept you up. Not really. No, it was his declaration, his blatant staking of claim.
His calling in on the debt you owed.
You’d known it was coming. One way or another, the hand was bound to be dealt, the cards bound to be played.
You’d known that their services, their actions — it was never meant to be free. Nothing out here ever was. Not a bullet, not a favor, not a good deed. Everything had a price, and sooner or later, the debt always came due, the collector always came knocking.
They’d told you otherwise, Kate and Kyle. Tried to convince you that wasn’t true, that you were safe. That nobody was looking for repayment, for compensation.
You’d known better. You’d known it was all a lie, a myth — a string of sweet words to hide the bitter truth, the twisted reality. You’d been burned one too many times, hurt by too many people you’d once cared about to believe anything they’d said, promised and assured.
Because after all, you were his now, weren’t you? He’d made that abundantly, distressingly clear.
This was your life; your cruel, pitiful truth — your existence nothing more than a card in the deck, traded from one hand to the next, passed around like property from man to man, keeper to keeper.
Wasn’t it just time you’d accepted it? Made peace with it? That you were nothing more than mere chattel?
It was a horrifying and vile thought — a heavy weight settled in your stomach, twisting and churning until you were sure you were going to puke. You lurched forward, your body aching, screaming in protest as you doubled over, dry heaving over the edge of the bed, gagging on nothing but dread.
“She’s mine.”
“She’s mine.”
“She’s mine.”
You stayed curled up like that for hours, long after the saloon had emptied and quieted down, your body bone-tired but your mind still buzzing like a hive.
You heard it then — the shuffle of boots, the creak of floorboards, a sign of life beginning to stir in the building. Your eyes squeezed shut, choking down the quiet tears as you willed yourself to steady, to calm, to collect your bearings.
It was only a matter of time before the heavy footsteps grew louder, grew closer, pausing right outside your door before it slowly creaked open, warm candlelight spilling in from the hall. Your back stayed turned and you remained still, pretending like you hadn’t heard it, that you were asleep; relishing in those last few moments of your fleeting freedom, your brief solitude.
“Hey there, sunshine,” A familiar voice whispered, a woman’s — Kate’s. Her hand rested lightly on your arm, the mattress dipping as she sat down beside you. “You sleep ok?”
You turned slightly, peeking out of one eye to look at her as she smiled down at you.
You shook your head.
She chuckled softly, the sound lacking conviction — like that was exactly what she expected but hadn’t wanted to hear. “Yeah, I thought as much.”
It was still early — ungodly so. The sky was dark, the sun still buried beneath streaks of purple and blue, stars still blinking faintly overhead. The town was quiet, hushed and heavy with sleep, its people clinging to the last scraps of rest before the roosters crowed and the church bells called for them to rise.
You wondered why she was awake, what she was doing in here.
“What’s going on?”
You couldn’t help but voice it, the tension lingering in the air, unspoken and unsaid. No more games, no more beating around the bush — you couldn’t take any more of it, couldn’t stomach it. You needed her to be honest with you.
She sighed, the hand that had been resting on your arm now dragging through her tousled locks.
“Can’t get anything past you, huh?”
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t bring yourself to.
Her eyes roamed over your face, lips curving faintly as her stare stayed flat, unreadable.
“Pretty thing,” She murmured, almost like she was thinking aloud, her fingers gently brushing a stray hair out of your face. “But no fool.”
You stared back at her, blinking slowly, as if the shadows in the room were deceiving you — that it wasn’t Kate but someone else trying to deceive you, wearing the darkness like a cloak, luring you into a trap, into a false sense of comfort.
“It’s time for us to skip town.” She told you — the truth, the real reason for her nighttime visit falling from her lips. “I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Reminders of the night before, just hours earlier, seeped in, the memories replaying through your mind.
The stares, the whispers, the threats. The gunshots. Your father. Kyle, Johnny. Ghost.
You knew word would spread like wildfire, interwoven with the tale of your husband’s fate: whispers of the notorious Ghost, you — the widowed woman he’d claimed, and the bullets he’d fired at your father in warning — a threat, a promise etched in iron, buried in the wooden walls.
The sheriff was bound to hear of it — the chaos the infamous outlaw had stirred in the saloon, in his town. It was only a matter of time before he came storming through those swinging doors, hungry for justice and hellbent on taking him and all his comrades in.
And now, you were considered one of them. Ghost had made sure of it.
“I’ve got to take care of some business here,” Kate continued, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a loose string on the edge of her blouse. “John and I will be staying behind for a bit, but you — you’ll be off with the others.”
Your heart thudded at that, its pace quickening at her words, at the unsettling thought of what she was telling you.
“You’re not coming?” You sat upright, the thin, rumpled sheets slipping down and pooling around your waist, the chilly morning air pebbling the exposed flesh of your arms.
She shook her head. “Not yet, peach. We’ll be joining you soon.” She offered you a small smile, eyes shining with empathy, with understanding. “I know this ain’t ideal, but it’s best for you to get out of here before trouble comes knocking again.”
And it would. It always did. Trouble always found its way back to you, to wreck havoc on your life, winding itself tightly around your livelihood, suffocating you. It fed off of your very existence, raining down hell like a relentless storm.
Because even if you wanted to stay, you knew it would come back — you wouldn’t be able to escape it. You’d be arrested, thrown into the slammer for your association with such notorious criminals, the brutal killers of your husband. It wouldn’t matter that they — that Ghost — had saved you from your abuser. The law didn’t care for truth, only order. Justice was just a word they twisted, bent to their liking.
With your husband’s connections, his long-standing friendship with the sheriff, and the reputation that followed the band of outlaws — you were all as good as dead. A bounty would hang high over their heads and yours now, too.
“You’ll be safe with them.” Kate’s hand came back to rest on your thigh, giving it a squeeze — an attempt to reassure you, to comfort you. “They’ll look after you.” She met your eyes with nothing but sincerity, sensing your hesitancy, your skepticism.
“You have my word.”
But what good was her word? You didn’t know her, didn’t know them. Every word, every vow they’d made to you thus far had been a farce, hadn’t it?
You weren’t free — you were his. Ghost’s. None of them refuted it, came to defend your honor against him when he’d so boldly staked his claim. His word was gospel, his decisions law.
And safety? You doubted that. Not just because of the man in the mask, but because trouble didn’t just follow you, didn’t just follow them. They created it, caused it. Relished in it. It followed them like a shadow — their very way of life.
But what choice did you have?
None. Like always, you had none.
“I brought up your dress.” Kate’s voice drifted through the haze of your thoughts, tugging you out of your doubts, your cynicism. “Gave it a good scrub last night. Got the stains right out.”
The stains being blood. Your husband’s blood. Ever since it had spilled, had sprayed over the white fabric of your clothes, nothing had been the same.
It was just yesterday afternoon, yet it felt like days ago.
“You get yourself together.” She gave your leg one last pat before she stood, rising from the bed. “I’ll come by in a bit.”
She slipped back out, the light from the hall trickling in before it disappeared behind the wooden door. You sat there for a moment, completely and utterly still. Outside, the crickets chirped and sang, an owl hooted from its perch amongst the rooftops. Somewhere nearby, a loose sign groaned on its chain, creaking loudly as it swung back and forth in the gentle breeze.
In a matter of hours, life as you knew it had completely crumbled, had come crashing down. Some of it was for the better — some of it was for the worst.
Your husband — he was the devil you knew. The devil you were well acquainted with, the devil whose face and fists you’d memorized. These people, this group of strangers, criminals — they were the devil you didn’t.
They seemed nice, kind — Johnny, Kyle, Kate, and John Price. Helpful. Reasonable. Decent enough. Their morals somewhat in tact, as far as you could tell.
But Ghost? Just the thought of him made you shiver, dread crawling up your spine at the idea of being too near, too alone.
He wasn’t a devil. He was the devil himself.
You slipped out from under the covers, legs swinging over the bed and dropping to the floor. The boards were rough under your bare feet, cold to the touch as you rose, your body moving on instinct before your mind could catch up.
Sure enough, the dress was there — clean and folded neatly, resting on the dusty old dresser pushed against the wall. The moon served as your only source of light as you redressed, slipping the familiar white fabric over your head, letting it settle over your body, the undergarments you’d slept in. You sat back on the bed as you pulled on your stockings, shoving your feet back into the worn boots before you crept out of the room, tiptoeing down the hall to the washroom. Thankfully, it was empty.
You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you. The single oil lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows against the wall. You splashed cold water on your face, the sharp bite washing away the last of your sleepiness and stinging against your temple.
There was a hairbrush on the counter, seemingly left for you. You were grateful, your locks tousled and tangled from all your tossing and turning. The bristles were soft but dutiful as you combed through the knotted strands, your reflection peering back at you through the cracked, dirty surface of the mirror.
The woman before you was still a stranger. She bore an uncanny resemblance to you, but she was still unfamiliar, still someone you hadn’t been acquainted with. Her eye was still swollen but much less inflamed, her stitches less angry, less bloody this early morning.
You couldn’t quite face her, couldn’t stare into her haunting gaze for much longer. Your hair much more manageable, you set the brush back down on the counter and finished doing your business before you slipped back into the hall.
Kate came for you just a few moments later, entering into your room with a small silver tray, carrying a steaming mug of tea, a few cornbread biscuits, and a cup of porridge.
“Eat up, honey.” She encouraged you, setting it down on the dresser. “You’ve got a long journey ahead.”
You didn’t have to be told twice. You scarfed it all down, mumbling your appreciation to her between bites. She simply chuckled, leaning against the doorframe as she watched and waited.
You should’ve taken your time, though, because once you were finished and she’d laced up your corset, Kate ushered you out, helping you down the stairs to the saloon below, her arms wrapped around your waist to steady you. Her grip was the only thing that kept you upright, kept you on your feet.
With every step you took, your unease swelled, growing and doubling in size with each passing second. The air bit at your skin as you stepped outside, the sun just barely beginning to peek over the horizon, the blues and purples beginning to fade away.
The men were already there — Johnny and Kyle — the two of them already gathered with the horses, their coats steaming in the chill, every exhale puffing into visible clouds.
“There you are, lass,” Johnny was first to greet you, first to spot you as you and Kate approached. “Was beginning to think you weren’t joinin’ us.”
“Nonsense.” Kate smiled, rubbing her palms along your bare arms, trying to chase the chill from your shivering form. She peered over your shoulder, meeting your gaze. “I’m gonna fetch you a shawl, yeah?”
You nodded, teeth chattering as she disappeared back inside the building, the loss of her body heat making you tremble. Kyle noticed, passing his reins over to Johnny as he stepped towards you slowly, cautiously — like he was afraid to spook you, like one wrong move would send you fleeing through the desert.
“C’mere.” He waved a hand toward you, beckoning you closer. “’til she comes back.”
You hesitated for a moment, eyes darting over him like it was some sort of trick. But you were freezing, the sun not yet providing any of its welcome warmth. With a relenting sigh, you moved closer to him, stepping into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around you, the warmth radiating from his body and seeping through his clothes, fending off the chill.
“Thanks,” You mumbled, looking anywhere but his face, your cheek pressed against his chest. The vibration of his low chuckle rumbled through him, shaking you slightly.
“Anytime, Little Fawn.”
You stayed there, tucked against him as he chatted quietly with Johnny, their words falling on deaf, uninterested ears.
“Awfully cozy.”
The conversation died, your attention snapping towards the source behind the low, unmistakable drawl. You’d only heard his voice once, twice maybe — but it was immediately recognizable, discernible; forever etched into your mind, your soul.
He stood there, every bit as menacing and imposing as the first time you’d laid eyes on him. The red mask and black fabric beneath still concealed his face, his body still cloaked in black from head to toe.
A shadow man. A demon from hell.
Kyle’s arms fell to his sides, stepping back from you almost instantly, like you’d suddenly burned him, scorched his very flesh.
“Kate’s getting her a shawl,” He explained calmly, his voice even as the man came closer, closing in on you like a predator stalking its prey.
“Mhm.”
You yelped as he abruptly tugged you into him, your body nearly ricocheting right off of his broad chest as he pulled you in, your heart hammering against your ribcage at the sudden closeness, the proximity to him. The men’s eyes tracked it silently, taking in every movement, every possessive touch, as he wrapped his arms around your waist, his gloved hands splayed across your torso, their size on you almost comical. Every bit of him was huge, gigantic — a complete mammoth of a man.
