#abraham x reader

“How many rounds of ham and cheese have you got there, love?” her father asked, wrapping triangles of egg and cress sandwiches in waxed paper, before he placed them in a wicker basket.

She stopped buttering the slice of bread in front of her, stilling her knife as she paused to count the slices of bread piled off to the side. “Eleven so far, twelve once I’ve finished this one,” she said, before continuing to spread margarine out towards the bread's edges.

“I think that’ll be enough then,” he told her, hefting the second, already full basket for emphasis, “ham and cheese, egg and cress, tuna and sweetcorn. That’ll do nicely.”

She simply nodded. Truthfully, it had been enough several sandwiches ago. There was enough food to serve an army, let alone a traveller’s camp. She wouldn’t mind if there was a genuinely charitable act of kindness behind the gesture, but there wasn’t. It was her father’s attempt to be nosy, thinly disguised as a good deed.

The arrival of the travellers in Grantchester a week ago had been the most exciting thing to happen in the sleepy, little village for ages. Ordinarily, it was the talk of the parish whenever someone took down their net curtains to wash them, so a small community setting down caravans in Mr. Ruskin’s field had set the place abuzz. As the village’s vicar, her father had taken it upon himself to take food up to the camp. On the surface, it was Christian kindness, a warm welcome to Grantchester. She saw her father’s actions for what they really were though; he wanted to size them up, to have information to pass back to his flock when they asked. She found the gesture patronising, it suggested they couldn’t look after themselves. She didn’t want to argue though, her father was not a man to change his mind easily, or be reasoned with, so she simply swallowed down her trepidation and continued layering slices of ham and cheese.

As she suspected, they were met with a frosty reception upon their arrival at the farm. Those that were not in their caravans, stopped what they were doing to stare coldly at her and her father as they approached with their heavy picnic baskets.

There were fires lit, and dogs barked and chased each other playfully. Piles of timber laid in neat stacks, having been chopped for firewood, and laundry hung on makeshift lines between fence posts. They appeared self sufficient, and she cringed, casting her gaze down at the mud that was splattered across her olive green wellington boots as her father’s voice rang out in the eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant clucking of chickens and faint crying of a baby from one of the caravans.

“Hello there,” her father called out loudly, “I’m Father Thomas, the vicar of the local church, and this is my daughter.”

Embarrassment blazed against the surface of her skin, making her feel too warm despite the gentle breeze in the air, as he said her name out loud, laying the blame of this obvious insult at her feet alongside his own.

“We wanted to offer you a warm welcome to Grantchester,” he continued, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere he was creating. “These are for you.”

She dared to glance up as he gestured forward with the picnic basket he was holding, and saw that not one of the people standing before them made a move towards them, or reached out to take it. After a moment that felt like it stretched on for an eternity, a tall, slender man with an axe slung over his shoulder, hinged forward at his hips, spitting heavily upon the ground. Her lips parted in shock, icy cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine as she watched him, an obvious answer to their offering - ‘we don’t want it.’ 

She set down her own picnic basket on the muddy ground, her aching shoulders grateful to be free of their burden, and looked at her father with wide, imploring eyes. “I think we should go,” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear, “this was a bad idea.”

He set down his own basket, with a slight nod, before grasping her shoulder and marching her away. She walked quickly, her heart pounding with fright as her father kept a firm hold of her, but it paled in comparison to the second hand embarrassment that made her want to curl in on herself. They had offended them, she knew they had, and she had done nothing to stop it.

“Perhaps once they try the sandwiches they’ll warm up to us a bit, we just need to give them time,” her father muttered nervously, more to himself than to her, as he kept his eyes fixed ahead as they walked back through the village.

“They don’t want our sandwiches, Dad,” she sighed exasperatedly, “I’m pretty sure we annoyed them.”

Her father huffed, finally releasing her shoulder as their house came into view, the tendrils of ivy that clung to its red brick front a more than welcome sight. His voice blustered with annoyance as he spoke. “Well, with that ungrateful attitude, they won’t last long around here. Good riddance to them.”

She pursed her lips, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Of course it hadn’t occurred to her father that perhaps the group just wanted to be left alone. However, in a village that thrived on gossip and needing to know the business of absolutely everyone, they had chosen the worst possible place to settle if it was privacy they were after.

“I’ve made a call to Mr. Ruskin,” her father announced, two days later, stepping into the kitchen as she stood at the sink, washing the plates and cups from breakfast. “You’re to go and collect the picnic baskets from our…visitors this afternoon.”

The word ‘visitors’ came out of his mouth as though it were dripping with poison. She knew the word he longed to use in its place, it made her prickle with annoyance, and she squeezed the sponge unnecessarily tight, watching as soap suds expanded out of it, spreading through the murky depths of the warm water in the sink.

“Why did you need to call Mr. Ruskin to let him know that?” she asked, her voice tight as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“I’m doing home visits this afternoon, so I can’t come with you,” he explained, adjusting the white clerical collar of his black shirt as he gazed absentmindedly out of the back door of the house. “Mr. Ruskin knowing you’ll be there will help keep you safe.”

‘Keep me safe from what?!’ she longed to shout at him, but instead she took her frustration out on a teaspoon, scrubbing the silver of it harder than she needed to as she frowned.

“They don’t mean us any harm,” she finally said, raising her head to look at her father as he continued to stare out into the back garden.

“You are kind, my girl” he told her, turning to look at her with a soft smile, “foolish, but kind.”

He turned and walked from the kitchen, his silent way of letting her know there was no further room for argument. It frustrated her endlessly, the way he would silence her, simply by removing himself from the conversation.

When she arrived at the camp later that afternoon, the picnic baskets were both overturned. She thought for a moment that the travellers may have grudgingly accepted the food, until she crouched down to lift them up. The waxed paper inside had been torn to shreds, what little food scraps remained were teeming with maggots. A sharp sound of repulsed shock escaped her throat before she could stop it and she stumbled back from the sight, falling firmly on her backside to the muddy ground.

“Think the dogs have probably been at ‘em,” a gruff voice came from somewhere above her.

She lifted her gaze, meeting a piercing pair of blue eyes that stared down at her. As she looked over the sharp lines of his face, she recognised him as the man that had spat in response to her father offering the sandwiches. He wasn’t carrying an axe this time. He loomed tall over her, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the tattoos that littered his forearms, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

She quickly looked away, busying herself with righting the wicker hampers. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, “it was my dad’s idea.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and for a moment she thought he would leave her to it, until he spoke again. “Your dad’s idea for you to sit on your arse in the mud too, or you want a hand up?”

Her head snapped back up to meet his icy stare once more, her jaw agape in shock at how he had spoken to her. When her eyes met his again, he had a hand extended out towards her. She hesitated a moment, then reached up. His hand dwarfed hers as he grasped it; his calloused palm was rough, yet warm against her own as he tugged her easily to her feet. She found she only reached his chest as she stood once more, and she hastily stepped back, tugging her hand free of his, to put some space between them.

“Thank…thank you,” she stammered, looking anywhere but him as she attempted fruitlessly to brush her skirt clean.

A lazy smirk spread across his face as he watched her, before nodding down at the picnic baskets. “You gonna be alright carrying those?”

“Well, they’re mostly empty now,” she sighed, stooping to grab one, “so I should be fine.”

He raised an eyebrow, eyeing her curiously. “You sure? Would hate for a spoiled little thing like you to fall over again.”

She straightened, her brow furrowing into a scowl as she stared defiantly up at him, clutching a picnic basket by its wicker handle. “I am not spoiled,” she argued, “but you’re rude!”

He grinned at her, the predatory flash of his teeth stirring something warm and uncomfortable within her, before he stooped to grab the other basket. “I might be,” he said with a shrug, as he stood upright once more, “but at least I can admit to my shortcomings.”

She found herself relaxing as he fell into step beside her, walking away from Mr. Ruskin’s field and back towards the village. He had an easy presence, and she felt vindicated that she had been right to insist to her father that she had nothing to fear.

“Well, at least your dogs enjoyed the sandwiches, even if you didn’t,” she offered with a small smile.

He didn’t return it, glancing quickly over at her before continuing to look in the direction they were walking. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever tried to tell us to sling our hook with sandwiches, I’ve gotta admit.”

“We don’t want you to leave,” she said quickly, turning her head to try and meet his gaze, “that’s not what it was.”

“You might not mind us being here,” he said, “but your old man certainly does. We’re not exactly the sort of people that have the welcome mat rolled out for them when we settle somewhere.”

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, but he cut her off, stopping and turning to face her.

“Isn’t it? What did your dear old dad tell you before you came here today? Did he tell you to be careful, warn you we might be dangerous?”

She opened her mouth, she wanted to deny it, but as she stared at him, she found herself unable to lie. She quickly pressed her lips together, feeling her skin grow warm at the memory of her father’s concern for her safety. If only he could see her now.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, almost triumphantly, as he turned and continued to walk. “I’m Abraham, by the way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Abraham, I’m–”

“I remember your name, Miss. Thomas, don’t worry,” he said with a wink.

That uncomfortable warmth returned and she quickly looked away, blinking as though the action would clear the sight of his crude gesture from her mind.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re skittish?” he asked her, “sort of like a cat. Miss. Thomas the cat…a tom cat!”

He grinned then, and she laughed. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him with a slight shake of her head, “so what are your plans for while you’re in Grantchester?”

“Got a couple of horses we’ve paid to stable with the farmer whose field we’re staying in,” he told her, “once they’re in racing shape, I expect we’ll sell them and then move on.”

She had always loved animals, and her eyes lit up at the mention of horses. She so seldom ever saw any in the village. “You have horses?!”

His gaze softened at her palpable excitement. “Well, yeah, they’re what pull our caravans. But these ones are special. They’re thoroughbreds, trained ‘em myself. You wanna meet ‘em?”

“Really?! I’d love to!” she smiled widely, stopping and turning to face him as her house came into view.

“This home then?” he asked, holding out the basket he held for her to take.

“Yeah, best not to go all the way to the front door, just in case…”

She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, feeling ashamed.

“No troubles,” he came to her rescue, seemingly unbothered by the snub, “swing by tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the horses, if you want?”

“That’d be nice,” she said quietly, her eyes filled with silent apology as they met his.

“Tomorrow then,” he said with a slight nod “see you later, Tom Cat.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the nickname, and she watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Her father had been wrong – it wasn’t Abraham she found scary, just the way he made her feel.

“This is Fergus,” Abraham told her, his voice almost reverent as he ran his palm over the forehead of a large chestnut and white horse, before turning to stroke the crest of an equally impressive grey thoroughbred with a black mane, “and this is Paddy.”

She smiled softly, her wellington boots crunching against the gravel as she moved closer to the open stable door, and reached out a hand to run her palm over the soft, white muzzle of Fergus. It felt like peach skin, surprisingly soft to touch, making her giggle. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted the creature that loomed before her.

Abraham smirked that lazy smirk of his as watched her, his arm stretched over the bottom half of the stable door to rub absentmindedly at Paddy’s withers. “Careful, you’ll make me jealous.”

“Do these ones pull your caravans?” she asked, glancing over at him, an attempt to change the subject and draw the attention away from how his words made her stomach flutter.

Abraham shook his head. “These ones are just for racing, trained ‘em myself. We’ve got vanners that pull the caravans. They’re in the field with us, they don’t like to be stabled, they enjoy their freedom.”

“Bit like you then,” she quipped, turning back to Fergus who had begun to snuffle at her hands as they rested upon the stable door.

Abraham grinned, plucking sugar cubes from his trouser pocket and passing one to her. “Just like me, Tom Cat. You’re good with horses, y’know?”

“I’ve always loved animals,” she admitted softly, watching in fascination as Fergus took the sugar cube from her outstretched palm, devouring it in several loud crunches. “I used to take in injured birds from the garden and nurse them back to health when I was younger. I wanted to be a vet.”