You squirmed in his grasp, pathetically trying to free yourself to no avail. You gasped as his fingers dug into your hipbones, forcing to you to still, your back flush against his chest.
“Quit.” His voice was sharp, rough in your ear, his breath warm against your uninjured temple. You stopped, cheeks burning as he held you, caught between irritation and the stubborn, unwelcome comfort of his body temperature. He radiated heat like a blazing fire, his warmth enveloping you, shielding you from the crisp, chilly air like a thick quilted blanket.
Nobody spoke until Kate came back, John Price in tow.
“Here it is.” She paused for a moment, her steps faltering as she took in the scene before her. Her smile returned as she approached, holding out the shawl to you — a soft, worn fabric patterned with deep crimson lines and swirls, maybe even some flowers; you couldn’t be sure in the low-light of the barely crested dawn.
Ghost barely released you, one hand still tight on your hip as you draped it over your shoulders.
“Best be going, then,” John Price spoke, barely batting at an eye at the thick tension, nodding at the rising sun as it crept over the jagged peaks in the distance. An unspoken understanding settled over you all, the foreboding promise that you’d be looked for, chased down to answer for the crimes of the night before, the day prior. You were honestly surprised they hadn’t already, that the sheriff hadn’t come knocking on the doors in the middle of the night.
Guess you’d been lucky in that way. For once.
The men gathered their bearings and their horses — three beautiful geldings, each one saddled and ready, their hooves stirring up clouds of dust and sand with every impatient stomp.
The largest one — a black stallion, its coat sleek and shiny, the only break in its darkness a sharp, white star etched across its snout — stood tall and proud, powerful in his mere presence, just like his owner. Ghost strode over to him, his hand brushing the sleek neck, fingers threading through his mane in a quiet greeting. He mounted him with ease, with practiced swiftness; every motion fluid, confident, and effortless.
From atop his saddle, his eyes snapped to you — commanding, unyielding. Your blood ran cold, feet shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.
He tore his gaze away, chin nudging wordlessly at something, someone behind you. Hands landed on your waist and you squealed as you were lifted off the ground, planted squarely on the leather saddle.
Johnny stood below, tipping his hat at you with a grin before striding off, mounting his own mare.
“Fix yourself.” The voice behind you ordered, his tone rough and rasping, bleeding impatience. Biting your tongue and swallowing a smart remark, you swung your leg over the saddle clumsily, the stallion snorting at the movement.
You flinched as his arms framed you, gloved hands taking ahold of the reins lying before you, his chest pressed firmly to your back. You swallowed thickly, the flush spreading down your neck as you tried to readjust, desperate for even a sliver of space to put between you — but there was nowhere to go, no room to gain.
Your breath hitched when his palm flattened against your stomach, roughly pushing you back in place against him.
“Nowhere to run, princess.”
The low taunt made your cheeks burn even hotter, your spine even straighter.
He shifted the reins to one hand, his body leaning slightly over yours, a low click of his tongue in time with the sharp nudge of his spurs against the horse’s side. The stallion lurched forward, muscles rippling as it eased into a slow trot, causing you to slide up with a startled gasp, hands flying to grip the saddle horn for balance. His arm cinched around your middle, pinning you in place, anchoring you to him.
With a wave from Kate and a subtle tip of the hat from John Price, you were off, the sky painted in streaks of orange and gold.
The town was just beginning to stir as you rode through, every movement seeming to pause as the group of you passed by. Roosters crowed from hidden yards as shutters creaked open, sleepy faces leaning out into the cool morning air — their bleary eyes following you, wide and curious. Shopkeepers slowed their sweeping, bristles dragging unhurriedly across the wood as their gazes lingered. A few riders paused mid-brush, hands stilling on their horses’ coats, watching from beneath the brims of their hats. Even the woman hauling a heavy pail across the street stole a glance, her steps faltering before she hurried on, quickly averting her gaze before she was caught staring.
Their focus was especially heavy on you, saddled up with the man from all the legends, all the myths and the stories — his touch, his grip on you possessive, claiming. His. It confirmed the rumors, the whispers that had traveled through town to those who hadn’t been there to see it, to witness it themselves in the saloon last night.
You tried to keep your chin up, your head held high. You wouldn’t let them judge you, wouldn’t let their loaded stares bother you.
Not when you were leaving them all behind anyway.
You said nothing and neither did the men. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, wouldn’t let them twist your words. They would talk regardless, spinning all sorts of tall tales of what had happened, why you’d left, where you’d gone. You would let them think, let their minds wander — wondering how you’d gotten tied up with them in the first place, how’d you fallen in step with such notorious outlaws.
How your husband’s blood had gotten on their hands.
The journey was long and mostly quiet. Johnny and Kyle rode several paces ahead, side by side, their voices muffled, their words swept away with the breeze, the hem of your skirt fluttering along with it. The sun was higher in the sky now, unforgiving and relentless as its rays beat down on you, cicadas droning through the fields. You let the shawl slip off your shoulders, tying it around your waist so it wouldn’t fall to the ground, sweat already beading at your hairline, coating the back of your neck.
Ghost hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a sound. Nothing but the occasional grunt, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back the only sign of life.
It took you awhile to settle, to let yourself relax against him. It wasn’t like you were going anywhere, nor were you able to escape him any time soon. The further you strayed from town, the only place you’d ever called home, you began to let up; your shoulders loosening, your posture slowly slackening.
He didn’t snap at you, didn’t order you to straighten up, to get off of him. You figured that was as good a sign as any.
It didn’t take long for you to drift off — the dizziness of the heat, the steady beat of the hooves and gentle sway of the saddle, the lack of sleep from the night before, and the solid warmth at your back pulling you under, tucking you under the chin, and cradling you close as it lulled you to rest.
You woke with a start, a sudden jolt as the horse beneath you came to a halt. You blinked back sleep, the bleariness still coating your eyes as they aimlessly shifted around, taking in your new surroundings. You weren’t sure how long you’d been out, but the sun was higher now, nearly overhead, your silhouette shadowed across the ground.
It took a moment to register that you were nestled against him, your head resting in the crook of his arm, cheek pressed against the dark fabric of his jacket. Completely limp in his arms.
Too comfortable. Too at ease.
You scrambled up, embarrassment burning low in your gut, blooming over your skin. A snort sounded from behind you, but you were too mortified to face him, to look him in the eye.
They’d come to a stop, gathered near a small pond in the middle of a wide pasture, the hills of green stretching for miles — a perfect spot for the horses to take a drink, to graze, to rest after the hours they’d already rode, the distance they’d already trekked. The water shimmered under the mid-afternoon sun, its edges framed by wildflowers and cattails swaying lazily in the breeze.
It was quiet out there; peaceful — the melodic song of birds chirping in the distance, frogs murmuring amongst the pickerelweed, the steady hum of katydids scattered across the meadow.
“Good morning, bonnie!” Johnny sauntered up to you, his horse already roaming free amongst the pasture, a playful grin stretched across his tan face, his cheeks reddened from the sun. “Hope we dinnae disturb ya, lassie. Looked like you were gettin’ in a good sleep there.”
You shot him a glare as he chuckled to himself, finding much amusement in your humiliation, though you still took the hand he offered up — albeit begrudgingly. His other palm landed on your waist, guiding you down until your boots hit the packed, hard earth below. You were a bit unsteady at first, legs stiff and thighs aching from the long ride — and you knew you likely had much left to go, much more ground to cover.
You strode off, needing to put distance between yourself and the man in the mask — the one you’d been tucked up against for god knew how long. You hated that you’d been vulnerable, had allowed yourself to unwind in his presence. Hated that you’d given him the satisfaction of seeing you unguarded, defenseless — nonetheless, draped right over him.
It nettled under your skin, filled you with anger and shame — much more than you would’ve liked, would’ve cared to admit.
The lake was so inviting, so beautiful as the water glittered beneath the sun like scattered, precious jewels. Little fish and tadpoles swam below, sending ripples across the otherwise still surface.
You wasted no time in kicking off your stockings, your boots, your skirt balled up in your fists as you dipped your bare feet in. The cool water swirled around your toes, the chill rushing up your legs and leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. It was the perfect counter, the perfect remedy to the sun beating down on your shoulders, your skin slick with sweat. The little fish, their scales iridescent and silver, darted around your feet, glinting in the sun like tiny bolts of lightening.
The air was fresher out there, cleaner. Grass and soil, freshwater and algae, clovers and daises — the blend of fresh scents filled your nose, your lungs, undisturbed by the dust and manure, tar and oil, and tobacco and whiskey that usually greeted you every time you walked through town.
Your old town, you realized. Your old home. Would you ever go back? Would you ever return?
No, you decided in that moment. You wouldn’t. Not if you had anything to say about it.
It was officially in the past, miles and miles behind you now. You wanted to leave it there, right with that narrow band of gold you’d worn on your finger for far too long.
You lingered in the shallow end, hiking your dress up even higher as you nudged at rocks buried in the mud and clay, poking at little shells and pebbles with your toes, the water splashing and rippling with each step you took as you mindlessly drifted about. When you finally got bored, you waded back to shore, letting your skirt fall back down as you pulled your stockings and boots back on, eventually wandering over to where Kyle lay sprawled out in the grass a few feet away.
“Hey there.” He greeted you with a soft smile, tilting his head back to look at you, the brim of his hat canted over his face, shielding him from the sun. “Enjoy your dip?”
You nodded, plopping down beside him.
Wordlessly, he passed you his half-emptied canteen and you accepted it graciously, taking a long sip, little droplets dribbling down your chin.
“Hungry?” He asked, watching as you wiped your face with the back of your hand.
“Starved.”
A couple slices of jerky and a half-eaten foil packet of hardtack was placed in the palm of your hands.
“It’s all yours.”
You thanked him before you ate, the salty meat and dry, hard biscuits just enough to satiate your hunger for the next few hours, if you were lucky. It was as good a meal as you’d get for who knew how long. You washed it down with a bit more of his water, conscious not to drain what was left.
“Have you guys ridden through here before?” You asked, curious if this spot was a common meeting ground or stopping point to those passing through to wherever it was you were headed, a destination you hadn’t been informed of.
“Once before,” Kyle answered, leaning back against the ground, his arms folded beneath his head. “Though not often enough. It’s rare you find slivers of peace out west.”
There was something about the way he spoke, the inflection in his voice that made you wonder, had you reconsidering the foreign lilt that bled into their words, their speech.
“Y’all aren’t from around here,” You asked, though you were already sure of the answer. “are you?”
A small, knowing grin tugged at his full lips. “No, doll. We’re not.”
You wanted to know more — their life story, their home, where they’d come from. When they’d all met, how they’d ended up here. Was it the gold that enticed them, the temptation of riches and fortune? The promise of new land, new territory to claim? Or, were they believers of that manifest destiny, like your daddy and his own before him?
You were about to ask, to begin your series of questions when a shadow fell over you, shading you from the sun and shrouding you in darkness.
“We’re leaving.”
His voice was like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, soaking you to the bone. The calmness that had settled over you, the brief tranquility you’d felt was ripped away in an instant.
He stared down at you, his eyes narrowed and unreadable from behind the red metal of his mask. He was always so menacing, always carrying a promise of danger, an air of authority with him wherever he went.
Kyle stood, brushing the dirt and grass off his denim-clad legs before readjusting his hat to sit properly atop his head. He extended a hand to help you, to assist you in getting up and off the ground, the strap of his canteen slung over his shoulder. You went to take it, your palm hovering just above his when a low, warning growl rumbled through the air.
Your head snapped towards Ghost, irritation and heat prickling your skin. Kyle froze for a moment before he recovered, retracting his outstretched hand as he awkwardly cleared his throat. He couldn’t meet your eyes as you looked up at him desperately, pleading silently with him before he walked off, leaving you alone with him.
“She’s mine.”
You heard the threat in his growl — unspoken yet abundantly clear. It frustrated you, the way he never wasted a moment to stake his claim, a chance to chase the others away from you like a flock of birds, like he had gained some sort of right to do so after he killed your husband, had driven away your father.
He offered his own hand to you, the leather still covering his skin, concealing his fingers. You didn’t take it, didn’t want to — you would’ve sooner melted into the damp ground beneath you. A low grunt escaped him, muffled against the fabric of his mask, as he bent down and gripped your arm, hauling you to your feet.
“I can stand on my own.” You bit out, irritation sharpening your voice, your unease and fear of him momentarily forgotten. “Thanks.”
He just glared at you, sharp eyes burning holes right through your skull until he finally spoke.
“Don’t seem like it to me.” His gaze dragged over your body, slow and unhurried as he scanned you from head to toe — it made you shudder in disgust.
“Brat.”
Your brows furrowed, your lips curved in simmering anger, the embers of your flame stoked by his cruelty, his insolence.
“Aye, Ghost!” Johnny’s voice broke through the tension, preventing you from saying something stupid — something that would likely incite even more anger from the man you’d seen kill without so much as blinking. He stood by his horse, the reins of the black stallion held in his hands. “You ready or wha’?”
The man in black, your own personal harbinger of hell, stared down at you, his head hovering an unfathomable height above yours — so tall, completely towering over you. Yours barely reached the top of his chest.
He nudged his chin at you, a wordless command to move your feet. You scowled, arms crossed over your chest as you all but stomped back to the men, the waiting horses.
You didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound for miles.
a/n: i am so sorry for the delay y'all, school has started up again and it has been crazy. i hope it was worth the wait <3
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: you are faced with the consequences.
word count: 4.8k
cw: use of guns; depictions of violence and gore. mentions of domestic abuse, death, and sexual assault. mdni, 18+
You were afraid to face them.
It was a different kind of fear than you’d experienced before, different than the kind you were used to. The fear your husband had instilled within you was familiar, a tragic fate with which you were resigned to.
You expected it. Anticipated it. It was a reality you had never believed you would truly escape from. Your body too familiar with the motions, the song and the dance that awaited you every day, every night. Dawn til dusk.
This kind, though…this was a kind you weren’t used to, weren’t acquainted with. It was both hot and cold, sharp and dull. It had no shape, no pattern. It was unpredictable, uncertain. You couldn’t brace yourself for the brunt of it when you had no idea when it would strike, when to expect the inevitable impact.
They were strangers. Unknowns. They weren’t family, weren’t friends.
And maybe you were better off because they were neither of those things. None had helped you before, had come to your aid when you desperately sought a way out, an escape from the hell you’d been subjected to, lived in for months, years. These strangers — they did. Without question, without hesitation.
But you still couldn’t shake that feeling, the pit that had formed in your stomach.
You thought about staying in bed, hiding out in the room, if only to delay what you were certain was coming.
But there was nowhere to run.
The window was too high to climb from, and in your current state, you had no business even trying. Maybe, just maybe, you could disguise yourself amongst the crowd you heard downstairs and could slip out into the night without a trace.
But then where would you go? Back home, to the place that had held all your suffering, where the walls had witnessed the ugliest, the most brutal parts of you? The house where the deed bore only his name?
And if you did…would his friends come for you? Would the sheriff? Would they hunt you down for revenge, demanding retribution for his death?
No. You couldn’t stomach it, the thought of returning to your marital abode. The thought of it was suffocating, paralyzing — even in death he haunted you, cursed you with the memories of his cruelty, so deeply embedded into your skin, your heart, your soul, your mind.
And his friends? His circle? He had been well-connected, a businessman with ties in every corner of town. News of his death — his murder — would spread like wildfire, if it hadn’t already. It was only a matter of time before they found out, suspected you. Came for you.
The thought sent a shiver down your spine. What would you do then? Would you run? Would you hide? Would you turn yourself in?
You hadn't pulled the trigger, but didn't you, in a way? You signed, sealed, and delivered his death warrant, dropping it right on the reaper of hell and his associates's very doorstep. It didn’t matter if you’d been aware of it or not, had known whose bar you’d stumbled into — the result was all the same.
You were at a crossroads, but no route felt right, felt complete, felt like the path worth taking. You were stuck, pinned between realities where none felt safe, dependable, acceptable.
What the hell were you supposed to do now?
There was one thing you needed then, one thing that you could stomach, could clearly decide upon.
You needed a fucking drink.
The music hit you like a brick wall the moment you opened the door, the notes of a ragtime melody clashing with the drunken laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the off-key croon of patrons singing along. The saloon downstairs was rowdy, brimming with noise — with life. It was the evening watering hole, the main stop in town once the sun set and the stars danced in the sky, where rules didn’t apply, where the full extent of the law didn't quite reach. Debauchery, depravity. Deals made under the cover of low light and tobacco smoke.
And right now, it was just the kind of place you needed to be.
You had expected the stares, the wide eyes, the whispering. You looked like hell, like you had just crawled out from the very depths of the fiery inferno. Bruised, battered; stitches adorning your temple, your eye swelled shut, purplish-yellow marks dotting your skin, your arms.
It didn’t mean you liked it, though, or were okay with it. The scrutiny, the gawking, the barely murmured gossiping like you weren’t in the same room, weren't within earshot.
But you held your head high, your spine straight, and your shoulders squared as you staggered through the bar, doing your best to disguise the limp you still sported, that the bath and a good rest hadn’t quite gotten rid of.
He couldn’t hurt you. He couldn’t hurt you. Not anymore. Not anymore.
The rubbernecking didn’t stop, didn’t cease, as you shuffled towards the bar, your confidence faltering with each step but your chin still held up, as much as you could muster.
Two of the men from earlier were there, — Johnny and Kyle, you'd remembered hearing — their heads turning in your direction as you approached.
“There she is.” Johnny, the one with the strange, thick accent, beamed, lifting his glass bottle to you in a toast. “Our little fighter.”
“This seat taken?” You asked, pointing towards the empty spot between them. Both men shook their heads.
“Yours now,” Kyle replied, patting the cracked leather seat beside him. You tried to hide your grimace as you slid onto the empty stool, the eyes on your back of your head burning even hotter as you joined them, associated with them by choice.
“Sweet Jesus.” Johnny whistled now that you were closer, blue eyes scrutinizing your face with a squint, a slight wrinkle of his nose. “You look like hell, darlin’.”
Kyle scoffed in amusement, shaking his head. “Don’t listen to him, doll.” He patted your hand reassuringly. “He’s never quite gotten a hold of what civilized people like to call manners.”
But you weren’t bothered by the remark — it was true, you knew it. Knew there was no sense in denying it.
“S’alright.” You managed a small smile, fingers drumming anxiously against the wooden bar-top, trying your best not to have your head on a swivel, to avoid the stares pinning you from all sides.
Kyle’s eyes dipped, following the small, restless twitch of your hands. The corners of his mouth curved, almost amused, as he raised two fingers in a silent signal to the bartender, a woman you’d never seen before. Not Kate.
“So, Little Fawn,” He spoke, turning his body towards you. “You from around here?”
Your brows knit together, too caught on the moniker to answer his question. “Little Fawn?”
He simply smiled in lieu of an explanation, chin nudging in Johnny’s direction.
“Aye, that was all me.” The man grinned with a full set of teeth, a gold tooth glinting in the dim lighting. “Came up with it myself.”
An uncapped bottle of beer slid across the bar toward you before you could ask any further questions about that.
Alarm jolted through you then, your heart rate quickening as your eyes locked on the drink. You couldn’t pay for it, had nothing on you to shell out. You didn’t dare touch it — afraid it might burn you if you did. Your mouth opened, ready to refuse, to insist it was a mistake, even as your throat, your body ached with how badly you wanted it. Needed it.
“It’s alright, Fawn,” Kyle assured you, and your head snapped toward him at the sound of your new name, your only one as far as they were concerned. “It’s on the house.”
Even though you knew it was dangerous, knew it was a slippery slope you were already headed down, your fingers curled around it, accepting it anyways.
“I can’t keep taking things from you all,” You murmured, staring down at the pale yellow ale in your hands. “It’s—you’ve all done too much.”
Johnny snorted loudly, disapprovingly. “Lassie, we haven’t done enough. Not after the hell tha’ fuckin’ bastard put ya through.” He shook his head, taking a long sip from his bottle. “Ghost just got to ‘im first, that’s all.”
The mere mention of him, the legend himself, made you shudder — hopefully, the men beside you didn’t notice.
“You’re safe here,” Kyle told you, brown eyes warm and comforting, a safety net you desperately wanted to cling to despite your hestitation. “He can’t get to you anymore.”
You wanted to believe him like you wanted to believe Kate, wanted to put all your trust in the palms of his calloused hands. But you knew better. You weren’t naive, weren't stupid, no matter how much that voice in the back of your head tried to convince you as such. You stayed with that monster for too long after all, much longer than you ever should’ve. You should’ve known he would never change, that he would never stop hurting you.
But in the end, you’d gotten away, hadn't you?
Still, the safety, the security that you were now promised — you weren’t so sure, weren’t so easily persuaded. All your life, you’d craved it, prayed for the reckoning to come. For your guardian angel, your knight in shining armor to save you, to free you from the tower, to whisk you away from all of it.
But now that you had a taste, you weren’t so sure that it was real, that it was nothing more than a facade. A sham.
You were indebted to them, and you damn well knew it.
A light poke against your cheek. “Fawn.”
You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “Hmm?”
The men exchanged an amused look. “I asked again where you’re from.” Kyle bit the inside of his cheek, clearly trying to contain his laughter for your sake. “You never answered from before.”
“Oh.” You looked down at your hands, your palms scratched and scraped up, the skin much softer, much less angry after your bath. “Um, yes. I’m from here. I, uh, live—lived in a house just outside of town.”
“With him?” Johnny asked with a raised brow, his voice lower, poorly biting back his displeasure, his irritation at the idea of the arrangement.
You nodded, your skin prickling at the tainted memories that filled your head at the mere mention of him. “Yes.”
“Hm.” He sat back against the stool, fingers stretching, flexing around his bottle like he imagined it was his neck, eyes searching your face. “Kids?”
You shook your head vehemently. “No.”
Not for a lack of trying, but you left that part unspoken, unsaid. He’d always wanted them, forced you to try for them on many occasions, even when the idea of bearing his heir made you sick.
But it never took. Never came to fruition, to actuality. Perhaps it was the universe’s way, God’s plan — whomever was in charge up there — of telling you it wasn’t meant to be. A sign, an omen. One less thing to tie you to him, one less thing he could sic his anger, his wrath upon.
“Good.” Johnny nodded, pleased with your answer, as if he had been thinking the same as you. “Better tha’ way, yeah?”
You were quiet as you inclined your head in agreement, raising the bottle to your lips and taking a big gulp, the bitterness burning a path down your throat.
“So.” Kyle’s voice cut through the commotion around you, the lull in your conversation, drawing your gaze to him. He leaned an elbow on the bar, eyes steady, trained on you. “What happens now?”
“Now?”
“Now.” He confirmed with a nod. “You’re free of him. What’s next?”
His question threw you off. Abruptly halted your racing thoughts. You had never let yourself consider such a thing before, never felt like you’d ever have the possibility of a next chapter — a world without him. Your life had consisted of two parts — before becoming his wife and after. You’d never truly believed there would be a third period, a next phase. Not one you’d be alive for, anyway.
But the way he asked it, posed it like it was so casual, natural — the obvious next step for you. As if you’d merely shaken the dust off your boots after a long ride, swatted away a stray gnat from your shoulder.
“Wow.” Kyle leaned back, shaking his head, like he couldn’t quite believe it — your reaction. “You’ve really never thought about this before, have you?”
You didn’t need to answer them, to speak the truth out loud. They already knew. It was written all over your face for anyone to read, like weathered ink on a WANTED poster.
Johnny let out a low, disgruntled noise. “Tha’s a damn shame, lass. A real fuckin’ shame.”
The words didn’t just land — they lingered, settling in the very pit of your stomach.
Because it was. It truly, wholeheartedly was a shame.
This was never supposed to be your life, your reality. Ever since you were a little girl, darting barefoot along the fence lines, skirts catching on wild prairie grass, you’d dreamed of your prince, your one true love. The man you’d ride off into the sunset with — arms wrapped snug around his waist, your chin resting on his shoulder, hair ruffling in the warm breeze.
Instead, you’d ridden straight into the eye of a storm, right into the arms of a man who wasn’t a prince at all, but a jailer, a warden, a tyrant. A villain in your story.
How had you ended up here, so far away from that little girl’s hopes, her dreams?
When had it all changed? When had the universe decided to deal you the cards of such a cruel fate?
Was this always what your life had been destined to become?
Your heart ached for that little girl, mourned her fate — your fate.
A single tear slid down your cheek uncontrollably, unconsciously.
Kyle and Johnny noticed it straight away; saw the heartbreak, the grief etched deep into your face. They exchanged a look, one charged full of empathy and simmering fury. Kyle moved closer to you, opening his mouth to say something — to comfort you, to offer some solace; some words of encouragement, even — when a loud bang cracked through the room, the saloon doors shaking as they were barged through, thrown wide open.