“Don’t you want to be anymore?” he asked, glancing over at her as Paddy took a treat from his hand.

“I do,” she admitted sadly, pushing away from the stable door to lean against the brick wall beside it, “but my dad won’t allow it. Since my mum passed away, I’m all he has, he needs me around to look after the house while he runs the parish council.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Abraham said, frowning slightly, as he stepped towards her, brushing his hands off on his trouser legs.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She felt trapped in Grantchester, as caged as the birds she once tended to, before setting them free again. Her mother’s illness five years ago had been so sudden, her passing even more so. Since then, her father had clung tighter to her than ever, refusing to let her out of his sight for fear he’d lose her too. She understood, but it was a stifling existence, her dreams snuffed out alongside her freedom.

She gave a slight shrug, eager to be rid of the melancholy that had settled over her like a shroud. “It’s just how it is. But what about you? What are your big plans once you sell these horses?”

He sniffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m getting married,” he said. There was no joy or excitement in his voice as he said it though, it was a fact he relayed to her as though she had just asked him what the time was.

“Oh...well, that’s nice,” she smiled tightly, hating the way her heart sank at his admission “So, what’s her name?”

“Luella,” he replied, and again the response was flat, lacking in any enthusiasm. “Need to brush the horses down, you fancy lending a hand?”

Her brow furrowed at his sudden change of subject and she wondered why he was so cagey about sharing any details of his engagement. She decided against pressing the issue, not wanting to make an already uncomfortable situation worse, and accepted the brush that he held out to her.

She relaxed as she worked, enjoying the presence of the horses, but also the easy companionship and conversation that Abraham offered. He made her laugh in a way that meant that by the time the afternoon was over, her cheeks ached from the tug of smiling.

By the time she arrived home, her cigarette trousers were dusty with hay and horse hair. She left her wellington boots in the porch as she pried them off, not wanting to traipse mud and straw across the living room carpet.

Her father was settled into the high back armchair by the fireplace – the place he always sat when he was home, that had been his designated seat in the house her entire life. He looked up from the book he had been reading as she entered, giving her an appraising look from over the rims of his reading glasses as his brows raised slightly.

“And where have you been that’s brought you home in such a mucky state?” he asked.

“I was up at Mr. Ruskin’s, helping out with the horses,” she said, subtly backing away towards the stairs. It was a vague amswer, but honest enough that she hoped it wouldn’t prompt any further questions that he would be upset by the answer to. She was wrong.

Her father frowned slightly, tucking his bookmark between the pages he’d been reading, before he closed his book and placed it upon his lap. “Mr. Ruskin has no horses,” he prodded, sitting straighter in his chair.

“No, they’re Abraham’s,” she said quietly, placing a hand upon the bannister, as if the very action of touching the beginning of her escape upstairs could save her.

“There’s no one in the village by that name,” he studied her closely as he said it, making her squirm with discomfort.

Finally, she snapped, huffing exasperatedly as she threw her hands up in defeat. “He’s one of the travellers, but you knew that didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong!”

Her father sighed, setting his book upon the arm of the chair, before he rose and came to stand before her. His features were soft, but there was something steely in his gaze, the look that meant whatever was about to leave his mouth was final. “Your naivety puts you in danger,” he explained, “I don’t wish to scold, I only mean to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“They weren’t dangerous to you when you were forcing your charity on them,” she argued, before shrinking back as the steel in her father’s eyes became fiery fury.

“A kindness they met with hostility,” he said, his voice raising slightly in anger. “They are not like us, do you understand? You’re to keep away from this Abraham, I won’t tell you again!”

“He’s my friend,” she protested, her voice weak even to her own ears. A sense of helpless desperation clawed at her insides, making her feel hopeless.

Her father turned his back to her, moving back towards his chair – his retreat from the argument letting her know that it was over. Nothing she said would matter. “Get a bath,” he said softly, sitting back down again, “you stink like a farmyard.”

It had been three days since she had seen Abraham, three days since her father had told her to keep away from him. She hated how she had been cowed into submission by him. Her compliance to his demands wasn’t through blind obedience, however, more out of fear for what her disobedience would mean for the travellers currently settled in the farmer’s field. Her father held power in the village, he led the parish council, one word from him and Mr. Ruskin would have no choice but to move them on. Keeping away meant keeping them safe, keeping Abraham here.

Her father had been called away to central Cambridge for the day for a meeting with the bishop, leaving her alone in the house, and she had chosen to spend her morning in the front garden. The sunshine beamed gently down upon her hair, warming her from head to toe as she knelt by the flowerbed, her gardening gloves caked in soil as she gently uprooted weeds, careful not to disturb the colourful pansies that decorated the edging of the lawn. The lurid pinks, purples and yellows were a stark contrast to the bright white of the picket fence that enclosed the garden – a very pretty looking prison, as much to her as it was the flowers.

“You avoiding me, Tom Cat?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Abraham’s voice, her heart pounding as her eyes widened at the sight of him, taking in the way he smirked down at her as he leaned casually against the fence. “You can’t be here,” she hissed.

“Why not?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he stood up straight, almost looking down his nose at her. “Pal says he saw your old man headed up the station road this morning, so I know he’s not home.”

She moved to stand, not enjoying how the imbalance in their positions made him talk down to her, and tugged off her gardening gloves, dropping them into the flower bed. “If anyone sees you…” she sighed, tugging a hand through her hair, hating the way the words felt in her mouth as she said them. “Look, my dad’s told me to keep away, so I am. I’m not doing it because I don’t want to be friends, I’m doing it because I am your friend. He’ll have you run out of the village if I keep seeing you.”

“Alright, so we stop seeing each other then,” he shrugged, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes that set her belly aflutter with nerves.

“What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, folding her arms around her middle as her eyes tightened in suspicion.

He grinned, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over the tattoo of a pin-up girl that adorned his forearm. “Maybe you’re doing something else you’d normally be doing when you’re…not seeing me.”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation as realisation dawned upon her. “So, you want me to lie?”

“Lie is such an ugly word, Tom Cat,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward slightly, grasping the pickets of the fence, meeting her eye line. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I dunno,” she mused, pursing her lips, as she poked absentmindedly at the flowerbed soil with the toe of her shoe. “I enjoy going to the library.”

Abraham hummed in acknowledgement, nodding as he appeared to think for a moment. “Alright, so let’s say you go to the library, you check out a book, you happen to bump into me on your way out. You’ve not lied about where you’ve been, have you? We can spend some time together in secret, and if your old man happens to ask anyone if you were, in fact, at the library then the answer’s a yes, and you’ll have a book to prove it.”

She huffed a laugh, unable to stop the way her mouth spread into a grin as she bowed her head slightly, before lifting her eyes back to his. “You’re a bad influence.”

“And yet I’m not hearing you say no to the idea, Tom Cat,” he grinned back.

And she didn’t say no. Over the two weeks that followed, her and Abraham met up in secret twice a week. She would go to the library, check out a new book – and return the one from her previous visit – always something she had read before, just in case her visits prompted any questions, she could tell her father what the book was about. Then Abraham would meet her around the side of the library building and they’d slip away into the woods together. They had found a clearing, away from prying eyes, with an old tyre swing that they took it in turns to mess around on, while they chatted, joked and passed away idle, sunny afternoons together.

“What book is it today then?” Abraham asked.

He was gently moving the tyre so it spun in slow circles as she sat in it, her latest borrow from the library clutched in her hands. She watched as the woods panned slowly around her, a glacially paced kaleidoscope of browns and greens. An involuntary smile playing upon her lips every time he spun slowly back into view.

“Anne of Green Gables,” she told him, “it’s one of my favourites.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about then?” he asked, placing a hand atop the tyre to halt its movements as she swung to face him once more.

The intensity with which he looked at her was almost too much, and she found herself dropping her gaze back to the floral design of the book cover as she answered. “It’s about an orphaned girl who’s sent to live with a family, and she struggles to fit in,” she explained, running her fingers over the edges of the pages. “She keeps getting into trouble, and there’s this one boy, Gilbert, who she hates to begin with, but they fall in love. They get married in one of the sequels.”

“And is that why you like it?” he asked, dipping his head to catch her eye, making her feel too warm beneath his gaze. “Because of the romance?”

“I guess so,” she admitted, with a slight shrug, suddenly feeling shy, “it’s not something I know much about.”

“No?” he asked, drawing back and cocking his head. “Never had a special someone, Tom Cat?”

She laughed then, finding the very idea ridiculous as she shook her head. “I’ve never even been kissed.”

He stepped closer then, one hand still holding the tyre steady, while the other grasped her chin gently, tilting her face up to look at him. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore, and her lips parted as she sucked in a sharp breath, the tips of their noses brushing as that piercing stare of his dipped down to her mouth and back up again.

He pressed at her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, tugging gently, and it made her insides boil, simultaneously wanting to pull away, to flee from him, while also longing to lean forward, to melt into him and stay there forever.

“Tom Cat…” he breathed his pet name for her, little more than a whisper, and that was all it took for her defences to crumble, for her to lean the rest of the way in and press her lips to his. It was clumsy on her part, she didn’t know quite what to do with her lips, but he gladly dominated, his mouth moving against her own in a way that had heat licking between her legs as it pooled in her lower belly.

His hand dipping down, moving to grasp the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her skirt was what broke the spell, fear and guilt washing over her like a bucket of ice water. She pushed him away, causing him to stagger backwards, as she leapt down from the tyre, her eyes wild and heart pounding, as she sought to put some distance between them.

“No!” she shouted, trying to sound angry instead of upset as she planted her feet shoulder width apart, gripping her book so hard that her knuckles blanched with the force of it. “No! You don’t get to do that to me. I won’t…I won’t be a part of your adultery, you’re engaged! How dare you?!”

Abraham blinked, brow furrowing in confusion, steadying himself as he stepped towards her. “You said you’d never been kissed before, I was just–”

“Oh, and you just thought you had the right to be my first?” she seethed, too angry to allow him to finish what he was saying. “I’m just the poor little village girl, trapped in her boring life, who you come along to have some fun with before you go off to be free again, and live happily ever after? Is that it?! Am I a joke to you?”

By the time she finished speaking, her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest heaved with the force of the emotions that boiled inside of her. She had never been so angry, so indignant in all her life.

“I don’t want Luella!” Abraham shouted back, the words exploding out of him the moment she had said her piece. It made her jump, startling her out of her own upset as she watched his face contort into an angry scowl, his nostrils flaring as he continued. “I never asked for her, and she doesn’t want me either. She’s been knocking off that farmer ever since we arrived here. It’s an arranged marriage, neither of us want it. So I’m not making an adulterer of you…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that to you…”

“Oh,” was all she managed to breathe out, so quiet it was barely audible over the chittering of the birds within the woods. The outrage she had felt had dissipated so quickly, she didn’t know what to do with herself, she felt silly, overwhelmed by the need to apologise, but she held her tongue. Sorry wouldn’t undo any of this.

He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand through his coiffed hair, flattening it slightly. “I might spend my life on the road, but I’m not any freer than you are,” he said, his voice quieter than before, almost sad. “Meeting you…it’s made me the happiest I’ve been in ages, and if me kissing you has buggered that up, then I’m sorry.”

Her heart twinged at his words, her expression softening as she stared at him with sympathy. “You haven’t ruined anything. It was perfect,” she admitted, “I wish…I wish there was a way for me to make this better for you…easier for us.”

“Run away with me, Tom Cat,” he said earnestly, taking another step towards her, twigs snapping beneath his feet as he narrowed the distance between them. “Just you and me, let’s do it.”

The sincerity in his wide, blue eyes was almost too much for her to take, it was a crazy idea, and she couldn’t help the bark of laughter that forced its way from her throat. “You can’t be serious? That’s a reckless idea.”