“Where is she?”
Every single head turned, all attention snapping towards the booming voice, the sudden intruder. The fiddler’s bow stilled mid-air, the weathered guitar’s chords cut short, and the easygoing sing-song of the crowd fell quiet as the room came to a complete standstill.
You knew that voice. Felt the familiarity carved into your bones, your soul, your childhood memories.
“Where the hell is my daughter?”
It was like they knew, Johnny and Kyle. Knew without a word, without sparing you a glance for confirmation. They slowly rose to their feet, hands hovering over the weapons holstered at their hips, slotting themselves protectively between you and the man who’d burst in, his two cronies close behind — all ready to draw at a moment’s notice.
“The fuck you want, old geezer?” Johnny barked, fingers twitching near his triggers, muscles coiled like springs — ready to pounce, ready to strike, ready to fire. Kyle was the same. “‘Cause if you’re looking for trouble, best not do so here.”
You were hidden behind them, masked in their shadows. Flecks of dust floated in the stuffy evening air, trembling with the unspoken warnings, unrest teetering unsteadily on the horizon. Every set of eyes in the room darted between the trespassers and the two cowboys, the subtle scraping of boots and shifting of chairs the only other sounds in the room.
The man laughed derisively, that rough sound so distinct, so recognizable.
“You think you scare me, little boy? Really think I’d let you get in my way?”
You saw the way Johnny tensed, bristling at the mockery, the unconcealed threat. Fighting words for him, his temper razor-thin in the face of foe. He took a menacing step forward, but Kyle’s hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back.
Unlike Johnny, he was calm yet alert, calculating every breath, every ministration.
“This ain’t the way you wanna go about it, lad.” His voice was even, restrained; each letter, each syllable dripping with caution. “And this ain’t the place to barge in like that, guns blazing.”
“You think I care ‘bout any of your damn’d rules? Your little saloon etiquette?” The man jeered, his step forward on the wooden planks audible, his face unreadable, obscured from the gap between their bodies — a face you knew like the back of your hand, had watched wrinkle and droop as the years passed. “I’m here for my goddamn daughter.”
Johnny shifted slightly, body subtly angling to conceal you even further.
“We don’t know who or where your fuckin’ daughter is,” He snarled. “Now get the fuck out of here, you rusty fuckin' trap.”
You could feel the atmosphere shift, the room tightening with tension and anticipation, as if a bullet could fly at any second — blood ready to be spilled, twice in one day.
You couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t be the cause of it. Not again. Not this time.
The grate of your stool against the floor was sharp, as deafening as the crack of a whip as you stood, knees trembling slightly, hands quivering so much so that you balled them into fists at your side. The wrought iron legs shrieked against the wood, slicing through the room’s tenuous silence, every set of eyes on you.
“Daddy?”
His eyes — the same shape as yours, same color, too — locked onto you, just barely peeking over Kyle and Johnny’s shoulders.
“Birdie.”
The nickname landed like a ghost from another life, another existence and person entirely — the name he’d bestowed upon you when you were no taller than his knee, small enough to fit into the crook of his arm. The two men eased apart to expose you, just enough for him to capture a glimpse, but their bodies remained taut, rigid; a protective, living and breathing barricade between you and the man you’d once called your father.
“What are you doing here?” You stepped forward, but neither cowboy moved away, their hands still poised over the iron at their hips. Not yet, not while the air still thrummed like a rattler’s tail, ready to strike the moment someone so much as twitched.
The utterance of your husband’s name on his lips felt like a backhand, hot and stinging on your cheek — something you’d felt every night of your marriage.
“Heard they had him strung up in the middle of town.” Your father’s voice was as stiff as the set of his shoulders, eyes narrowed and blazing with fury as they locked onto the men at your side. “Naked as the day he was born, lead buried right between the eyes. Had crows tearing at him like he’d already been rotting.”
Your eyes widened, astonishment blooming in your chest, a knot of realization twisting deep in your gut and settling in your mind.
Kyle had informed Kate that they had taken care of it — of him. You’d been there when he said it, and you’d assumed they’d dumped his body somewhere hidden, secret; a place nobody would ever find him. Assumed they’d erased every trace of the murder, the blood spilled — anything to bury what they’d done, their culpability in it.
Never had you imagined this — such a brazen display, a cold-blooded staging of his corpse.
And yet, you couldn’t deny the fierce satisfaction burning low inside you.
“News travels awful fast these days,” Johnny quipped, voice oozing with mock innocence laced with accusation, with responsibility.
He didn’t just toss the truth out — he boldly shoved it in their faces, daring them to flinch, to challenge him, Kyle. Not a shred of subtlety nor a denial of blameworthiness.
No. He wanted them to know — your father, his buddies, the patrons in the bar — that they’d done it, that the group of them were responsible for your husband’s death, that his blood was on their hands. And that his wife, his widow, stood beside them anyway.
Your father’s jaw set, tightening with outrage; falling victim to the flagrant provocation, the taunt, the clear goading.
“They did that to you too, didn’t they, Birdie?” He stormed forward, boots pounding the floor, the two men flanking you tightening their grip on their weapons instantaneously. “They beat you down like some wild animal, didn’t they?”
“The fuck you think we are?” Johnny snapped, blatantly offended by the accusation, body stiffening like he’d just been clobbered upside the head, smacked across the face.
“No.” You were quick to deny it, to clear their name. After all they’d done for you, to help you, you wouldn’t let the assertion, the doubt linger. “No, they didn’t lay a finger on me, daddy.”
“Then who the hell did it, hmm?” He was furious, barely restrained — just waiting for the moment, the word, the excuse to attack, to fire upon the men. “Who the hell laid a hand on you? Beat you to a bloody fuckin’ pulp?”
You swallowed thickly, your throat rough like sandpaper, your voice low, quiet. “You know who.”
Your father’s frown carved deeper lines into his face, recognition dawning in his eyes yet denial on his tongue. “Don’t you go spreading lies now, Birdie. You know better than to spit on the dead.”
Anger simmered in your gut, drowning out the embarrassment, the sheepishness of having the crowd hang onto your every word; having become their clear entertainment for the night.
“You and I both know it’s the truth.” You heard the edge in your tone, your frustration reaching near its boiling point. You were at your wits end, so damn tired of this twisted game of truths and lies, life and death. “That it’s been the truth since the day you gave me away.”
“Lies.” The word spat from your father’s mouth, his face twisting with fury, every syllable laced in venom as he stalked forward. “You’re spewing damn lies, Birdie — covering for these men, these hoodlums!” He swung toward the crowd, arms flaring wide in accusation. “These criminals! These outlaws!”
Kyle’s hand landed on your shoulder, tugging you behind him, inserting himself between you and your father before he got too close.
“Back the fuck up, lad. Now.”
That scornful laugh rumbled from his chest, somehow finding amusement in the warning, the last call.
“I’m not going anywhere, lad.” The words curled with a mocking intonation, his tone morphing into a crude imitation of Kyle's foreign accent.
“She’s coming with me.”
Your heart raced at his words, pounded wildly in your chest, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free from its skeletal cage. Johnny beat you to it, voicing the very words, the very thoughts that raced through your brain.
“Like hell.” Johnny scoffed, shifting to plant himself between you and your father. “She ain’t going anywhere wit' you.”
“The hell she ain’t.” Your father’s gaze pinned you, catching only the sliver of your face above the men’s broad shoulders. “Birdie. We’re leaving.”
“Try it.” Kyle threatened, his fingers coiled around the butt of his revolver, daring him to make another move. “See what fuckin’ happens.”
“You talk like you own her. You don’t.” Your father sneered, eyes never once straying from you, threatening you wordlessly, daring you to defy him any further. Like you had no choice, that this was nothing more than a game, a power struggle — that you were just a pawn in the men’s pissing contest. That you were a child once more, property of the man who’d helped give you life yet hadn’t hesitated to hand you over to the highest bidder.
Gold for a punching bag. A pet.
His own daughter.
“Oh yeah?” Johnny challenged, taking a step forward, hand curled around the Colt’s grip. “And you think you do, buddy?”
“Birdie.” Eyes narrowed, focused solely on you, burning with impatience, with fury. “Now.”
The deafening crack of a gunshot split through the air like a lightning strike, splintering the standoff in an instant. Screams rippled through the saloon, panic surging in every direction, patrons diving for cover or bolting for the exit, eyes darting wildly to find the source, to see who’d been first to pull the trigger.
Yet none of the men — neither those shielding you nor those staring you down — had fired, their guns still resting in their holsters, untouched, unmoved.
“She ain’t going anywhere.”
It was a voice you didn’t recognize, hadn’t heard before. Unfathomably low, deep, rich — a rough scrape against your skin, your ears, your senses; a rumble in your gut, in your soul; a dull thrum stirring between your legs at the very sound. It carried the same foreign tone, the unfamiliar lilt of the other cowboys you’d come to know, the hallmark of a world far from here. It wasn’t the smooth drawl of a gentleman or the teasing cadence of a rancher — it was raw, rumbling; sharp and smoke-filled.
And there he stood.
The man in black, the reaper of souls, the angel of death — the red mask glinting under the warm candlelight glow of the swinging chandelier hanging above.
The fear was palpable, tangible — you could taste it on your tongue, squeeze it between your fingertips. Not a soul in the dimly lit bar failed to recognize his authority, his command; dared to challenge it, to defy him. No one had that much of a death wish — not even your father.
“She’s not yours.” The whirl of his spurs, the commanding thud of his boots echoing through the tense quiet, a hush having settled over the saloon; heavy breaths mingling together nervously in anticipation, in apprehension. “She ain’t yours to claim.”
The spin of the chamber, the click of the hammer — he raised his revolver, pointing it right at your father, his eyes widening with fear.
“She's mine.”
Another gunshot, another ear-splitting bang resounded through the space, your hands flying to cover your ears as alarmed shouts and panicked cries broke out around you. You were almost afraid to look, to see the damage, the certain death — but he changed its path, altered its route at the last moment, the bullet having barely missed your father’s head, the lead now entombed inside the near wall.
Your limbs trembled, heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking at your sides. Smoke curled through the room, the sharp tang of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.
Your father — you believed he’d loved you once, cherished you as his own when you were young, when you were still naive and foolish. When you hadn’t been worth your weight in gold, when your life hadn’t been something to trade, to profit off of. It hadn’t mattered to him whether you were truly happy, whether you were truly safe or cared for. No, he’d been in denial, convinced and deluded himself into believing that the situation, the transaction, was what was best for you, for your family, for him. For the farm, the business.
He’d ignored the rumors, your cries for help, your pleas to take you back home, to help you get away from the man you’d married at his behest. He’d slammed the door in your face that first night when you crawled back with bruises littering your skin, tears streaming down your face, even when your mother begged and pleaded with him to let you in.
It was greed that had won out in the end, that had superseded his need to protect you. One of his own.
And when news arrived that your husband was dead, that he’d been killed violently, brutally — it only made sense that you return back to him. Not to care for you but to exert his dominion over you, to find a use for you that would again serve him.
That was all it had ever been about — profit, power, control.
And right now, he held none of those things.
He was a heartless, avaricious man, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when he’d lost, when he was sure to fall flat on his face. And you — you were not worth the struggle, the fight, the pain.
After all, he had other daughters, other children.
He retreated with his tail between his legs, barely sparing you a glance as he and his cronies scattered, disappearing into the night — as if you were nothing but a stranger, a nobody to him.
Soon, the life and livelihood returned inside the saloon, the music and the laughter, the drinking, the dancing, the card games all resuming — the scuffle, the standoff all but forgotten.
But you hadn’t. You couldn’t.
His words settled deep inside of you, heavy as a lead weight, pressing down on your heart and conscience like a stone you couldn’t shift.
“She's mine.”
The debt you’d feared, you’d dreaded had been cashed in, seemingly claimed once and for all.
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: you reel from the events following your husband's death.
word count: 3.9k
cw: use of guns; depictions of violence and gore. mentions of domestic abuse, death, and sexual assault. mdni, 18+
Being cared for was not something you were used to. Not even a little bit.
Your husband — he never had. Not on the day you were promised to him. Not as you walked down the aisle to him dressed in all white. Not when he struck you for the first time that same evening. Not when he’d knocked you unconscious, not when you cried and kicked and screamed as he forced himself on top of you.
He dealt out punishment, pain, agony. He was never gentle, never kind, never loving, never patient. His specialty was torture. Torment. Suffering.