She hated herself for saying that the moment she opened her mouth, seeing the flicker of hurt that crumpled his features momentarily, before he straightened, clearing his throat. “Yeah, was only joking,” he said quietly, “it’s a stupid idea.”

Her mind raced as she laid in bed that night. She couldn’t shake the guilt at laughing at him when he suggested they run away together. The more she thought about it, the less silly it seemed. They were both unhappy, trapped in lives that neither of them wanted or had asked for, and truthfully, Abraham coming to Grantchester had been the happiest she’d been since her mum was alive. Surely it couldn’t hurt to explore what their lives might be like if they threw caution to the wind and allowed themselves to pursue what their hearts desired? She would be out from beneath her father’s thumb, and Abraham would be rid of an obligation to a woman he didn’t love.

By the time their next meeting at the library came a few days later, her mind was made up. She returned her copy of Anne of Green Gables, not bothering to borrow a new book, too filled with breathless excitement as she rounded the corner of the building to meet her secret friend.

“How would it work?” she blurted, coming to stand before him as he leaned against the red brick building.

“How would what work?” he asked, eyeing her curiously as he pushed away from the wall.

“Us,” she replied, as they began to walk in the direction of the woods, “if we ran away together.”

“Seriously?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. “I thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“I didn’t say it was stupid,” she sighed exasperatedly, as he helped her over the turnstile into the patch of woodland that had become their rendezvous spot. “I said it was reckless, and it is, but the more I think about it, the more I want to.”

She gasped as he crowded into her space, walking her back through the scattered twigs and leaves of the woodland floor, until her back made impact with the solid trunk of a tree.

“D’you mean it?” he questioned, grasping her chin, his eyes searching hers for any trace of insincerity. 

She nodded, feeling as though she had forgotten how to breathe as a grin spread across his face, lighting up his sharp features with pure elation.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, making her whine as he pulled away all too soon, just as she’d begun to kiss back.

“I’ll sell the horses,” he told her, before pecking his lips softly against each of her cheeks. “We’ll use the money to buy a little house somewhere. You can get a job at a veterinary office, just as a receptionist until you get more experience. I can get more horses, and earn my living training and selling them on. You could help me look after them, since you’ll be a vet. We could have chickens, and maybe a goat.”

Each statement was punctuated by a kiss, each promise delivered with a press of his lips to her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. It made her stomach flip as the idea of them running away together, building a future together, became more tangible.

“I want that more than anything,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists in the white cotton of his shirt.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he promised, nipping at her bottom lip.

This time, when his hand disappeared beneath her skirt, she didn’t stop him. Every nerve ending in her body cried out for his touch, and she clung to him, held up only by the front of his shirt, and the rough tree bark at her back.

“We’ll get married,” he murmured, as his fingertips danced along the inside of her thigh, the calloused skin a hardened juxtaposition to the softness of her own. “And we’ll have babies.”

She moaned, the sound foreign to her ears as he toyed with her knicker elastic, before dipping his fingers inside. She had never been touched like this before, and she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep her on her feet as Abraham swiped slowly through the wetness that had gathered between her legs. She focused on his voice, and all of the pretty promises he made, afraid that if she dwelled upon the physical sensation for too long then she would bolt like the frightened cat he claimed she was.

“I’ll make you feel like this every day, Tom Cat,” he uttered, his fingers swirling over her sensitive bud, causing her to keen and her hips to buck. “Because I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine.”

As his fingers dipped back towards her entrance, gathering more of her arousal to help aid in the circles he pressed against her, she mewled, the coil tightening in her belly, pushing her dangerously close to a sensation she had only ever experienced at her own touch.

“Would you like that?” he asked, speeding up his movements.

She nodded, her mind too foggy with the impending onslaught of sensation to form a proper answer, but that simply wasn’t enough for Abraham.

“Say it,” he insisted.

“Y–yours,” she keened, before white hot oblivion overtook her. Her body shuddered against the tree as she yelped in surprise, clinging tightly to him as she convulsed against his touch, a pleasant ache bursting forth and making her feel hot all over.

He worked her through it, only stilling his fingers when her hips began to move away from his touch instead of chasing it. “Mine,” he murmured back with a smile.

Read on AO3

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Abraham

You first tell Abraham on a beautiful summer day with the still breeze and sun high in the sky.

He was working away in the stables with your dad, sun beating down on his sturdy form and sweat dripping from his brow.

You pass your dad his lunch, tomato and ham sandwiches with thick salted butter "Ah, thanks love! Don't my daughter look after me Abe"

"Aye she does" he smirks, baby blues giving you a knowing look.

You look away shyly and take his hand to around the back of the stables when your father got distracted with his lunch.

He's handsy with you, fingers squeezing at your waist and pulling you in but you pry his hands away, fiddling with you hair "What's the matter love?"

And you just blurt it out.

You're nervous, apprehensive, scared even as he looks at you with wide eyes and mouth dropped to the floor.

"Say something Abe.."

He wets his lips, eyes fluttering around to the stable where your father sat "I- I dunno what to say love", he rubs the back of his neck, strong tattooed biceps flex.

You start to cry. maybe he won't love you now, maybe he won't want your hand in marriage anymore.

But Abraham was gentle, he was never cruel - he closed the gap between you, hands finding your waist again and anchoring you to him as if you would easily drift away; "Ay, ay c'mere love.. Now I don't want you crying over something like this."

"W-what're we gonna do?" Your tear filled eyes meet his crystal clear ones "Well, I'm just gonna 'ave to marry ya."

And he does.

He holds you tight, hands always finding your belly, light kisses peppered on your temples that always turn deeper as his fingers become greedier.

The more you swell, the more passionate he becomes. Holding you tight in your shared bed and mindlessly rubbing geometric shapes and nonsensical patterns on your swollen belly.

It wasn't what you both had planned, but it felt right.

And as soon as one babe is born, he's already thinking of giving it a sibling for 'company' of course.

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Ettore

This was not meant to happen.

This is something neither of you wanted to happen.

Your little dalliances behind closed doors, or wherever Ettore fancied taking you, were not meant to go this far.

Dibs could not resist herself when she found out you were pregnant; her experiment had worked (it didn't), she finally had created life (Ettore was not great at pulling out) and she would be damned if this were to be another failure.

"I'm pregnant Ettore."

"How do you know it's mine?"

Blunt. Blunt as always.

You give him a good slap on his muscular shoulder for that "You're the only one I've been with knobhead!"

He feigned pain, rubbing his shoulder aggressively "So? Doesn't mean Dibs didn't turkey baster some other guy's spunk up there" he sniffs through his nose as if this didn't concern him at all.

And it fucking stung.

Sure maybe you and Ettore meant nothing to each other, maybe it was all just primal urges and tension built from years without human touch - but when he held you.

Those nights when he would just hold you tight to him and kiss your temple - that couldn't have been nothing.

"I'm not fucking joking Ett, this is serious!"

He craned his head upwards as if he was praying to some God for help, yeah like that is going to help us now.

His sharp features glowed beautifully against the blue hues that lit the spaceship "A'right. I'll look after ya. Pinky promise." He turned his head down the corridor to not look at you but held out his pinky finger, you clasped your own around it and nearly missed the smile that graced his lips before he tucked his hands back into his trouser pockets; "Right, see you at lunch."

Something possessive took hold when Ettore found out you were pregnant. Something dark and deep rooted itself into his consciousness.

He had never felt that way before.

He found himself jealous when the others would speak to you or when you went to Dibs' office for your check-ups.

The more your stomach swelled, the more he clung to you. Hands finding themselves at your side and pulling you closer, he sat with you at lunch to make sure you were eating, he took over your chores retorting that 'You weren't doing it right'.

He did all this in silence. No one could know.

No one could find out that he had developed a soft spot for you and the child that grew inside you.

Not even you.

But you noticed.

Noticed his subtle possessiveness when he dragged you away for a 'quickie' when the other men were talking to you or how he would lead you away from Boyse and her complaining about your pregnancy.

How he would creep into your bunk at night thinking you were asleep, holding you tight with a kiss on the temple and hands smoothing over your pregnant belly with barely audible whispers of "I think I love you."

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Genyen

You were paralysed, hands clutching at the luxurious sheets of the hotel bed. It was supposed to be a relaxing trip, a spiritual retreat, instead you found yourself embroiled in some love affair with a Buddhist monk and now pregnant.

Pregnant. Pregnant?!

How could you let this happen? You balled your hands into fists leaving what felt like permanent creases in the fabric.

The door came squeaking open as your 'lover' stepped through, sneaking as always. A cheeky smile plastered on his lips, raising his eyebrows at what tantric activities he had planned for the night.

"Oh God", you felt sick as vomit raised up your throat "Uh I think you mean 'Oh Buddha' darling." He chuckled at that. Fucking chuckled.

You swallowed down the vomit, heat rising in your belly; "We need to chat Genyen."

His laugh stopped, it was as if a switch had been flipped within him, all that playfulness and mischief wiped from his expression till all that remained was arrogance.

"What's this about?" his eyebrow piqued.

"I'm pregnant."

He erupted with laughter at that, doubling over "That it? Thought it was something serious like."

This was bad. Very bad. He treated it as if it was all some joke, a big prank. He ran over to the bed and jumped on it with no care for the expensive mattress or silk sheets.

"This is fucking serious Shawn."

A slight huff of amusement escaped his lips at that "Who's this Shawn babe? Found another monk to fuck?" He brought his finger to your nose and tapped it lightly; "Boop! My name's Genyen!"

A joke. This was all one big joke to him. Well, this time he wasn't going to have the last laugh; "I saw your passport, I know you've been nicking from the temple.. and me."

His eyes blew wild at that before feigning hurt "Well, you see- It's a habit.. That's why I joined the order, my s-stepmum she-"

"You haven't even got a stepmum! You're full of shit!"

Then that arrogance returned "So what? You gonna tell on me? I'll be gone before you even know it."

Bile rose in your throat again and you couldn't contain it, you threw up into the golden bin next to the bed. "Jesus-" he recoiled, "I think- I think you mean 'Buddha'."

A small laugh left his lips as he swivelled on the bed, lean arms wrapped around your shoulders, fingers leaving comforting strokes "Now, that was a good one". He spotted the pregnancy test on the bedside table "So, you're really up the duff?"

You nodded weakly trying not to vomit again. "Listen- Can't we just get rid of it?"

You could, but you did not know if you would.

Your body began to shiver and tears fell onto your red hot cheeks; "I don't know if I can-"

He just nodded, still rubbing soothing patterns in your arms. Life was so good with you; he could eat, sleep and fuck you all day, plus the extra pocket money was nice; but- the baby? Yeah, that was bad.

Genyen didn't know if he could love you or it but sitting here in silence with you crying on his bony shoulder was enough for now.

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Aemond

You were a simple maidservant that caught the eye of the Prince, you had not meant to but that did not matter to Aemond. He greeted you affectionately in the comfort of his own chambers but treated you harshly around others.

The Prince could be cold and cruel but when he awoke in the night screaming and grasping at his eye, you softened - He would reach for you and only you.

Only you could cure what ailed him as his hands grasped at your skirts like a petulant child and whimpers in High Valyrian that you could not understand.

He would finally settle.

Settle in his bed with his athletic arms coiled around you as if he were a serpent, hands grasping at your meaty flesh and head pushing itself between your beasts, forehead begging to be stroked.

It was no surprise to you when you fell with child, the moon tea did not agree with you and some days it could not be brewed at all, with Aegon spending countless nights in Fleabottom there was no one to blame.

You stepped into his room as if it were any other day, his hand danced along the page as he wrote expertly with his quill "Your luncheon, my Prince." He gestured with the feather to seat it at the left of his desk.

You obliged but as the plate reached the table, a swift hand no longer holding the quill found itself at your waist and pulled you into his lap with a satisfied hum.

Startled, you tried to relieve yourself but with every movement, he countered you, hands hooked to your side. "I'll be done soon, Gevie." Your blush grew redder and redder by every flourish of the quill.

You had to tell him. You had to do it now.

Once finished he exhaled deeply relaxing into your touch, providing you some leeway to wriggle from his grasp. His eyes narrowed becoming predatory as he stalked closer to you.

Or perhaps you were craven and this could wait another day?

"And where are you running off to my little lamb?"

"I- I am needed in the kitchens- Dinner preparations start soon-" you cowered, taking languid steps backwards as not to bump into anything.

But he cornered you regardless "And why would a dragon want luncheon or dinner when a perfectly good feast is set in front of him, hmm lamb?"

"Well, I-" tell him. Tell him now. And you did; "I have missed my moon blood my Prince- At- at least two moons have passed since my last."

He stopped dead in his tracks at that. Blood run cold. The tension was palpable. He turned away from you to drink from his cup.

"And this could not be a symptom of something other-"

Cold. It was if the room ran cold. No warmth coloured his voice, leaving only what you assumed was disdain.

"I am fairly certain my Prince."

"Did you not drink the moon tea I had especially brewed for you?" "Yes, but-" "But?", he took a long swig of his wine at that, throat bobbing with every gulp. "I grew sick and well-" The sound of the glass pounded against the table resonated throughout the room; "You heaved?"

His head barely turned to the side, his lips tight and brow furrowed yet all you could do is nod as tears began to fill your eyes. "Moon tea is not as effective if one heaves-" "I- I know my P-Prince- I- tried to swallow it really, I did but-" was all you could stammer as sobs wracked through your body.

"That matter is of little concern now." He turns his head to you fully now as you try to swallow your tears, feet shuffling in place as if you were rooted to the floor; "Is it not?" You could only muster a nod.

He turns the rest of his body to you, harshly almost scolding; "You have a dragon growing in your belly now little lamb," his dark leather boots creak against the wooden floor of his room "you must not let it devour you."

He places a tender hand on your cheek, his calloused thumb gently wiping away the river of tears that have flooded your face "Gevie, avy jorrāelan"

You did not know the meaning of what he spoke but the look in his singular violet eye told you all you needed to know - love, pity, sorrow yet happiness. He planted a soft chaste kiss to your lips; "I will protect you."

Since that day all of your belongings, well what little you had, were moved to a smaller chamber opposite Aemond's; he had dresses made from the finest silks placed in your wardrobe, jewellery that glittered like his shining gemstone eye, the finest foods prepared for your fussy appetite and odd cravings - he spoiled you truly.

He spent every waking hour he had with you, you were stuck to him like flies to cattle - he would take you on walks in the gardens, spend hours reading to you by the fire and even write love poetry dedicated to you.

He lingered to be in your presence at all times.

Some days he had to treat you coldly, days when his mother or grandsire would exact their orders to him - they could not find out about you.

The more your belly swelled, the more loving and fervid Aemond became, whether it was sleeping in your chamber with hands roaming across your abdomen while speaking his mother tongue to his little dragon or whether it was impassioned love making with hot needy kisses, wandering hands and exclamations of adoration.

Aemond wanted nothing more than to have a life with you; to watch your belly swell over and over again, to watch the light in your eyes brighten when you saw him, to comfort your babes when needed.

That was the future he dreamt of as he watched the whistful breaths leave your chest, rising and falling in monotony, too deep in slumber to see how he watches you lovingly with his one eye.

The barn was an oven. The aluminum roof was only so useful with the record heat, and the summer breeze was too gentle to circulate any fresh air. Sweat droplets slid down his temple before diving into the hay pile.

“Workin’ ard, Abe?” one boy called. The short, blonde one. Abraham couldn’t remember his name. (Stew? Steven?) They were Sutton’s boys, the biggest farm in the county, that he knewonly dust .

“Course he is,” the other jeered. A ginger with freckles splattered all over his face. Abraham almost confused them for drying mud. “Old Connors can’t afford better. Especially for hay day.”

Abraham stabbed the hay with his pitchfork. He hesitated to wipe his forehead, but caved anyway. The gritty dirt from his arm dragged dry along his skin.

“S’alright, mate,” the first one continued. “Not your fault. At least you’ve got a roof over your head, even when you slack.” He pointed up to the barn roof. It was no secret that Abraham slept in the loft. Connors barely had room for his son when he still lived on the property.

“He’s a good man,” said Abraham. “I’m grateful to him. And I wouldn’t slack.” His body shook with the pitchfork. The hay was stubborn and clung to the tines.

“Yeah? Grateful’s all you can be. Not that anyone would take in a traveler anyway.”

“That’s what we heard you called yourself. Do travelers get redder than tomatoes, or is that just you?”

His next thrust missed the mound entirely. The tines pierced the hard earth with a thwack. Not from anger — though that boiled in his belly — but because the world suddenly narrowed. The thin sunbeams blurred into a haze as a ringing swelled in his ears. The boys’ mouths moved, but there was no sound. Abraham clung to the pitchfork’s handle, his only anchor. He could not fall. He could not make an idiot of himself. Not here.

“Sam! Andy!”

Somehow, your voice cut through the ringing, clear and bright. And your entrance was just as bold. Your skin was pink from the sun’s touch, and those Wellingtons were too big for your feet. Still you stood strong, arms crossed as the boys’ smirks — Sam and Andy — vanished in that order.

“Papa’s been looking for you two. Thunder bolted again.”

“That was Mary,” Sam retorted.

“Was it?” You tilted your head.

“Well… well…” Andy stuttered with his words suddenly. His mess of freckles hid among the burning scarlet spreading across his face. “Mary was on gardening duty.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Thunder’s fine though, alright? Papa handled it.”

“Yeah, because Papa always handles your messes.”

“That’s not what I —”

“While you two stand about harassing a working man. Don’t think I didn’t hear you.”

“Andy swallowed. “Come on, Sam.” He reached for his arm.

“No! I’m not —”

You jerked forward; stomping one boot into the ground and fists clenched at your sides. Sam would’ve slipped if Andy wasn’t already holding him. Abraham blinked, and they were gone. Only dust clouds remained. Meanwhile, you stood there, hands on hips. “I’m sorry,” you said with a sigh. “They should leave you alone now.”

Abraham tried to play it cool. He might’ve smiled. Responding with a thank you was the barest minimum. Having the sense to respond would’ve helped. Maybe even an apology for the scene, for not handling this like a man should. But his tongue was a weight in his mouth and as useful as a dry sponge. Then, the world tilted. Hay was suddenly on the walls.

“Whoa — hey, hey. You need to sit down.” Suddenly your face was inches from him. Your brown eyes sparkled like dappled sunlight on bog water, and Abraham figured if he could take a swim in them, he’d be fine again. Instead, his head swam and the barn ceiling tumbled above him, left and right. Your image was just to the side, holding him somehow, until his back felt the ground. “Just stay here. And stay awake, alright?” You stood up. “I’ll be back.”

Oh, he hoped you’d be back. Just you.

When Abraham woke up, the barn’s interior was dark with a warm glow thanks to the lantern in the center of the room. It was when the pebbles in his back fell out that he realized he was shirtless. He didn’t even feel the damp rag on his forehead until it fell onto his chest with a light slap. Still, he pushed himself up.

“You shouldn’t sit up yet.”

He looked up to see you holding his pitchfork, laying down hay with a quick flick, repeating the pattern with ease. “You need more water first.” You stuck it into the ground, using your foot for good measure. Your boots hid beneath your dress as you crouched to sit next to him. You took the rag from his chest and dunked it into the bucket. “Not the cleanest option.” The excess poured back into the bucket. “Open your mouth.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re not the first man I’ve treated for heatstroke.”

“Wasn’t it heat exhaustion?”

You shook your head. “Nope. You stopped sweating.”

“Maybe because you saved me, love.” He couldn’t help smirking.

You leaned close, matching the expression. “Because you ran out of water, love. Now drink.”

Abraham opened his mouth and let you squeeze. It was cold, refreshing as drops grazed his heated skin. He let out a soft ahh. “Do you take care of any stranger you find and do their job for free?”

“No. I was trying to right a wrong.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is. My brothers should know better.”

“They’re just boys.” You squeezed the rag again, and Abraham drank, secretly hoping that would be the end of that conversation. They were just boys. And they were still pushing him around. Blokes his age picked on him all the time at his last camp. Some even made sure Luella was around to really let the humiliation sink in and linger. He’d only been out here for a few months, but he’d hope he’d have grown something spine-like by now. Something stronger than some teenage japes. “You could’ve left me shirtless on the ground, and I would’ve thought you took advantage of me while I slept.”

You scoffed. “I couldn’t have done that.”

Of course. But Abraham shrugged. “It’s been a while.”

“No wonder, with how hard you work.”

He resisted rolling his eyes. “Well, I’ve been spoiled enough.”

“You shouldn’t —”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. Not at all. The moment Abraham steadied himself on both feet, his head was as heavy as a stone. Falling would’ve been easy. The damn hay pile was still there for him, taunting him. He couldn’t feel the ground anymore, but when his vision sharpened, it was you standing above him. Your hair fell over your face, hiding your features from the lantern light. “Told ya.”

“Did you push me down?”

“The fact that you don’t know is why you need to stay down.”

As if he wouldn’t know. The push was light, but he still felt it; the impact at both his shoulders. You turned around with the pitchfork, taking the plunge at the bottom of the pile. Abraham considered himself brave for leaving his smirk for you to see.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a woman pushed me.”

“You would’ve fallen, anyway.”

“So you admit it.”

“I just picked where you landed.” You picked up the water bucket and set it beside him — cool water sloshing with a soft thud. “Drink. Properly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He grabbed the bucket one-handed. He strained from the weight, but drowned the sound in water and drank. It spilled past his lips, soaking his chest and trousers. It all sounded intentional. (Years later, he would say it was.) Hot, in an ironic sense, because the water was fucking freezing.

Abraham set the bucket down and came up for air, willing his face to compose itself. When he looked up, you were spreading the hay flat. You caught each other’s eye until you focused on the ground. “What’s on the docket for you tomorrow?”

Abraham shrugged. “Horses are still in the north field. They’ll be fine ‘til morning. Then… potatoes need hilling. Sugar beets need weeding. Wheat’s not ready yet.”

“What time do you start?”

“You are not helping me.”

“You think I can’t?” You hung the pitchfork on the wall.

“You can. But that’s not the point. It’s not your job.”

“I do this at home all the time.”

“Mr. Connors didn’t hire you. You can’t work for free.”

“I can.” You gestured to the floor.

Abraham sighed. Pointing that out didn’t make him feel much better. “You really don’t like being told what to do.”

“Depends who’s talking.”

He blushed (of course). But he didn’t look away. The way your lips parted into that soft smile confirmed everything he was too afraid to name.

You turned your body toward him. “Do you think I’d distract you?”

“No.” Not entirely.

Then you walked over — slow, deliberate steps. As if you hadn’t been the only thing on his mind since you walked into that barn. Somehow heatstroke and his own stupidity didn’t keep you away. You lowered yourself beside him, sinking into the hay, descending to his level like a godsend.

He saw the peely sunburn first, and beneath it, the fresh milky skin between your breasts. Inches from his mouth. Easy.

Instead, he reached for the lace just above it, holding it between finger and thumb. He said nothing, though plenty was rolling through his mind. He simply felt the delicacy, and how it moved to and fro with your breath. Your dark eyes were just visible beneath your lashes.

“Are you going to kiss me?” You whispered. “Or not.”

And he did.