The narrow band of gold that twisted around your finger might as well have been molten iron, a brand seared into your skin, your soul.
Footsteps thudded in the hall, growing louder until a man appeared in the doorway, sticking his head inside the room. You didn’t recognize him — he wasn’t one of the three that you’d encountered in the main saloon. Lean and strong, his skin as warm as dark oak, his eyes the color of thick honey; a tawny Dakota resting on his head.
For a brief moment, you thought that maybe he was the one behind the red skull mask, but you quickly realized that he couldn’t possibly be. This one, this man — he was much smaller in height, in stature; not to mention, he wasn’t donning a three piece suit in the height of summer.
“Ma’am.” He politely greeted you with a tip of his hat before turning his attention to Kate, all business. “They’re taking care of it, Johnny and Price.”
He didn’t need to say what “it” meant — Kate knew and you knew. “It” could only mean one thing.
And yet, you still felt nothing for him, for the man who’d beaten you senseless every day of your marriage. For the man who’d left you broken, battered, and bruised since the day he’d made you his wife. For the man who’d stolen everything from you — your life, your happiness, your self-respect, your sanity.
No. He deserved the ending he got, if not an even worse fate.
“Good.” Kate’s eyes shifted over to you for a brief moment before settling back on the stranger. “In the meantime, I need you to fetch some water for a bath. Can you handle that?”
His thick, dark brows furrowed slightly, probably not too thrilled with the lowly task he’d been assigned, but he nodded nonetheless.
“Of course.”
He tipped his hat to you once more before he left.
Kate smiled warmly at you, her blue eyes flicking over the cut on your temple as she pulled the towel away. The rough cotton rag was heavy, soaked through with your blood.
“I think that’s gonna need a stitch or two.” She frowned, the realization settling over her, the quiet fury stewing, directed towards the man who’d caused it, who’d done this to you.
You shifted in your seat uneasily as she gathered what she needed — a curved suture needle, a length of horsehair, a pair of small metal scissors. Your eyes followed her as she crossed the room, crouching to rummage through a lower wooden cabinet, the varnish worn and peeling away. When she straightened, she held two glasses and a half-empty decanter of dark, amber-colored liquor in her hands, carrying them over to the table.
“Here.” She poured a glass and slid it over to you, the liquid sloshing around in the cup. “You’re gonna need it.”
You didn’t tell her that this wasn’t your first time getting stitches, that you’d been in front of the frontier doctor far too many times to count when it was that your husband decided to take pity on you and take you there. After all, he couldn’t keep beating you if you’d died of infection.
But you took the drink anyway, grateful for it. The doctor you’d seen, a friend of your husband’s, he had never given you so much as a sip to numb the pain, to make it at all easier for you. No, he only used it to sanitize his tools — heaven forbid he waste a drop on you.
You washed it down, the burn sliding down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest. Kate poured herself a glass, too, knocking it back just as easily.
“Alright.” She rolled up the sleeves of her light blue denim shirt to her elbows. “Lean back for me, sweetheart.”
You obliged, closing your eyes and sinking lower into the chair as she stood up. You felt her presence hovering beside you, over you as she pressed the same rag — now dampened with some of the alcohol — gently against your temple. You hissed slightly, eyes clenched and teeth gritted together so tightly you wouldn’t have been surprised if any snapped clean off.
“Sorry honey,” She apologized, but her hands, her movements didn’t waver. “Just gotta do a little cleaning first.”
You knew the drill — were quite familiar with the procedure — but the pain still radiated through your face, sharp as a serrated blade, sizzling as badly as a blazing wildfire. The smell of whiskey and the tang of copper filled your nose as you gripped the worn handles of the wooden seat, forcing yourself to stay still, to stay put.
“Deep breath,” She instructed, your body instantly tensing despite the deep inhale you took through your nose, the sound audible.
The first stitch hurt the worst — it always did. That initial puncture, that first breaking of skin on the edges of the sensitive flesh — it sent a white-hot sting racing through you, lighting up every nerve in your body.
The second stitch was no better. A spike of lightning rippled and sparked across your skin, a blazing trail left behind in its wake. Every hair on your body stood at attention, bristling, awakened and aware of the intrusion. Your fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair, knuckles nearly white as the thread tugged the frayed edges of your flesh together.
The third stitch nearly knocked the wind right out of you. The liquor you’d downed did little to numb the pain, the ache that seared through you. Your skin felt raw, inflamed; your body trembling as you kept quiet, teeth puncturing and splitting your lip as you held it in, held back a scream, a cry.
Pleading and tears — they had never done you any favors with your husband. If anything, they only made things worse. Fuel to the fire, the rage that burned within him.
The fourth and final stitch was excruciating, like a nail hammered into your skull; shards of glass embedding deep into your skin, tissue, muscle, and marrow.
And then, it was over.
Only the throbbing, pulsating ache remained. Your body sagged in relief, chest heaving, your exhale a hurried rush of air. Your hands shook, limbs quivering as tears welled in your eyes — but you didn’t let them fall. Refused to allow it.
“You did good, kid.” Kate commended you, setting the tools back down on the table. She poured you another glass of the liquor, and she chuckled as you accepted it immediately, guzzling it down without a second thought, desperate for anything to dull the sting, the piercing pain left behind.
“Thank you.” You choked out, the words scraped against your throat, voice still sounding like someone else’s. You went to stand, but your legs buckled instantly.
“Woah there.” Kate rushed forward, hands caught under your arms to steady you before you fell on your face. Again.
“I’m alright,” You muttered, even though you felt anything but, as the floor swayed beneath your feet, the room tilting around you.
“You’re not.” Her tone was serious, no-nonsense — she saw right through you, noticed the way your knees threatened to give at any moment. Anyone with a working set of eyes could’ve.
But she’d already helped you so much. You already felt indebted to her, this stranger who had so willingly come to your aid. You had nothing to offer her, nothing to repay her.
“I can’t—” Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to ignore the tremor in your limbs, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the earsplitting headache thrumming against your skull. “I have to go, I’ve got to be on my way—”
“To where?” She asked, raising a brow as she helped lower you back into your seat. “Not to your husband, that’s for damn’d sure.”
The reminder of him — his lifeless eyes, the bullet buried in his skull; it sent a cold shiver down your spine.
But he couldn’t hurt you. Not anymore.
“You don’t gotta run, honey.” She knelt before you, blue eyes sincere as her hand rested on your thigh. “You’re in no state to do so, either. And there’s no one to chase you any longer, ‘less you got some more skeletons in your closet.”
You shook your head gingerly, as much as you could manage. “No ma’am.”
She patted your leg, her tight-lipped smile telling you she already knew that. “Then let us take care of you, sugar. Somebody finally ought to.”
While you should’ve been grateful, should’ve been relieved to have someone who wanted to help — panic surged through you, stronger than the pulse in your temple, the utter agony rippling through your body.
“I can’t—I can’t repay you.” Your words came out swiftly, too flustered and overwhelmed to slow down. “I can’t repay you for the kindness you’ve shown me, for the trouble I’ve caused. I —”
“Lemme stop you right there.” She interrupted your rambling, palm raised and facing you as to silence you. “Nobody’s out here looking for payment, alright?”
She shook her head, thumb caressing your knee as to soothe you, to placate your nerves, your anxieties. “You’re not indebted to us. And you didn’t cause any trouble, honey. That man — he was trouble. Not you. Never you.”
You knew that. Deep down, you knew that. Knew that you weren’t the problem — you never had been. No matter how many times he told you such, struck you across the face or whipped you for your disobedience, your shortfalls. You had tried hard, so hard, to be the perfect wife — to do the dishes, tend to the house and the land, cook meals; all of it, all that was required of you. But nothing you did was enough to quell his rage, to avoid sparking his temper.
Even still, though, there was a piece of you, a small nagging voice in the back of your mind that told you it was your fault. Told you that you were trouble. A delinquent. A failure. A whore.
The reminder, the accusations — they felt bitter on your tongue, branding you silently with shame.
Whatever Kate saw when she looked at you, eyes inspecting you from head to toe, was enough to get you on your feet.
“C’mon, sugar. We’ll get you all cleaned up.”
An arm around your waist, yours thrown over her shoulders, she carried your weight, supporting you as she guided you down the hall. You limped, your body too weak, too wounded and bruised for you to walk properly as the adrenaline began to wear off, every bit of your body screaming in protest as you hobbled along, slowing you both down exponentially. Kate was patient, murmuring hushed encouragements under her breath as you reentered the saloon.
It was empty, quiet — the sounds of the outside filtering in; horses neighing somewhere in the distance, intelligible chatter that was too far away to make sense of.
Your eyes snapped right to the spot where he took his final breath, where his body had crumpled to the ground, where his blood had spilled across the worn planks.
It was still there, his blood — not yet scrubbed away as it seeped into the wooden floors, gathering with the dust and dirt that had been tracked in by patrons and the breeze alike; the only remaining trace of him.
Kate came to a halt, her hold on you remaining as your body sagged against hers.
“Ghost.”
The sound of his name on her lips wrenched your gaze away from the stain to the man himself, striding back through the swinging doors as they flapped wildly behind him.
Your stomach churned at the sight of him, unease rocking through you like a cresting wave. The size of him, the way he filled the entirety of the threshold, his presence nearly swallowing the room whole — you felt yourself instinctively shrink back, wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground, to disappear under the floorboards. The very sight of him terrified you, urged you to run far far away, as far as you possibly could.
But you couldn’t. Not in your current state.
“Need your help.” Kate’s chin nudged towards the staircase on your left. “Can’t get her up there myself.”
A wave of anxiety crashed over you at the realization of what she was saying, what she was asking, your stomach dropping like a stone in a pond. You swear you saw his jaw flex under the fabric covering the lower half of his face, his gloved hands clenched at his sides. Angry. Annoyed.
“It’s alright,” You stammered, doing nothing to hide the fear, the apprehension in your voice. You stumbled backwards, tripping over your own feet as you tried to move out of the way, out of Kate’s grasp. “I’m okay, I —”
Heavy boots thudded on the floor as he approached, shadows rolling over you as your words died on your tongue. He was so tall, too tall — you weren’t even sure if he was human. Couldn’t be sure with the mask in the way.
You let out a yelp as he scooped you right out of Kate’s hold, cradling you against his chest without a word.
You were completely and utterly frozen, your body rigid, stiff as a board. Your brain went haywire, words and sentences and thoughts and feelings unable to be sorted through, digested and understood. One arm hooked underneath your knees, the other braced against your back as he carried you up the steps as if you weighed nothing at all.
The world swayed with each step upwards, each thud against the creaking stairs vibrating through you. You felt the rise and fall of his chest against your side, the heat of him bleeding through the layers of cloth and leather as you clutched at the lapels of his black jacket, an attempt to steady yourself. As if he would somehow drop you, throw you over the carved wooden railing.
Cheeks flaming, your eyes shifted up tentatively, hesitantly — as if meeting his gaze would burn you alive, damn you to hell. But he didn’t look down, didn't even acknowledge you at all, his focus completely straight ahead.
He reached the top of the landing, taking a few long strides down a hall of many doors, the worn, dark wood stretching from the floors to the ceiling. You lurched in his arms as he drove his boot into a door, the crash echoing like a gunshot. It flew inward with a splintering crack, slamming into the nearest wall, its hinges rattling and squeaking in protest.
He took a step inside before he unceremoniously dropped you to your feet. You staggered forwards, clutching the doorframe to keep upright, your legs trembling like a newborn deer.
You heard Kate scoff, slipping past the brute with a shake of her head. “Thank you,” She told him, stepping beside you, a thin blonde brow raised slightly in his direction, largely unimpressed. “Though, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little bit more gentle, now would it?”
He didn’t respond, didn’t say a word. His gaze bore into you, unnerving; unsettling. The tremor that rippled through you had nothing to do with the pain radiating throughout every inch of your body and everything to do with him.
If looks really could kill, you were positive you’d be right beside your husband, six feet under.
Kate all but shoved the behemoth out the door, shooing him away like he wasn’t nearly three times her size, her width, her body mass. You had no idea who she was to these men. Whatever her place amongst them was, whatever title she held, it carried weight; some sort of quiet authority that made them listen. They seemed to obey without question, without complaint, no matter if they liked it or not.
The washroom before you was clean, damp, lit by a single oil lamp flickering from its place on the wall. A metal tub stretched underneath an opened window, a sheer white curtain billowing in the breeze as faint chatter from the outside spilled into the room. The planks beneath your feet were warped, perpetually stained from years of spills, of patrons coming and going, leaving their metaphorical and literal mark.