He held the lace the whole time, as if you might disappear if he let go. The kiss was light — barely there — and it still had the power to undo him. Because he had forgotten what it was like to be touched. He never even kissed Luella.

You didn’t disappear. You didn’t leave. Your hand found his bicep and gripped like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away. That was what made his heart slam against his ribs. It didn’t give out, but feeling your weight on him as you swung your leg over to rest on his lap did not help. The sharp bones in your knees locked to his hips while your hands spread across his bare chest and shoulders. He could just see how your dress bunched up at your thighs, and the heat beneath burning through his trousers.

“You’re cold now,” you said.

He didn’t notice. “Is this your way of warming me up?” His fingers treaded just below the hem and felt the warmth of your naked thigh, the contrast in temperature.

“I can try my best.” You sank lower, closer to his body, and Abraham tried not to arch desperately into the touch. He felt what he wanted. One hand found your waist as the other delved into the heat tent. He moved up your leg, a light trail to your hip that made your skin twitch. A little laugh escaped your lips before you kissed him again. And as his tongue slipped against yours, his hand slipped down the waistband of your underwear, soaked. He moaned into your mouth as he glided across your wet cunt, and again when your hips rolled with his fingers.

Nothing mattered beyond the barn; not his chores, Mr. Connors, tomorrow morning. If that lantern’s light couldn’t reach it, it didn’t exist. What it did reach was your body. It left a halo as you gasped, your deliberate movements becoming more of a grind against his hand, telling him you were just as desperate for friction as he was.

When you moved his hand further back, with the heel at your clit and his fingers free to explore inside, Abraham was tempted to sit back and let you take the reins, enjoy the show, and observe your slow unraveling.

He didn’t lean back. He couldn’t, because you held him by the neck as your movements became sloppier. You kissed him again and bit his lip hard before taking your teeth to his neck. The tang of sweat was already radiating off your body, adding a sheen to your skin, and it was just as delicious as it looked. The everyday confidence you exuded that day and long after fizzled to carnal desire right before his very eyes. He sucked in his teeth hard when you finally came: your knees pinned sharply into his waist as your teeth clamped down on his clavicle. He didn’t know how he didn’t scream from such a rush.

“God,” you huffed against his chest. You lifted yourself up, and the glaze of pleasure had already vanished. And Abraham recognized the familiar shade: embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to bite you.”

“It’s alright.”

You shook your head, grazing over the indentations. “No, it’s going to bruise.”

“But I liked it.”

“Still, I —”

“It doesn’t matter. I liked it.” And it was his turn to pull you down for a kiss, the stamp of reassurance that he wasn’t just saying what you wanted to hear. He knew what that felt like, and he wasn’t going to let you feel that around him.

“Are you alright, though?”

“Yeah. You?”

You nodded, and your noses bumped against each other.

Abraham navigated out of your dress. Not to get you off him, just to hold you there. Your high was still lingering with your deep breaths and lazy blinking. Your ribs inflated and deflated under his touch. “What are you thinking?” He asked.

“That you… haven’t.”

“Right.”

“Do you want me to…”

“No,” he quickly said. “I’d rather wait.”

“Wait for what?”

Marriage would’ve been a romantic thing to say, at least according to some of the novels he read. But it also would’ve been bloody stupid. And weird. Regardless of it being on his mind. “Another time. Somewhere more… secluded, I think.”

“More secluded than here?”

“Barn door’s open, love. Boss man’s house is walking distance.”

You looked around the barn, scaling from floor to ceiling. “It’s nice here. Quieter than what we have at home.”

Abraham bit his lip and swallowed his pride. “You can come by and enjoy the quiet tomorrow. If you want.”

“Tomorrow?” Your lips lifted with one eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

Your hands were still on each other. Not exploring or teasing for more, just taking in what you could before inevitably separating. “What time?”

“Whenever you want.”

You leaned down again and kissed him once, then twice more before slowly (painfully) untangling yourself from him. The night air filled the space you left behind, cool and humid. You straightened your dress and combed out your hair with your fingers. Abraham watched you leave, your hand brushing the barn door. He felt himself dozing off.

“Abraham?”

He perked back up. “Yeah?” You still held onto the barn door.

“Don’t start working until I get here.”

He laughed — actually laughed. “I’ll try my best.”

The lantern light just caught your smile before you were gone, swallowed by the summer dark. And Abraham lay alone in the hay as his body remembered the ghost of yours from moments ago. He lay a long time, staring up at the rafters, the loft where he slept and thought it was too much work to climb all the way up there. He felt his chest, where you pushed him and then bit him.

Smoke fumed out of the oven. 

She could all, but cry. Not just from the sweltering heat of the ruined dinner. It was the tang of burnt meat in the air, horrible charred and absolutely atrocious that stung her eyes. She pulled the roasting pan free with her pretty white oven mitts printed with little hearts. 

They were a wedding gift now horribly stained with remnants of ruined dinners past. She clanged the pan down on the stovetop. The dark burn blotches scabbed over the pot roast surrounded by a graveyard of shriveled carrots and dried out potatoes.  She fanned out the oven before reaching forward to open the window over the sink in the kitchen. A breeze swept out the scent of burnt roast into the night air. 

She tore the oven mitts off in frustration slamming them on the counter of the trailer. Her sniffles were growing more audible in the emptiness of their trailer. She rubbed her palm over her eyes, feeling the cool air shame her. She felt the intense crying begin to bubble in her chest causing a brief unease. 

Her feet began to move crossing the kitchen trying to decide how to fix the meal. She went to the ice box trying to see if at least the cake had a chance of making it to the table. The cake she pulled out was beautifully decorated with fresh cut strawberries and homemade whipped cream looking perfectly divine. 

Her breaths were deep trying to settle herself down. 

It wasn’t the first time dinner had been made awful, but she knew Abraham really needed this meal to be perfect. He was going into a hard day this morning feeling the weight of hard work as they were to be training and transferring a number of new horses. She was meant to keep the house spotless, take care of dinner, and be a warm presence for him. 

She could not attest for the cleanliness of the kitchen. Their small sitting area was clear of dust and debris. The bed was made with cleaned sheets. His clothes were laundered. Still the burnt smell of her cooking made her eyes water. She untucked a hanky from her pocket seeing her own initials on it with an unsteady hand marking her Abraham’s initials to match. 

It only made the tears flow more. 

She was such a horrid housewife. 

Still she patted under her eyes trying to stay the tears. The table still needed to be set even if dinner was ruined. As she went about setting the table she feared she’d remembered the nights when her mother had not had dinner ready for their father when he arrived home. The grumbles were not the worst of it as he had a temper on his worse days. 

She had been married long enough to Abraham at a little over a year to realize he had a temper, but nothing like her father. He shouted at times but never at her. He was always gentle with her. However she knew that men were of a more heated nature and were accustomed to taking their frustration out on the gentler sex. 

She tried to calm herself when she saw the flash of movement through the little window outside. Her husband always had the same sort of tired walk after a long day. They hadn’t been in this location long, but she knew her husband was already fed up with the land owners. The life of a nomad was hard. It was all she knew and it was what Abraham adored despite his grumbles. 

There was only a moment or two to glance at the perfectly set table for a perfectly atrocious meal before he swung the door open roughly. She knew he hadn’t meant to hit the door against the frame of the trailer, shaking it slightly. It still startled here. She hurried to settle a loaf of fresh bread on the table, bought and not cooked. Her body still gravitated to him even if he smelt like days old sweat and the backside of a few horses. 

“Welcome home, my love.” She hadn’t meant her voice to sound shaky or for her kiss at his cheek to tremble. “I . . . how was your day?” It was proper to ask such a question. It was one she always asked, yet she felt fearful. 

My Abe would never harm me, she reminded herself, but could not get the image of the one time she saw her mother be backhanded by her father. 

He had a gentle smile for her even if his face looked absolutely knackered. 

“Better now that I am with you.” Not home, with her. It made her feel warm inside. He returned the kiss with one of his own to her little lips. He smiled when she let out a relieved noise. The way his soft blue eyes fell upon her nearly reassured her until he twitched his nose. “Something gone wrong with the roast?” 

The tears felt near her eyes once more. 

“Oh, yes. I . . . it . . . it’s burnt. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what went wrong. I . . .” She watched him move slowly towards the cooling roasting pan. Her lips shut abruptly. He observed the roast using a two prong cutting fork to move it about. She could hear the crispness of it crackle. 

She ducked her features, deciding to sit as to not observe his poking about. She really could all but die. He had worked so hard all day and she could not even feed him a proper meal. She fiddled with her fork looking longingly at the bread set at the table. 

“It is not so bad.” She hadn’t noticed the tears beginning to form. “See. Look.” He lifted a piece he had cut. Charred onyx on the outside, but a tender looking reddish brown meat at the center. “I’ll cut it. I know you have been working hard all day.” He began to do as he promised. 

“No please,” She stood up, worried that he may work himself too hard at home as well. “Let me -” 

“Hush,” He commanded with a determined look upon his face. “It’s only meat. I can manage that. Why don’t you slice the bread, get out the butter.” Oh she had forgotten the butter! 

“I did not . . . I forgot to pick up butter at the grocer.” Her mind reeled insults at her for forgetting such an important part to the meal. 

“Not to worry, love.” Why was he so gentle with her? “The bread will be good by itself.” No it wouldn’t. Bread should have butter, but who was she to question her husband? 

Just a pathetic little housewife. 

And not a good one at that. 

Still she cut the bread. Abraham plated the meat on each of their plates. He trimmed off the burnt bits. She had to admit with his craving the meal appeared saved. The meat did look rather tender, just overcooked on top. He appeared to have saved a few potatoes as well, crisp but fine looking. The carrots did not appear worth saving. 

“Sit.” She did.

He reached for bread, stuffing his mouth hungrily. Her husband must have been starving and here he was trying to salvage their dinner. 

“I’m sorry about dinner.” She spoke up as the minute turned to two. 

“Nothing to be sorry for. It’s good.” He was eating the meat, taking large helpings as if to prove her wrong. 

She cut into the tender flesh creating a small bite. When she tasted it even she could admit it was not bad. Maybe even a bit good. She continued to cut the pieces for a moment before speaking. 

“Did the horses behave themselves today?” She tried humor knowing sometimes that broke his mood. Her smile was genuine and friendly as any loving wife might have. 

“Horse, yeah. People, not as much.” He said chewing. She would admit her Abraham did not have very fine table manners. 

“I am sorry for -” 

“Don’t be sorry.” She nearly jumped at his raised tone. Another apology nearly left her lips, but she closed them looking down sheepishly. “I . . .” He sighed, nearly a huff. “I know you feel the need to apologize, but there really is no need to.” He looked her over, up and down. “You are perfect.” 

“I burnt the roast. Forgot the butter and -” 

“And cleaned the house. Set the table. Laundered our wash. Made a divine dessert.” She eyed the ice box cake set on the counter. “Not to mention are the most beautiful creature I have seen today and you know how pretty my horses are.” She laughed. “”See a laugh. Not so hard to enjoy yourself.” 

There was never a time she didn’t feel self conscious over the way he doted on her. Their match had been one of convenience for her family. She was growing too old to be wed by the time her father thought the young strapping blue eyed man would make her a good husband. She suspected her father thought with her in a home of her own it would be one less mouth to feed. 

“I am so very lucky.” He reached for her hand taking it softly in his own. 

“I’m not a very good housewife.” She didn’t deserve his praise. How could he love her if she burnt his roast? 

“Yes you are.” He stood up sliding the chair from under him. Her husband placed a dainty kiss upon her knuckles. “I love every inch of you.” He started to kiss up her arm. She couldn’t help but smile as he kissed her sleeves. “Though I rather see you in nothing but that apron.” Oh she had forgotten to take it -

“Abraham!” She gasped, but he found her lips. 