“Good.” Kate nodded to herself, peering into the full tub as steam curled up from inside, empty tin buckets stacked in the corner. “Kyle can listen.”
She turned to you with a soft smile, eyes kind. “Bath is all yours, honey. There’s a clean towel on the hook and soap on the counter. I’ll bring you up a fresh set of clothes in a bit.” Her head tilted slightly, examining you carefully, cautiously. “You gonna be alright?”
You nodded, your throat suddenly tight and dry, your voice barely a whisper. “I’ll be okay.” You were quiet for a moment before the rest came out without any thought. “I think.”
Sympathy flashed over her face. “Here, sweetheart, lemme help you with your dress.”
You felt no shame, no abashment as she helped lift the white linen over your head, stained and splattered with blood, her fingers moving deftly to unlace the tight strings of your corset. She left you alone after that, standing in your undergarments, her voice lingering with a gentle reminder to call out if you needed anything, the door clicking shut behind her.
It was the first moment you could truly breathe.
No more running. No more fighting. No more begging, pleading for your life. No more beatings, no more bruises.
No more husband.
Staring down at your hand, at the gold ring on your finger, it felt heavier than it ever had before — a shackle, a chain, a handcuff. It was more than just a simple piece of metal to signify what had been your union — it was every bruise, every scar, every welt carved into your skin, every piece of yourself he owned, had claimed for so long.
You slipped it off your finger, setting it down on the porcelain sink counter.
You’d never felt more free in your life.
Shedding the rest of your layers, you let them pool at your feet before dipping a toe into the tub, the water still warm and inviting, calling out to you like a siren’s song. You gingerly stepped the rest of the way in, wincing as you lowered yourself down and slipped under the surface, the liquid splashing against the sides.
A bath had never felt so good, so soothing and reposeful, as it washed away his sins, his abuses, his cruel, bitter words. They rinsed off your skin, scrubbed away by the lye soap and the soft cloth, the lavender and lilac aroma swirling around you protectively, warding off the scent of blood and gunpowder and liquor now long gone.
You stayed in there for awhile, your eyes closed, head rested against the cool metal surface until your fingers pruned and the water grew cold, darkened with the remnants of your unholy baptism.
Kate had come back, knuckles gently rapping against the door as if not to startle you, a skittish creature stirring from their months-long hibernation. She left a pile of clothes on the counter for you and told you to take your time, however long you wanted, needed.
Finally, the water having long since cooled, you pushed yourself up with a shiver, your nipples peaked and your skin pebbling as the air encircled you, the chill creeping into your bones. Drops trickled down your skin, streaking through the last bits of dirt and dust. Your body quivering, you carefully stepped out, your feet landing unsteadily on the wood floor — but you didn’t fall, didn’t topple to the ground. Surprisingly, not this time.
The room was quiet, nothing but the faint drip of water, your breathing, the flicker of the lamp, and the indistinct noises drifting in from the outside. You wrapped the towel around your body, your gaze drifting to the mirror nailed above the washbasin, its once clear surface clouded with grim that wouldn’t budge, cracked and splintered in the corners.
You barely recognized the women who stared back at you, wide-eyed and dumbstruck. Her hair was tangled, her face bruised and bloodied, lips split and inflamed, eye swelling up angrily. She looked so much like you, yet nothing at all. She wore your face, had your eyes — but she wasn’t you. She couldn’t be.
You couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t face her any longer. Turning away, you redressed in silence — pantalets, stockings, chemise; each layer a small shield between you and that woman in the mirror. You pulled the light blue cotton dress over your head with a pained groan at the effort, the fabric settling over you, swishing around your ankles, your worn leather boots.
Kate wasn’t far when you shuffled out, seemingly waiting for you. Arms around your waist and shoulders for support, she led you down the hall, using a rusted key to unlock one of the many doors. A plain bedroom lay behind it — black iron frame, shoddy mattress, faded patterned quilt, dusty dresser in the corner, yellowed lamp on the nightstand.
Your own slice of heaven, euphoria. Peace and paradise welcoming you with open arms.
“Rest up,” She instructed you, less of a suggestion and more of a demand. “You need it, honey, and you’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”
And you were not going to argue with that. Kicking your boots back off, you slid under the covers, your body twisting and turning to find a spot that didn’t make you grimace — a task that was much harder than you naively anticipated, as if you hadn’t had many nights like this before. Finally, though, you managed to drift off, tumbling into a restful sleep, dreaming of handsome knights and princesses in towers, waiting to be saved, to be loved, to be treasured at last.
You woke as the sun painted oranges, reds, and golds across the sky, sinking behind the jagged peaks on the horizon. The faint sound of music, laughter, and the distinct clink of glasses filtered in from behind the door, still closed but with a silver serving tray resting just inside of it.
You felt the empty ache in your stomach then, heard the hungry growl that filled the room. Bare feet padded across the floor, the old boards creaking beneath your weight as you crouched down. Steam rose up as you lifted the lid, the scent of fresh bread and salted meat drawing another growl from your stomach.
A simple meal, but one of the most delicious ones you’d ever had, ever tasted. You chowed down every bite greedily, your plate and your fingers licked clean.
Your hunger now satiated, you felt the gratitude seep under your skin, the kindness and care you’d been shown. The strangers who had saved you, who lent you a hand when they could have easily turned you away, just as the rest of the townsfolk had.
No one had ever shown you that decency before, that hospitality.
But while you were thankful beyond belief, fear began to weave its way in, dread winding itself around your brain, your heart, your good sense. It didn’t matter what had been said, what you had been told.
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outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: as you desperately flee your abusive husband, you encounter the man they call “ghost.”
word count: 2.8k
cw: use of guns; depictions of violence, domestic abuse, gore, and death. mdni, 18+
You ran like your life depended on it. Because it did.
Sand and dirt and dust kicked up with every pounding stride, every heavy footfall of your old boots striking the unpaved roads towards town, your heart beating rapidly in your chest, threatening to burst right through flesh and bone. Your head was on a swivel, snapping back to glance over your shoulder at the man chasing you, hunting you — polished steel revolver brandished in his grip, a weapon that you were all too familiar with.
You didn’t dare slow down.
Legs aching, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine — you kept going, kept racing down the hill as fast as you could, hiking up your white skirt so you wouldn’t trip, your lungs burning with every stolen breath.
Another glance over your shoulder to see him. He was gaining on you, fast. Your eyes met from across the shrinking distance, his wild, cold, and angry. Furious.
The gun in his hand came up, pointing towards you as he fired.
You shrieked, ducking as the bullet sliced right past your head. Tears stung your eyes as you forced yourself to move faster, quicker; every muscle in your body throbbing, blazing with effort.
The edge of town just up ahead, you hightailed it forward, the dry earth kicking up into clouds around your feet, your legs. The midday sun beat down, the heat unforgiving, the main street glowing in a haze of gold, but it didn’t stop the crowds from forming, the town from going about its business. People strolled casually, lingering in open doorways and under overhangs, stopping to converse with friends, strangers, and other townspeople. Horses neighed, some stomping their feet while tied to nearby posts while others clopped steadily behind their riders who guided them along, weaving through the afternoon hustle and bustle; the smell of sun-baked timber, sweat, gunpowder, and tobacco smoke floating through the air.
None of them paid you any mind as you tore past, fear driving you forward, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The crowds parted as you barged your way through, muttering curses under their breath or snapping loudly after you, but none of them stopped nor cared enough to come to your aid. Not when you screamed for help, shouted that he was going to kill you. Not as warm blood trickled down your temple, dribbling into your eye, purple and yellow-tinged bruises covering your arms.
It wasn’t their problem. You weren’t their problem.
You didn’t know where you were going, what you were going to do. You had no plan, no route, no exit strategy. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die — not yet, not by his hands.
For all that he had put you through, you refused to let him be the one to end your life — a vow you’d quietly made to yourself the same day you exchanged those on the altar.
But he was closing in now, closer than before. The hordes of people had only slowed him down briefly, not enough to distract him so you could scurry away, out of sight. He shouted your name, his voice enraged and booming, catching the attention of passersby as you fled — desperate, trapped, fearing that you were about to be caught, ensnared in his vengeful wrath.
Without thinking, your survival instincts on high, you swerved to the left, darting down a side road.
“You can’t outrun me, you little fuckin’ hussy!” His voice followed you around the bend, his own leaden footfalls close behind — too close. “You’re mine, goddamnit! No matter how far you run!”
Terror clawed at you, threatening to pull you under, to consume you. You gasped for air, knowing there wasn’t much more you could take, much further you could go before your legs gave out from under you. Dread settled into your gut, that familiar feeling of hopelessness and doom trickling in, inclined to snuff out all semblances of freedom, of escape.
In a last-ditch effort, you thundered up the wooden steps of the nearest building, the grimy windows rattling in their frames as you all but threw yourself through the swinging saloon doors.
You fell face-forward, stomach hitting the dusty floor with an oof, knocking the wind right out of your lungs.
“Jesus, lassie.” A voice cut through the room — rich, rough, and unmistakably foreign. Not from around here. “Y’alright?”
You groaned, your vision swimming as you attempted to push yourself up, to get a better look at your surroundings.
“Please, he’s—” Your voice was hoarse, raspy from your yelling, your overexertion. “He’s going to kill me—”
“Who?” Another deeper voice demanded — a different accent than the first — boots thudding on the floor as they approached, their figure hovering somewhere near you. “Who you running from, doll?”
Before you could answer, before your vision cleared, you heard him — the thunderous, heavy footsteps that made your breath catch in your throat, your heart hammer in your chest from more than just your physical exhaustion.
The saloon doors flew open behind you as he burst in, finally having caught up with you.
Your husband.
You scrambled forward, as much as you could muster, but his boot slammed into your back, pinning you down to the floor, making you wheeze.
“There you are.” He growled, his voice nothing more than a snarl, a promise for what you were in for, now at his mercy. “I warned you. You can’t fuckin’ outrun me, you dirty lil’ whore.”
You cried out as he pushed down even more, crushing your spine under his leather sole.
Chairs scraped back against the wooden floor, the unmistakable sound of multiple sharp clicks as guns cocked, ready to fire.
Your husband’s grating chuckle filled the air, the hair on the back of your neck raising at the sound.
“What is this?”
He tried to sound unbothered; calm, cool, collected — but you knew better. Knew, even without seeing him, that he was scared. His voice had lost its arrogant edge in the face of potential danger, of one he didn’t orchestrate or cause himself.
“Take your filthy fuckin’ boot off ‘er.” That first voice ordered, commanding and rough. You tried to lift your head, to get a better glimpse of what was going on, but his foot forcefully shoved you back down, your cheek mashed against the planks, skin scraping against the rough surface.
“Why? So y’all can get a crack at ‘er?” His laugh was cruel, callous — it made you flinch. It always did. “Be my fuckin’ guest, mates. Good luck getting ‘er to open her legs for ya. ’Bout as wet as the fuckin’ drylands. A good for nothing whore, I’ll tell ya.”
“You get off beatin’ on women, don’t ya?” That second voice, the deeper one, asked — his tone calmer, almost unnervingly even. “Makes you feel all good and strong, ain’t it?”
Your husband snorted. “This one ain’t hardly a woman. Seen better manners on a damn’d horse. That animal’s worth more than she is.”
“If she ain’t worth a damn, then why waste your time?” That first voice again. “Let her go, lad. Before you make an even bigger mess outta this.”
You squirmed beneath his boot, struggling to break free — to gain any leeway, any space — but it only made him press down harder, his other foot slamming into your ribs, sharp and punishing. A sob broke free from your throat, which only spurred his brutality on.
“What don’t you fuckers get? She’s mine.”
He reached down, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking you up hard — ignoring your cries, your pleas, the blood already dripping down the side of your face as he jerked your body flush against his chest. You felt the steel of his revolver as he pressed it against your back, digging it right into the spot he’d stomped on.
“This is just a lil’ marital dispute between a husband and wife.” He informed them, his hand still twisted in your hair, your scalp throbbing at the force of his grip. “Ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.”
“Well.” That second voice again — cool, steady. This time, you could just make him out through the pain blurring your vision, your body aching in too many places to count. He was the closest to you, tall with a thick beard, the barrel of his gun more clear than anything else around you.
“See, it becomes my business when it comes flying through my fuckin’ bar.”