“You are such a good little housewife.” She preened at the kisses mewing as a kitten might. Her body folded more into him as he picked her up from her seat. “Oh, my girl loves me to sing her praises now does she?” All she could do was sigh as he kissed her neck. “My gorgeous little bride. So fuckin’ beautiful, perfect. Mine.” Shivers ran through her like a storm built up for too long. 

“We should . . .” More kisses. More caresses. “Have cake.” Strawberry kisses, ripe with sweetness, would taste just as fine. It was the only way to break him away. 

Her Abraham was a fiery one. He enjoyed being very passionate when it came to her. She was glad he loved the way she looked. It made her feel so very good to know someone desired her so much he could not “help himself” at times. She toddled away to cut into the cake as he cleared the plates. She wanted to protest that she should be the one clearing dinner, but he looked at her with a stern face. 

She gave him the bigger slice. 

He switched their plates. 

“No. Please eat. You earned it, darling.” There was a devilish wink in his eye. “You’ve been such a good girl tonight.” Her eyes twinkled at the larger slice. She had a terrible sweet tooth and her dear darling husband knew it. Not to mention her body did strange things whenever he used those two words together in a sentence directed at her. 

Good girl. 

“But you’ve worked so hard all day.” She still took the fork in her hand. The strawberries were so rich and ripe in color that the red bled into the vanilla cream. 

“And now it is time to indulge in my favorite pastime.” He tucked the fork into the cake then slowly took a bite, savoring every sweet morsel. “It's incredible as always. You are such an excellent baker. Been thinking about this all day.” 

Her thighs squeezed together a little too flushed by his remarks. She tucked her fork into her own cake, eating happily, making small delighted noises. She then saw Abraham staring at her. She tucked a piece of stray cream into her mouth. 

“Am I being too -” 

“God I love you.” He nearly laughed at the words. “So innocent and perfect.” She wanted to protest. Her mouth was even open to do so, but her husband found a smear of cream on her face to rub his finger over her lips. She tasted him and the sweetness. 

The way he looked at her told her exactly what they would be doing tonight. 

**

There was an unspoken rule when man and wife were to cross the threshold to their chambers. For him it meant caving into his base instincts of desiring his sweet little wife all day. Every hard criticism melted from him when he saw her begin to undress before his very eyes. 

For her it meant comfort. It meant being desired fully and giving into what she wanted most. It meant being vulnerable with the man she had grown to truly love more than she cared to admit. 

At times she loved him more than her own family. Easy to say when it came to her father who was often cruel. Abraham took care of her in such wonderful ways that she dare not admit that she did notice when he had a hardness in his trousers. 

She palmed him now, unafraid. 

“Tell me I’m good, please.” She cooed as if her words were a catch phrase from a pull string. 

“So good. Make such a delicious dessert, but you know you are my favorite treat.” He bent to kiss her neck, nipping it jokingly. “Love it when you touch me.” His breath whispered into her ear, sultry and wanting.

She was keen to notice where and when he liked to be touched. Through his clothes was something she had never imagined a man enjoying. Abraham did. She could not count how many times he had asked her to palm him as he was now. 

She had gotten quite good at it. 

“How do you want me?” She still had her manners. He still had had a long day. 

“Don’t matter. Maybe tonight you make the choice.” He hummed. She could feel how terribly hard he was. Her hands released him from his confines. 

She would never truly get used to the feeling of the warmth he held there. It surprised her every time that he could be attracted to her enough to be aroused. She had never thought of herself as pretty or beautiful, but knowing that someone, her husband, felt such a way about her made her confident in her own self image. Her hands were always so good to him, remembering each special place he liked to be touched. 

Sometimes she could finish him with just her hands. 

She didn’t want to do that tonight. 

He had wanted her to decide and she was eager to obey. 

“I like it when you are behind me.” She flushed at the admittance. It may have been wrong to say, but not to Abraham or his cock. She felt it twitch, nearly pulse in her hand. 

“You do now?” He hummed in approval. Abraham leaned to her ear, whispering lightly. “That what you’re hiding behind those pretty eyes?” He kissed underneath her ear. “My good girl likes it like that? Naughty minx.” The way he was kissing her made her stop stroking him as she became lost in his affection. “Want to make me happy?” 

“Mmmm . . . yes.” More than anything. 

“Take off everything.” He teased the zipper of her bright red dress before playing with the strings of her apron she had forgotten to take off. It was even a bit splattered in grease now dried. “Except,” He traced the pleats of the front of the apron. “The apron. You can do that for me right?” 

She could. 

She would. 

Slowly she removed every piece keeping her flesh away from him. Dress. Bra. Panties. Shoes. Socks. Her eyes kept on him, watching, basking in his approval. He only took off his trousers. She enjoyed seeing him stroke himself to near peak while watching each piece of her shed. 

When she tied the apron back around her waist she was a sight. The white material was tied round her waist, pleated lightly, breasts exposed, perfect bottom swaying as she moved to greet him. 

“Be my good princess and get up on the bed.” She lingered a bit letting him watch her eyes. 

The look told her he wanted to do some many naughty things to her. Before Abraham she had never been with another. Purity raced heavy through her veins. In the months she had been married to him she had awakened the part of her that was unashamed to crave flesh. 

If a woman was married it was alright to enact her wildest fantasies. 

It was perfectly righteous to have a husband gently thumb his wife’s nipple with greed set in his expression. For him to dip his head to suckle at the meaty flesh there. It was nice to feel his words praise her. His breath was hot against her skin while his words hummed low against her skin. 

“Your body is perfect. Every mark. Every freckle. So perfect.” Hands on her hips smoothing over her curves, taking every inch of her in. 

“You are distracting me from obeying.” The near giggle bubbled in her throat. 

“Can’t help myself.” 

She reluctantly pulled away from him. Her hands laid flat to crawl atop their mattress. He had always made sure even if they had nothing in the way of comfort that their sheets were warm, soft, comfortable. She knelt feeling the apron dip down as her breasts sagged too. She heard each of her husband’s shoes clatter. 

The weight of her eyelids felt heavy as she blinked, slowly, catlike. She felt the weight of his body dip the bed. The anticipation of him fluttered in her body right to her core. His fingers were cold at her cunt making her flinch. 

“Sorry, love.” Slowly she felt those fingers tease her mouth. “Open.” She did, letting those digits inside her mouth. “Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me.” Each praise made her quiver. “You like it when I tell you how good you are, don’t you?” She hummed approval in her suckling. “You take my fingers so good. Bet you’d take my cock just like this.” He gently pumped his fingers into her warm mouth. “But I want to make you happy tonight. Fuck that tight cunt of yours.” Slowly he let his fingers free before moving them to her clit. 

The little gasp made Abraham chuckle. 

“That’s my girl. Getting nice and wet for me. Love playing with this cunt before sinking myself in.” It was a rhythm she was so familiar with. 

Abraham loved to fuck her after a hard day. She loved to be of service to him. It was her greatest pull toward him. Though there were days when she hadn’t been as willing as her husband. He hadn’t minded it as long as he could take care of himself. She was so very glad when they both were wanting. 

For nights like this their passion nearly became one. 

“Abe.” She rarely said the nickname, when she did she said it just as she was now. Needy. Desperate. 

“Such a good wife. Cooking me dinner. Keeping the house. Errands. Laundry. Don’t think I appreciate you enough.” He teased his cock at her entrance. “How about I thank you, yeah?” He sunk into her deeply. 

She remembered a time when feeling him inside her hurt. 

She remembered when it all felt foreign to her. 

Here and now this felt as natural as breathing. Sometimes she forgot to breath when he was fucking her. Especially from behind like this. When his hands were anchored on her hips, lightly squeezing her bottom. She cooed, feeling him begin to find that rhythm he adored. 

Her little sighs were music to him. 

She knew Abraham liked the noises she made, how sweet she sounded. 

“Am I being good for you?” Reassurance. She needed that tonight, especially considering her day. “Tell me I’m good.” God she sounded needy. He touched her clit. She nearly fell apart right there. He caught her. 

“So fuckin’ good. Love having a good girl waiting for me at home.” She wanted to protest, but he was holding her against his chest, fucking into her cunt harder now. “Want to hear you say it though. Go on.” 

“I’m . . . good.” He was pressing his thumb there. “So good. So good for you.” She wanted to beg, to plead with him to keep going. Her knees hurt in the best possible way. 

She heard his tells. 

His pace quickened. 

His hands gripped lower on her thighs. 

His breath heaved so hard and fast it sounded as if he were a horse himself. 

“Such a good cunt.” He let go, filling her with his warmth. 

He rubbed her clit until she felt herself fall undone by his praises and motions. She felt the familiar sensation of fulfillment. Her cunt held his seed even as she fell flat on her back again. Her small hands reached up to feel the sweat stained button up as he settled beside her. 

“I promise not to burn dinner again.” Her mind could not contend with that fact. 

-

The rain is beating hard against the tin roof.

You are huddled up against the wall, your arms wrapped tightly around your legs to keep warm. You had gone out for an afternoon walk to find some peace and quiet, and maybe pick some of the first little spring flowers, when you were suddenly caught in a torrential downpour. Not too keen on the idea of sprinting all the way home, you scrambled to take shelter in the first place you could think of: a dilapidated shed at the edge of a muddy field. The old farmer used to store tools and machinery there, but now it stands abandoned and in disrepair, full of cobwebs and mouse droppings.

If one was alone it might be quite an unnerving place, located as it is right on the border of the woods.

But you are not alone.

Abraham is sitting right across from you, dressed in his usual plaid jacket and red neckerchief, his long legs stretched out on the floor. When you stumbled inside he was already there, having sought shelter from the rain himself.

You only narrowly managed to convince him to stay.

As a young, unmarried girl, you are not supposed to be alone with men. Not even with Abraham - especially not with Abraham. The two of you will be getting married in just over a month, but the rules of courtship are strict, and every minute you spend with him must be chaperoned. Something that he has, surprisingly, taken very seriously. Maybe because his first attempt at an engagement didn't exactly work out as planned.

Still, your parents are satisfied with the match, and for the most part, you are too. Abraham is quite handsome, you think, with those splendid blue eyes, and he's just a few years older than you. A little rough around the edges, but he doesn't mind hard work, and he is good with children and animals, and those are fine qualities in a man.

Sometimes, he lets you sit and watch while he cares for his horses; cleans their stalls and their hooves, brushes their coats, takes them out to the pasture for excercise. He speaks so calmly to them, firm voice when they disobey him and soft when they are skittish or scared, and there is something so endearing about it. You wonder if he will speak to you in the same way once you're married. Harsh when you disappoint him, but gentle when he lies on top of you at night. You'd like that, you think.

Right now, Abraham doesn't speak to you at all. It is not too out the ordinary, as he isn't particularly talkative in the first place, but you had hoped that being alone with you might loosen him up a little. Instead, it seems to have had the opposite effect, and for the past twenty minutes or so, he has occupied himself with throwing pebbles and broken bits of plaster at a glass jar on the floor.

Not the most riveting pastime - but it does give you an idea.

"How about we make a game of it" you suggest, when the silence has become so deafening you can hardly bear it. "Best of five. If you win, I'll bring you lunch tomorrow - anything you want."

"Yea?" Abraham hums, looking up and right at you, clearly intrigued.

"And If I win - " you pause, a deep scarlet blush creeping up your neck. "If I win, I want a kiss".

"No" he says, right away and with a stern expression, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Just one -"

"No" he repeats, but it's a little softer this time, and he gives you a cocky half-smile. "You'll get one soon enough, don't you worry about that".

"But I won't win" you try. "You know I won't. Or" - you eye him teasingly- "do you really think you might loose to a girl?"

It's the same argument you would use against your little brother, and when Abraham's face settles into something very offended, you can hardly believe it actually worked. But all boys are the same apparently, even when they're grown men. Always have something to prove to the world and themselves and each other.

"I win - " he grumbles, "you bring lunch every day, rest of the week. And your mum's cider."

It's Wednesday today. Four days isn't a lot, you can manage that. There's not much cider left, but Mum will understand, she'll be happy to know that you're taking good care of your soon-to-be husband.

"Alright then" you nod. "You go first."

The odds are against you, because Abraham has had plenty of time to practice already, something you forgot to consider when you issued the challenge. But you are determined put up a good fight, not only because you ache to know what kissing is like, but also because you want to know what Abraham is like. If he's rough or gentle. If he's a passionate lover, or someone who just wants you to lie still and be quiet when he performs his marital duties.

As expected, his first stone goes straight into the glass; yours unfortunately bounces off the side of it. But then Abraham narrowly misses his second one, while yours actually hits the intended target. It gives you at least a glimmer of hope.

And then, something happens. Something very strange.

Abraham picks a rather large stone, but he overshoots by just a little and it lands on the dusty floor.

And the next one does too. And the one after that.

It must be on purpose, it must be. But his face betrays nothing at all, only the same disgruntled expression he always wears, and soon there's only one pebble left. Your very last one, and it lands in the glass with a loud plink.

"I won" you state, in complete disbelief, and the corners of Abraham's mouth twitch up a little.

"Looks like it, yea"

You eye him with suspicion. "But you hit - you got four in a row just before we started -".

"Beginner's luck" he shrugs, rising to his feet and brushing his hands on his trousers. When you hesitate, he cocks his head. "C'mere".

You do not need to be told twice, instantly flitting to his side and tilting up your face like you've seen ladies do in the movies. Abraham breathes deeply, and he places his hands on your waist to pull you closer. He smells nice, like fresh rain and firewood and a little bit like damp wool. You close your eyes.

"You ever kissed a man before?" he murmurs, so close that you can feel his warm breath fanning over your face.

You shake your head - of course you haven't.

There's no response to that, only calloused hands touching your face, Abraham's nose brushing your temple. He bends his head, and when he presses his lips to yours, you are not prepared for how soft they are, and how warm, and how gentle. His mouth opens slightly, his tongue slipping just past your lips, and then he releases your face and pulls back.

"There" he mutters, but you are not ready to part from him yet. Your hands cling to his jacket and your eyes are heavy and hooded when they flutter open.

"Again" you breathe.

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't, you are absolutely not allowed to do such things before the wedding. But Abraham is a young man, and since your engagement was officially agreed upon, he has surprisingly managed to stay out of trouble - mostly, at least - and away from neglected young housewives and the reverend's shapely daughters. It has been... a while since he last touched a girl, and you are the prettiest little thing, with your wet, parted lips and your hair frizzed from the rain. How could he possibly resist when you're looking up at him like that, begging for more?

Your first kiss was sweet and demure, but this time, Abraham wraps both arms around your waist and runs his hands up your back. He nibbles at your lower lip before he slides his tongue into your mouth, deeper this time, so he can brush it against your own. When you mewl it goes straight to his crotch, and he deepens the kiss, tilting your head to the side with a finger under your chin.

You mustn't, you shouldn't, you can't, but your body is burning with want, and you think Abraham's must be too. He's holding you closer, letting his hands wander over your body, your hips, your waist, the small of your back. They move to squeeze your bottom, and when he pushes his hips forward, there's something hard poking at your stomach.

It sends a jolt of excitement down your spine.

In theory, you know what a man looks like under his clothes. The men work outside in the summer, and many take off their shirts and roll up the legs of their trousers in the heat. But you have never seen a man fully naked, and you have never felt a man's body pressed up against you like this. Abraham's chest is hard, and his shoulders are broad, and his arms feel so strong when they're wrapped around you. He moves to kiss just below your ear, and you take the opportunity to let your hands roam tentatively over his chest and his stomach, even reaching under his jacket to feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

It's nice, but it isn't enough to satisfy your curiosity. You want to touch him there.

Abraham breaks the kiss when he feels your hand inching towards his crotch, but he doesn't stop you. Just looks at you stunned, with darkened eyes and a slight flush across his handsome nose. His... his - cock is straining in his pants, and you brush your fingers over the bulge, feeling how he hardens even more at your touch. It is clumsy and inexperienced, but Abraham still closes his eyes, and his hand comes down to cover yours and press it harder against him.

It feels good for him, despite your lack of practice; you can tell. You cup his crotch, and he lets out a sharp breath and bucks right into your palm. You tilt your face up again to kiss along his jaw as you rub him through his trousers, feeling how he swells and throbs from your touch, until he suddenly swats your hand away.

You worry that you have overstepped, or done something that hurt him, but he leans over you, and tugs at your hips - to pull you down with him, you realise. Right down to the floor, although he is at least gallant enough to shrug of his jacket and lay you on that, rather than directly on the ground.

Immediately, he starts on the buttons of your coat, almost ripping the garment open to part it from your chest. His hands greedily palm your breasts, covered only by your dress and the brassiere underneath, and he squeezes your flesh; pinches your nipples through the fabric and rolls them under his thumbs. They stiffen from his touch and he leans over you and brushes his mouth against your chest, even latching onto one pert nipple, sucking and biting until your dress is wet from his spit.

It makes you whine with both pleasure and pain, and surprise too. You have never been touched like this before, never felt wanted like this before. Abraham's eyes are dark with lust, and it is almost frightening how determined he looks when he hooks a hand under each of your knees to push them apart.

You gasp when he lays over you. His body is warm, and heavy, and it feels so right to lie like this underneath him, caged in by his arms and with your thighs spread wide around his hips. His cock is big and hard and he presses the thick bulge between your legs, and grunts softly at the feeling. You can't help but wonder how many girls have been underneath him before, because he's so unabashed in the way he pushes his hips against yours, so eager when he starts rocking back and forth, clearly mimicking... other things.

Your hands cling to his shirt and you arch up to kiss him again, sighing when catches your lip between his teeth. They don't kiss like this in the movies. At least not in the ones you have seen. Your mouth is wide open, and Abraham is absolutely devouring it, licking your lips, shoving his tongue all the way to the back of your throat. It is rough and needy, and there's a trail of spit between you when he pulls back to catch his breath.

If someone found out, you'd be in so much trouble. Abraham is on you, and his cock is stiff, and he is moving so intimately against you, but you can't bring yourself to stop him. It feels wonderful, having his weight on top of you, having his hard cock pressed against your center. His bulge is big and hard and heavy between your thighs, and he's groaning as he rubs it against you, rolling his hips steadily, rhythmically. As though he was really inside you, and you are not sure if it's on purpose or pure instinct, or maybe a bit of both.

It has you swooning, just thinking about it. How badly he must want you, how needy he must feel, his cock all hard and swollen and his balls so full of his - his come. The thought of it makes you sigh, makes you feel soaking wet, makes that tingling warmth spread even faster in your loins. There are so many things are happening in your body; the kissing, the rubbing, the pressure between your legs - God you've never felt anything like it. You squirm underneath him and spread your thighs wider.

it makes Abraham groan, your hands on his chest and the way your hips are bucking and circling against his cock, and fuck he'll go crazy if you keep making those noises, those soft little whimpers. His cock is pulsing and his balls are pulled tight, and seeing your face all twisted with pleasure has him leaking already.

Truthfully, it was Pal's idea that he should pursue you, just like it was Pal who first spoke to your father on his behalf - but as you are a sweet and pretty girl, Abraham could see no reason why he shouldn't go along with it. He is a grown man, and a grown man needs a wife, and he likes looking at your legs when you help your mother with the laundry. Especially when you wear that grey dress that is a little too tight around your hips. Once you're married he will buy you a brand new one, and a nice pair of shoes with a little heel, and you'll be such a pretty little wife, cooking his meals and washing his clothes and giving him kisses when he comes home.

He moves faster, pressing his hard bulge even tighter against you, and you can feel something building in your body, though you are only barely aware of what it is. Your muscles are tightening and tensing up, desperate for a release that you instinctively know how to find, and you arch your hips up and rub frantically against Abraham's cock. You need more, more friction, more pressure just there, and you hook a leg over his back so you can push up better. Abraham lets you chase your peak, even helps you along by sliding his hand underneath your bottom to press you tighter against him. He is utterly mesmerised by the sight, your blissful expression as you shamelessly use his body for your own pleasure, sighing and whimpering and grinding your little cunt so desperately against him.

When he kisses you again, all the tension breaks.

You gasp, and Abraham watches you intently as a series of tiny little shivers run through your body. A very gentle climax - your first, by the looks of it. You writhe and moan beneath him, and when the waves of your orgasm settle, you are all blushed and looking up at him with glazed, love-struck eyes.

He could probably coax you into sleeping with him right now if he wanted to, but in a - frankly rare - moment of chivalry, he decides against it. You're a sweet girl, saving yourself for marriage and all. Your first time should be somewhere nicer than in this cold, filthy shed.

One way or another though, he will make you finish him off properly, and he sits back on his heels and quickly unbuckles his belt. Abraham's cock is impressive in size, and he is very proud of it; always enjoys the look of amazement on a girl's face when he frees it from his trousers.

You look equal parts intrigued and horrified. It is much bigger than you had anticipated, long, pink and bulbous at the tip, and he boldly gives it a few quick tugs as you watch. Even in his hand it looks massive, and you wonder how on earth it'll ever fit inside you, but that is an issue for another day, because Abraham mutters here and reaches for your hand. Your fingers wrap cautiously around his shaft, and it is hard, stiff, and yet so soft at the same time. You have no idea what to do, but Abraham's hand closes over yours, guiding the strength of your grip and the pace of your strokes.

It turns out that pleasing a man is not difficult at all. All you have to do is move your hand up and down, dragging the skin over the tip of his cock and back down again in a quick and firm rhythm. Abraham dips his head into the crook of your neck, and his hands come up to fondle your breasts, his teeth gritted and his eyes squeezed shut. You quickly grow more comfortable with the motion, and you slip your other hand between his legs to fondle his balls too - carefully, as you know that is a very delicate area for a man. They feel big, and hairy, and heavy in your hand, and he moans when you squeeze them lightly, trying your best to massage them in a way that gives him pleasure.

It would seem that you succeed, because it isn't long before Abraham's body tenses and his balls tighten right in your grip.

" - gonna come" he grunts, and you can't help but hold your breath in anticipation.

Abraham groans, and his cock pulses in your hand, and then his semen starts spurting from the tip. There's so much of it, spilling all over your fingers in thick, sticky ropes, and you keep stroking him through his peak, taking in his ragged breaths, the shallow jerks of his hips, the deep furrow of his brow. It is the loveliest thing you've ever laid eyes on, and when he stills your hand and collapses next to you on the floor, your chest swells with pride. You made him do that.

"Fuck" he pants. There's a lock of hair sticking to his forehead, and you are dying to reach over and gently brush it back, but you are too shy to be so familiar.

"Was it good?" you ask instead, hoping for praise or maybe a nice compliment, but Abraham just gives a hoarse laugh as he tucks his cock back into his trousers. You look away. Despite what you did just a moment ago, looking at it now feels terribly indecent.

Outside, the rain has stopped, the wind has died down, and it is high time for you to return home. You wipe your hand clean with a handkerchief - you can rinse it in the stream on the way back - and turn away from him as you smooth out your skirt and button your coat.

"What do you want" Abraham asks suddenly. "For your wedding gift. What do you want?"

Immediately, you start going through all the lists in your head - there are a hundred things to consider when setting up a new household, clothes and dishware and furnishing, and the little hope chest under your bed is already filled to the brim.

"Well-" you begin, "I'll get linens from my mother, and you already have the stove sorted, and Cora said we could have her old cast iron skillet, but we should probably start saving for a -"

"No" he interrupts, impatiently. "Forget all that, what do you want from me"

He looks sheepish and uncomfortable and it takes you a moment to realise that he is trying to be attentive - maybe even romantic.