You saw them then. There were three of them — two men and a lady, all with their guns drawn, aimed right at you. Or rather, your husband at your back, using your beaten body to shield his own like the coward he was. It was the only use he had for you other than to be his punching bag or for your cunt.
“We’ll leave y’all to it then,” He sneered, hauling you with him by the hair as he took a step backwards, refusing to turn his back to them. You gasped, black dots swarming your vision from his brutal grip, the vicious force behind it.
“John—” The woman behind the bar warned, her gun never wavering from you and your husband. Neither did her colleagues, her friends — whoever they were.
“You’re not going anywhere, mate.” That first voice, the one with the thick accent, threatened. A man with tawny skin, browned by the unrelenting sun, his icy blue eyes sharp, wild, and full of fury as they glared menacingly at your husband. “Not until you take your hands off the lass.”
That laugh — that grating, cruel, mocking laugh filled your ear, your body recoiling at the sound, the one that haunted your days and nights, your dreams and nightmares.
“What, all this for this fuckin’ tramp?” He scoffed, like this was all a big joke for him. That you, your life, your wellbeing was a joke. “I told you, this ain’t your fuckin’ business, you bunch of bottom-feeding l—”
You didn’t hear him arrive, didn’t catch the slow, deliberate tread of his boots as he approached — leisurely, unhurried, like a cat prowling the jungle floor for its prey. A predator stalking its kill.
All you heard was the gunshot. Felt it rattle your skull, chatter your teeth. Your hearing dulled, a high-pitched ringing echoing in your ears.
It took a moment to register the blood spraying across your clothes, soaking into the white linen of your dress — to process the clatter of the gun bouncing off the floor, the vice-like grip on your hair suddenly loosening, then breaking off completely, causing you to stumble forward.
Your husband’s body hit the ground with a heavy thump.
A beat passed, then another before you turned slowly, stiffly, staring down at the lifeless corpse at your feet — the way his mouth hung open in what might’ve been a scream, his thick brows still furrowed in rage. The wound between his eyes oozed darkly, flayed flesh spilling blood that trickled down his nose, his chin; the fragment of the bullet still wedged into his paling, sun-spotted forehead.
As if you were in a trance, your gaze drifted upward, slow and hollow, to the person responsible, the muzzle of his revolver still coiling with smoke.
A man dressed in black from head to toe stepped through the saloon doors, his massive frame devouring the light that once filtered through the entryway. Shadows seemingly clung to him like a second skin, appearing to curl at his sides or shrink in his presence, intimidated.
Atop his head sat a black Cattleman hat with a squared crown, adorned with four silver spikes and a skull-and-crossbones emblem gleaming at the front. Hands covered in black leather gloves, an immaculate three-piece suit stretching across his broad body, twin brown holsters strapped low at his hips. A bolo tie hung at his throat, its gold medallion catching what little light remained, that hadn’t been snuffed out by his hulking frame.
The only splash of color on his entire body came from the red metal mask molded into the shape of a skull with a black cloth draped behind it, concealing the rest of his face — and whatever beast lay beneath.
“Hell of a shot, Ghost,” The bearded man with the calm, unwavering voice called out as he slid his gun back into the holster at his hip. “Right on time.”
Ghost.
Your blood ran cold.
You’d heard that name before — only from the rumors, the ones you never quite believed but were hesitant to deny nonetheless. Town gossip spun tall tales all the time, from skinwalkers that stalked the desert to headless horsemen prowling the lonely trails at night.
But they also spoke of the man, the legend, the savage that went by the name Ghost.
A notorious outlaw, a reaper of souls. A robber, a thief; he went from town to town, stealing and taking what he wanted, whatever he pleased — land, cattle, gold, human lives.
No one had ever seen his face.
And there he stood before you, in the flesh, veiled in black. Quiet, menacing, dangerous, and very, very real.
The man, the killer — Ghost — simply nodded, just once, his unflinching gaze pinned on you. You could barely make out the shape of his eyes, hardly visible under the mask, beneath the brim of his hat.
You shuddered beneath his glare, crushed under the weight of his full attention. It was enough to make every nerve in your body scream in danger, frozen in fear.
“You alright, bonnie?” The one with the heavy, unfamiliar accent came to you, his eyes scanning your face with concern. “Christ, lassie. You’re bleeding. Got you good, didn’t he?”
You tore your gaze away from the mammoth of a man sheathed in black to look at him, your throat dry and brittle — you could only nod in response.
“C’mere, honey.” The woman appeared beside you, her voice soft, her touch light and subtle, but you still flinched at the contact. “Let’s get you fixed up, yeah?”
You nodded again, too shell-shocked to formulate words or sentences or even sounds, your focus back on the body at your feet — your husband’s dead body.
The woman gently wrapped her arms around your shoulders, guiding you out of the room and away from the slaughter. You felt like you were floating, dreaming, as she led you into a hall off the side of the bar, all the way down and into a small kitchen and living space.
“Here.” She ushered you into an old wooden chair, its legs squeaking in protest as she helped ease you down. “I’m gonna grab some things, alright? Don’t move, sweetie.”
You were in a daze, a cloud of stupefied aloofness hanging over your head as you sat there, waiting for her to return. She was back a few moments later, hands full with the promised supplies, setting them down on the table beside you. She dragged another chair over, placing it across from you before sitting down, a small, sympathetic smile on her lips.
“This might hurt, alright?” Her soothing voice gently warned you as she raised a clean, damp rag to your face. You winced as she pressed it against your temple, soaking up the blood there.
“Johnny was right,” She spoke, more to herself than to you as she examined your face, your cuts, your bruises. “He did get you good, huh?”
You didn’t respond, unsure how to.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
You told her, your voice sounding so much unlike your own. It was hoarse, low, borderline unrecognizable — a product of the events that had unfolded, unfurled.
“Kate.” She shared her own, tapping a finger against her chest as she dabbed at your face. Pain seared through you at the touch, sharp enough to make your eyes squeeze shut.
“That man,” her voice was lower, hushed as she asked, “He your husband?”
“Was.” Your response, a mere croak; a rasp. “Was my husband.”
The past tense of it — it felt foreign on your tongue, strange and unfamiliar. The first time you acknowledged it, what had happened; the reality of it settling in, slow, steady, and haunting.
He was dead. Your husband was dead.
Kate was quiet, watching you as you processed it, sorted through the events and made sense of it; her movements careful and easy as she continued to clean your face.
You knew you should’ve felt grief, should’ve been in mourning. Maybe even some sort of remorse or regret.
But, as the numbness began to thaw, all you felt was relief — cool, satisfying relief.
She must’ve seen it too, must’ve noted it in your face, your features. The way your tense shoulders finally relaxed, the way your jaw unclenched slightly; your eyes softening. She let out a low chuckle.
“Not gonna miss him too much, are you?” A question; a rhetorical one — because she already knew the answer. You both did, but you voiced it anyway.
“No.” You managed a faint shake of your head. “I’m not.”
✮ rodeo dust (18+ mdni) - modern!arthur morgan x reader summary: arthur says he doesn’t care much for rodeos anymore. then he gets back on a bull, catches you staring, and decides the night doesn’t need to end at the arena. 3.5k words cw: explicit sexual content, dirty talk, semi-public truck sex, possessive language, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie. a/n: i know absolutely sweet nothing about rodeos & whatever this is mainly based on tv shows lmao. apologies! it's been so long (like a week lmao) since i've been here! ao3 did see it first, but it made it's way to tumblr! i hope you all enjoy my first modern arthur! 🤎
arthur morgan had a habit of acting like romance was something that happened to other men. not because he was bad at it. that was the irritating part.
arthur could be romantic without seeming to know he was doing it. he remembered how you took your coffee. he kept an old blanket in the back of his truck because you got cold easily, even in summer. he checked the weather before you went anywhere, though he would rather die than admit it. if you mentioned liking something in passing it had a way of appearing again later, offered with a shrug like it meant nothing.
but if you called it sweet, he got embarrassed. if you called it romantic, he looked at you like you’d accused him of a crime. so when you asked him to take you to the rodeo, you expected grumbling and that's exactly what you got.
“a rodeo,” he repeated from the kitchen, one hand on the fridge door. “in this heat?”
you sat at the table, chin in your hand. “yes.”
“it’ll be loud.”
“probably.”
“full of folks.”
“that is usually how events work.”
arthur gave you a look and you smiled sweetly right back at him.
he sighed like he had suffered greatly. “parking’ll be a nightmare.”
“you have a truck.”
“so does every other fool in the county.”
“arthur.”
“what?”
“i want to go.”
that did it. you watched the argument leave him in real time, slow and reluctant, his jaw shifting like he was annoyed at how easily you had won.
“fine.”
you grinned. “fine?”
“don’t make me say it twice.”
“you want to take me to the rodeo.”
“i did not say that.”
“that’s arthur for ‘i’d love to.’”
he pointed at you. “watch yourself.”
you laughed, and despite himself, his mouth twitched.
by saturday, for someone who supposedly did not want to go, arthur had filled the truck, checked the tires, packed water, and thrown an old blanket in the back seat.
“you’re awfully prepared,” you said, watching him shut the tailgate.
“heatstroke ain’t cute.”
“you think i’m cute?”
he looked at you from beneath the brim of his hat. “that what you got from that?”
“mhm.”
he shook his head, but his eyes were warm. “get in the truck.”
he opened the passenger door for you, hand steady at your waist as you climbed in. you had changed twice before deciding on a white skirt, boots, and a soft top that had made him look at you for half a second too long when you came downstairs.
on the drive out, the windows were cracked, country music played low from the radio, and arthur’s hand rested warm on your thigh like it belonged there.
“you’ve been to rodeos before, haven’t you?” you asked.
his eyes stayed on the road. “few.”
“few as in watched, or few as in rode?”
he was quiet for half a second too long.
you sat up straighter. “arthur.”
“what?”
“you rode?”
“long time ago.”
“and you didn’t tell me?”
“never came up.”
“i’ve been talking about this rodeo all week.”
“you were excited. didn’t wanna interrupt.”
“with the fact that my boyfriend used to ride in rodeos?”
his mouth twitched.
you narrowed your eyes. “bull riding?”
his silence answered before he did.
“arthur morgan.”
“don’t start.”
“you rode bulls?”
“a few.”
“a few?”
“more than a few.”
you laughed, delighted, and his hand squeezed your thigh once before returning to the wheel.
“are you riding today?”
“hell no.”
“why not?”
“because i ain’t twenty-two and stupid anymore.”
“you’re still a little stupid.”
he glanced over. “sweetheart.”
by the time you reached the rodeo grounds, the sun had dropped low enough to turn everything gold. trucks lined the field, dust lifted beneath boots, and the air smelled like fried food, livestock, summer heat, and beer. music drifted from somewhere near the stalls, mixed with the announcer’s crackling voice and the low, restless sound of cattle behind the chutes.
arthur was right about the parking. naturally, he mentioned it.
“told you.”
“you did.”
“oughta listen to me more.”
“i listen to you plenty.”
“could stand to do it a little more.”
you rolled your eyes, but when he came around and opened your door, you still let him take your hand. inside, he kept close without making a show of it. his hand found your lower back when the crowd thickened. he bought you lemonade and complained about the price. he wiped dust from the bleacher before you sat down. every time someone passed too close, his body shifted subtly nearer to yours.
the rodeo started with roping, then barrel racing, then bronc riding. you cheered more than he did, but he watched everything with a quiet, assessing eye. now and then he leaned close to explain something over the noise, his voice low by your ear, his knee pressed against yours. you were having a good time. arthur noticed.
“you’re starin’,” you said, catching him looking at you instead of the arena.
“am not.”
“you are.”
“just makin’ sure you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”
“that’s staring.”
“that’s supervision.”
you laughed, and his expression softened before he could stop it.
then came the bull riding. the crowd changed for it, louder and sharper, hungry with anticipation. down by the chutes, a bull slammed hard into the rails, making the metal rattle. arthur’s posture changed beside you. his shoulders drew back. his gaze sharpened. his hand flexed once on his knee.
“you miss it?” you asked.
he did not look at you. “miss what?”
“that.”
he watched as the first rider settled onto the bull’s back.
“sometimes,” he said.
the answer surprised you. then the gate opened. the bull exploded out, twisting hard enough to throw the rider in a few seconds. the crowd shouted as men ran in to draw the animal away. arthur watched with a faint curve to his mouth.
“he leaned too far back,” he said.
you looked at him. “you’re judging?”
“observin’.”
“you are absolutely judging.”
“little bit.”
before you could answer, a man near the chutes spotted him and started grinning. arthur went still.
“do you know him?” you asked.
“unfortunately.”
the man made his way over, far too pleased with himself. “morgan?”
arthur sighed. “tom.”
“i knew that was you. damn, boy, you got old.”
“you got loud.”
tom laughed, then looked at you. “and who’s this?”
arthur’s arm shifted along the back of the bench behind you, casual but unmistakable.
“my girlfriend.”
your stomach fluttered at the simple certainty of it.
tom tipped his hat. “ma’am. you know this man used to ride?”
“i just found out.”
“shameful, keepin’ secrets like that.” tom looked back at arthur. “we’re short one rider for the exhibition round.”
arthur’s answer was immediate. “no.”
“i ain’t even asked.”
“i heard enough.”
you sat up a little and arthur noticed instantly.
“don’t,” he said.
you blinked innocently. “i didn’t say anything.”
“you got that look.”
“what look?”
“the one that gets me in trouble.”
tom laughed. “she wants to see it.”
“she does not.”
you tried to keep your face neutral. and you failed terribly arthur looked at you.
“no.”
“i didn’t ask.”
“you’re about to.”
“you don’t have to,” you said, which was true. then, less helpfully, “but i would like to see it.”
his jaw worked.
“course you would.”
“only if you want to.”
“that ain’t fair.”
“what?"
“sayin’ it sweet.”
in the end, arthur went. grumbling the whole way.
he stripped off his jacket near the chutes, accepted a vest and gloves from tom, and rolled his shoulders like his body remembered before his mind could complain. watching him down there changed something in the air. he looked different with his hat low and his jaw set, broad and calm among the noise, pulling on a glove with his teeth as if fear was something he had met before and never much liked.
your mouth went dry. oh. that was inconvenient.
arthur swung himself down into the chute, settling onto the bull’s back with a practiced ease that made the crowd around you murmur. the animal slammed against the gate beneath him. arthur adjusted his grip, head bowed, one hand tight around the rope.
then he looked up. his eyes found you. and smiled. not sweetly. not softly. a small, knowing curve of his mouth, like he knew exactly what this was doing to you.
the gate opened. the bull came out like a storm. everything happened at once. the roar of the crowd, the announcer shouting, dust kicking up beneath the arena lights. the bull twisted hard left, snapped right, dropped and surged with enough violence to make your stomach lurch.
arthur moved with it. one hand locked around the rope, the other lifted loose in the air, his thighs tight, his body snapping with the motion and finding its balance again. hat still on. jaw clenched. shoulders strong.
you forgot to cheer. you forgot to breathe.
the buzzer sounded.
arthur released and threw himself clear, hitting the dirt hard but rolling with it. the bull kicked past him, men running in to draw it away, and for one terrifying second you lost him in the dust. then he stood. the crowd went wild. arthur pushed his hat back, breathing hard, dirt streaked across his jeans and one sleeve. tom slapped him on the back. arthur shook his head like he was annoyed by the attention, but even from the stands you could see the grin he was failing to hide.
then he looked up at you. you were absolutely staring. he noticed. by the time he made his way back, you had not recovered. arthur climbed the bleacher steps slowly, dust on his boots, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt clinging slightly at the collar from sweat. there was dirt along his jaw and a faint flush high on his cheekbones.
“you alright?” he asked, his tone casual. his eyes were not.
“fine.”
“fine,” he repeated.
“yes.”
he rested one hand on the rail beside you and leaned closer. “you got real quiet.”
“i was watching.”
“yeah,” he said. “i noticed.”
heat rushed up your neck.
“you were good.”
arthur’s mouth twitched. “good?”
“very good.”
“that all?”
you looked back at him. that was a mistake. he was close enough now that the dust and sweat and adrenaline of the arena clung to him, sharpening every familiar thing about him into something almost unbearable.
“what do you want me to say?”
arthur’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
“nothin’.”
that was a lie. you stood because sitting still had become impossible.
“you’re being smug.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
“maybe i just like knowin’ my girl enjoyed the show.”
my girl. your stomach dipped and arthur saw it happen. his expression shifted, not into a grin exactly, but something quieter and far more dangerous.
“you did, didn’t you?”
you swallowed. “maybe.”
“maybe,” he repeated, unimpressed.
his hand moved to your waist, thumb pressing once, slow, against the fabric of your top.
“you wanna walk?” it sounded innocent.
the two of you ended up wandering the edge of the grounds, where the crowd thinned and the lights glowed warm against the evening sky. you tried to look at stalls. belt buckles. leather bracelets. anything that was not arthur.
“you been awful quiet since the ride.”
“i’m tired.”
“liar.”
he stepped closer behind you, chest nearly brushing your shoulder. “you mad i rode?”
you almost laughed. “mad?”
“you look bothered.”
“i am bothered.”
his hand settled at your hip, guiding you out of the path of people passing behind you.
“bad bothered?”
you turned your head and found his face much closer than expected. the teasing slipped back just enough for something gentler to show through.
“no,” you said softly. “not bad.”
his gaze lowered to your mouth.
“good.”
eventually, you stole his hat. mostly because he bent to pick up the straw you’d dropped from your lemonade, and temptation presented itself. when he straightened and saw it sitting on your head, he went very still.
you smiled. “what?”
his eyes moved over you slowly. the hat. your face beneath it. your mouth trying not to smile. the rest of you in jeans and boots and soft evening light.
“give it back.”
“no.”
“that’s my hat.”
“i know.”
“you got your own.”
“i like yours.”
his jaw shifted. you had meant to tease him. you had not expected that look. arthur stepped closer, the crowd noise fading around you until there was only him.
“you like testin’ me tonight?”
your pulse jumped.
“maybe.”
there was that word again. his eyes darkened.
“careful.”
“or what?”
arthur looked at you for a long moment. then he took your hand and started walking.
“arthur,” you said, trying not to laugh. “where are we going?”
“truck.”
“why?”
he glanced back at you once, expression unreadable beneath the lights, his hand warm and firm around yours.
“because you’re wearin’ my hat and lookin’ at me like that.”
your mouth went dry.
“like what?”
he gave a low laugh.
“don’t play innocent now.”
the rodeo grew softer behind you as he led you through the rows of parked trucks. the sky had darkened fully, stars faint above the field, dust lifting beneath your boots. arthur’s truck sat near the back, half-shadowed beneath a tree. he opened the passenger door for you out of habit, but when you turned to climb in, he did not step back. instead, he stayed close.
one hand on the open door, the other on the truck beside your waist, not touching you yet but boxing you in just enough to make your breath catch. you looked up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. his eyes dropped to it again.
“you know what that does to me?”
your voice came out softer than intended. “the hat?”
“you in it.”
your stomach flipped. arthur lifted a hand and adjusted the brim, pushing it back just enough to see your face properly. his fingers lingered there, then traced lightly down to your cheek. there was still a streak of dirt near his jaw from the arena, and you reached up before thinking, brushing your thumb over it.
“you’re still dirty,” you murmured.
his mouth curved. “you complainin’?”
“no.”
“good.”
his hand slid to your waist then, warm and certain, drawing you closer.
“you were showing off,” you said.
“little bit.”
“for me?”
his gaze held yours.
“who else would i be showin’ off for?”
your hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling lightly into the fabric.
“you looked good,” you admitted.
“yeah?”
“you know you did.”
he leaned in slightly, his nose brushing yours.
“wanted to hear you say it.”
you inhaled, but it caught somewhere in your chest. arthur kissed you before you could answer. it started slow, almost controlled. that was the dangerous thing about him. even when he wanted, he held himself back like restraint was built into his bones. his mouth moved against yours with a heat that built gradually, his hand tightening at your waist as you leaned into him. then your fingers slid up into his hair, knocking the hat slightly back. arthur made a quiet sound against your mouth.
after that, the restraint thinned. he pressed you back against the side of the truck, one hand braced near your head, the other firm at your waist. the metal was still warm from the day. he was warmer. you could taste lemonade on him, dust, summer, something unmistakably arthur. when he broke the kiss, he did not move far.
his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing harder than before.
“we should go,” he said.
you opened your eyes. “home?”
his thumb moved slowly at your waist.
“unless you wanna go back and watch more bull ridin’.”
you laughed breathlessly. arthur’s eyes warmed, but the heat in them did not leave. you touched the brim of his hat, still on your head.
“can i keep this on?”
his expression changed so quickly you almost felt powerful. arthur opened the passenger door wider.
“get in the truck.”
you grinned. “bossy.”
he leaned close, mouth brushing your ear.
“sweetheart,” he murmured, low enough to send a shiver through you, “you ain’t seen bossy.”
then he stepped back and helped you into the truck like a gentleman, as if he had not just kissed you senseless against the passenger door. because that was arthur.
half tenderness. half trouble. all yours.
the truck had barely cleared the rodeo parking lot before arthur’s hand tightened on the wheel. you noticed.
“arthur?”
he glanced over, eyes dropping once more to the hat still sitting low on your head. then he looked back at the road and exhaled through his nose, almost like he was trying to behave and losing the fight.
“you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice low, “we ain’t makin’ it home.”
your stomach dipped.
“like what?”
arthur gave a quiet, rough laugh and pulled the truck onto the shoulder, dust lifting in the headlights as he brought it to a stop.
“there you go again,” he murmured, killing the engine. “playin’ innocent.”
before you could breathe, his hand shot across the console, gripping your waist and hauling you over the center console. you gasped, your legs sprawling across the leather as you landed straddling his lap. the hat tipped forward, nearly covering your eyes, but you didn't move to fix it. you liked the way he looked at you from under that brim.
arthur’s large hands clamped onto your hips, bruisingly tight, pinning you against him. he could feel you soaking through your clothes, and a low, guttural sound escaped his throat.
“look at you,” he murmured against your throat. “been teasin’ me all damn night and actin’ like you don’t know it.”
"“that ride get you all worked up, sweetheart?” he asked, mouth brushing your ear. “or was it the hat?”
he reached down, fumbling with his belt and zipper with an urgency that bordered on desperation. when he freed his cock, it was thick and pulsing, straining against the air. he gripped the base of his shaft, guiding the head to your entrance, and then, with one powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you.
you screamed into the crook of his neck, your fingers digging into the dusty fabric of his shirt. the fit was tight, stretching you open, filling every inch of you.
"fuck," arthur groaned, his head falling back against the headrest. "you're so tight... like a vice."
you began to move, lifting your hips and sliding down onto him in a slow, grinding rhythm. every time you sank down, the brim of the hat wobbled, but it stayed firmly on your head, a constant reminder of who you belonged to in this moment.
arthur’s hands moved from your hips to your breasts, squeezing them hard through the fabric, his thumbs rubbing your nipples into hard peaks. he started talking dirty, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against your chest.
"ride it, sweetheart. just like a pro," he teased, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent. "take it all. I want you to feel every inch of me stretching you out. you like being my little rodeo girl, don't you? taking this big cock while we're right here in the dirt?"
the pace quickened. the truck rocked on its suspension, the rhythmic thud-thud of the chassis matching the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. you were breathless, your vision swimming, the scent of leather, dust, and raw sex filling the air.
"i'm gonna... i'm gonna fill you up," arthur gasped, his grip on your waist tightening until his knuckles were white. he began to thrust upward with violent intensity, driving himself into you with a force that threatened to break you. "i'm gonna cum so deep inside you that you'll feel it for a week. you're mine. every fucking bit of you."
the friction became unbearable, a white-hot tension building in your core. you felt your walls clench around him, milking him, and that was the breaking point. with one final, devastating surge, arthur let out a loud, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he blasted hot ropes deep into your womb.
you collapsed against him, sobbing for air, your chest heaving. arthur held you there for a long time, his heart hammering against your ribs, his breath ragged. he reached up, gently tipping the brim of the hat back so he could see your flushed, ruined face. he kissed you deeply, tasting the salt and the heat, before whispering against your lips.
before he started the truck again, arthur reached across and fixed your shirt with a gentleness that made your chest feel strange after the heat of him. then he adjusted the brim of his hat on your head, thumb brushing your cheek.
“you alright?” he asked, quieter now.
you nodded. his eyes searched yours for another second before he leaned in and kissed you once, slow and soft.
“good,” he murmured. “let’s get you home.”
you leaned back in the seat, still wearing his hat. he noticed every time
thank u all for reading! i hope you enjoy some tasty modern!arthur! i enjoyed writing this one and exploring this! all feedback is welcome🥺💕