It makes you want to throw your arms around his neck.

"I don't know" you mutter, blushing all over again. "I haven't thought about it - you don't have to give me anything"

"I'll get you something. Something pretty, yea?" he grins, wide enough that his cheeks crease and dimple - God, he's awfully charming sometimes, when he wants to be.

You blush even deeper, picking at your nails and responding with an awkward yes, yeah alright.

Abraham doesn't say anything after that, already back to his usual sullen demeanor - but right before the door closes behind you, he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you back to kiss you right on the mouth.

You make your way back home, warm all over from the kiss and the excitement and the lingering heat in your core. And maybe a little bit just from the very thought of Abraham himself.

You had nearly given up hope when finally your father came to you to let you know of Andrei's intentions and ask your opinion on the matter to which you smiled and approved.

You realize now, though, as you stand before all of your family and friends that you missed one very important step in all of this. You did not tell your best friend before the announcement.

No, he had to find out here and now with everyone else. The look of shock on his face and the way he quickly turns and exits make it clear. That was an error.

You hop down from next to Andrei and scramble to find him.

"Abraham!?" You call out as soon as you get outside. Your head swings wildly from side to side, your eyes scanning each farmhouse, stable, and open space before you.

You huff in annoyance when you can't locate him. "Abraham?!" You yell out again. He just came out here. There is no way he can't hear you. Is he ignoring you? No he wouldn't do that.

You don't want to wander too far since it's dark, so you sigh once more before turning to go back inside where everyone is eating. Unaware of the pair of angry blue eyes that watch you from the darkness.

The blue eyes that avoid you from here on out.

The next day, you look high and low for Abraham. You go to all the spots you think he may be working at, you ask around, and no one seems to know where he is. He doesn't come around your wagon once, which is odd. He usually checks in on you at least once each day. Even on his busiest days.

This trend continues over the next few days, quickly becoming a week. You finally see him again, cutting wood and attempt to speak to him, but the moment you get close, he leaves.

Your heart sinks into your stomach as he continues walking away from you as you call his name. Even as you chase him. It's as if he is on auto pilot, and his only goal is to get as far away from you as possible.

With a bruised ego, you give up. You decide to give him some time. Obviously, he is mad that you didn't tell him about the engagement. Maybe he needs just a bit longer to cool off.

You try to be patient, but as the cooling off period stretches across another two weeks, you begin to lose hope.

You decide to search for him again. At this point, you are angry, too. Why wouldn't he just talk to you? Explain why he is so upset? Allow you to apologize? You know he isn't one to get all sensitive or in his feelings, but the least he could do is attempt to speak to you.

These thoughts swirl through your mind as you stomp angrily through the encampment, looking once again in each of the places you think he may be until you finally spot him, brushing a horse in the stables. His eyes staring off in the distance.

"There you are, you mangy mutt." You chuckle, attempting to sound light-hearted. "I've been looking for ya. As I know you are aware."

He stays silent, his eyes still trained toward the nothingness in the distance.

You sigh and pinch your nose in frustration. "Abraham. What is wrong? Is this about the engagement? I meant to tell you, really I did, but things moved quickly"

He grunts and puts the brush down, gently patting the horse on the back before turning to leave the stables.

"Do you plan to just ignore me then? Until the end of days?" Your annoyance and anger are evident in your tone

He lowers his head, his back still turned to you.

"No"

Finally, he speaks, weeks without hearing his voice have made you feel tender at the sound. The anger and annoyance start to fade, and you're left with your hurt and longing.

"Then talk to me. Look at me! Something." you take two small tentative steps toward him. Your heart beats in your chest loudly, adrenaline causing your hands to shake, yet you keep on.

"Abraham, please" You step even closer still, just about close enough to touch him.

"Stop" he near whispers, a painful edge to his voice.

You freeze in place. "I can't lose you. Not over this" Your voice is strained, your heartbreak woven into every syllable. You know he doesn't like Andrei, but you could never imagine the announcement of your engagement would push him this far away.

"Don't touch me. If... if you touch me...." He keeps his face angled away from you as his voice starts to crack.

You sigh softly, and you decide right then and there. He won't push you away anymore. You won't allow it.

You reach your hand out and touch his shoulder, and he bristles instantly before he turns around to face you. Those steely blue eyes meeting yours for the first time in weeks.

"Did you consider me?" He asks sharply. "Even once?"

You're slightly taken aback by his aggressive demeanor but swallow back your frustration so that you can answer him. "Of course I considered how you would feel about this" you start but are abruptly cut off as Abraham paces toward you.

"No. Did you ever consider ME? " he asks again. You can feel his breath on your cheek as he brings his face up to yours, whispering in your ear. "Was I ever your choice?"

Your face heats up, and your chest tightens at the question. You had always thought of Abraham as your friend. Someone you trusted and depended on.

"I....I ....." You stumble over your own tongue at a complete loss for words.

His eyes scan your face and start to darken with each passing second. "No. You didn't, " he turns from you again.

"You never gave any indication!" You desperately yell out to his back, and it's true. Never once had he let any intentions be known. You had assumed this was because he simply did not see you that way, and you had accepted that fact a very long time ago.

He again stops without turning back towards you, so you continue on.

"I heard you. Talk about Luella. Some of the others. You never did speak about me that way"

He growls, his back still turned. "I could never speak about you that way." He turns back toward you his lips pursed. "You don't speak about a wife like that."

You take in a sharp breath and avert your eyes.

"But now... you will not be my wife. " There is a mischievous glint in his eye, and he cracks a slight smile.

The presence of a smile on his face has you confused. As you arch a brow at him, he rushes toward you, pulling you tightly in his arms.

"Abe!" You push slightly against his chest, but he pays you no mind as he lifts you off of your feet and walks you further into the stables and away from prying eyes.

"He won't have what's mine," He grumbles as he places you back down on your feet in the furthest most part of the stables.

"Abraham...." You say your voice slightly trembling. From fear or anticipation, you weren't entirely sure.

His eyes lift and meet yours for just a moment before his lips crash down on yours, his large, rough hands tightly grasping at the sides of your head. He prods at your lips with his tongue begging for entry of which you against your better judgment grant him.

Abraham grunts into your mouth as he explores with his tongue all the while pushing your body further and further backwards until you feel the solid surface of the wooden wall against your back.

He starts to shuffle your dress up towards your hips, never breaking the kiss. You pull away slightly, meaning to protest. You know this is wrong, but Abraham quickly brings his mouth back down to yours and mumbles against your lips. "He won't have what's mine"

He begins to trail kisses along your jaw and down your neck, gently licking and nibbling at the skin as he moves.

The heat starts to pool in your belly at his rough touch, his calloused fingertips gripping at the soft flesh of your thigh under your skirts.

"Abe......" You say breathlessly between kisses.

He only grunts and brings his hand further up your thigh before cupping your ass and playing with the hem of your knickers.

"You were always meant to be mine." He whispers with a voice that is uncharacteristically soft.

He slides his hand between your legs, applying pressure to your pearl as you gasp.

"Already sopping," he chuckles into your ear, "and I've barely touched you"

He removes his hand quickly, spinning you around to face the wall and rucks your skirt up around your hips.

"He won't have what's mine," he growls again, pulling your underwear down your legs quickly and helping you step out of them.

Your mind is in overdrive and moving on instinct. You grip the post that runs through the middle of the wall before you, as Abraham reaches one hand between your legs and grips your hip harshly with the other.

You lean your head back and close your eyes, taking in all the sensations as his rough fingertips stroke your pearl.

"You're considerin' me now," He whispers breathlessly into your ear. You clench at the sound as you feel a tightening in your lower stomach.

"Oh my...... Abe!" Your fingernails dig into the wood of the beam you're holding when Abe pulls his fingers from your pearl and instead slowly slides one into your heat.

Your eyes open wide at the intrusion, while your body quickly responds, your hips bucking lightly. You try to ignore the embarrassment you feel at the sounds emanating from your lower body as he continues his ministrations when he suddenly slips a second finger in.

"Abe too much too much." You jolt slightly at the uncomfortable stretch.

"You'll get used to it. Gotta get you ready, " he says in between husky breaths, although he slightly slows his pace.

"Ready?" You huff, he chuckles again before removing his hand.

"Think you're about as ready as you're gonna get." You can hear him moving behind you, the soft clink of his belt ringing in your ears.

Your mind tells you to stop this now before it goes too far, but your body stands still. Legs spread, back bent and hands holding the post. Exposed and vulnerable before his eyes.

You take a sharp inhale as you feel the tip of his cock sliding against your slick folds and over your clit.

"Try not to be too loud" is the last thing he says before he brings his cock back up to your entrance and slowly starts to breech your walls, the stretch slightly painful yet satisfying.

You attempt to heed his warning and pant quietly, but as he continues to push farther you can't help but whimper.

He leans down, slightly pressing his chest to your back and pushing your hair over your shoulder.

"It will pass," he coos gently before kissing down the back of your neck, the feeling soothing.

He continues pushing, the stretch and the sting becoming less and less uncomfortable until his hips are pressed tightly against your ass.

He gives you a moment, not a long moment, but a moment to acclimate to his size before he starts to move, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed as the painful stretch is replaced with a comfortable fullness, that knot in your stomach beginning to tighten once again.

"He won't marry ya. Not when you're carrying my child. " He grunts his pace, still picking up speed.

You're unable to respond to his words. The pressure between your legs, growing nearly unbearable.

You reach down between your thighs to rub your pearl, the need so strong you can feel your heart beating in your nub.

Abraham quickly pushes your hand away, instead bringing his rough fingertips back over your clit and starts rubbing in small, determined circles over the nerve.

Your body grows tense as you feel your pleasure reach its ultimate high. Your entire body shuddering and clenching.

"Ahhh!" You screech out as your orgasm moves through you in waves.

Urged on by your climax, Abraham wraps his arms around you, standing you up nearly straight as he thrusts up into you harshly.

"He won't have what's mine," he snarls again, breathing heavily into your ear. "You'll leave here just as much mine as you ever were"

Abraham continues to thrust into you, one hand on your hip, the other around your throat.

"I'm gonna fill you, right now." his thrusts grow sloppier and more desperate as he nears his own climax. "Tell me you want it, tell me to do it," he demands, pistoning himself into your heat harshly, the muscles in his thighs growing tight from the exertion.

"Do it. Please, " You whimper "fill me"

He sighs in satisfaction and thrusts only twice more before you feel the warmth of his seed spread within your womb.

He stands there holding you tight to him as he rides out his high, his body slightly twitching with the aftershocks of his heightened pleasure.

After a few minutes, he pulls out and releases you. You stumble forward, nearly falling head first into the wooden post you had been gripping so tightly earlier.

Abraham catches you and stands you upright. He wordlessly fetches for knickers, helping you to slide them back on.

You stand bewildered before him not sure what to make of the moment.

"Go tell your father and Andrei you have to end the engagement," he says sternly while pulling his suspender straps back up over his shoulders.

"It.... it's not that simple. " You stutter out the words. You know, in good conscience, you couldn't marry Andrei now, and you didn't want to. Now that you know what it's like to be with Abraham.

"It is. Tell them you're pregnant by another man. Your father will give us his blessing. He'll have no choice" he states plainly, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

"But I'm not......." You trail off knowing that you could be after what just happened, yet you couldn't be sure for quite some time.

"Trust me." He leans in pressing his forehead to yours briefly before stepping away from you and moving to leave the stables.

"Where are you going?" You call out after him, not wanting your moment to be over.

"To do my work," he smiles back at you. "Now you go do yours!"

With that, he exits the stables, a large grin plastered across his face as he mutters one last thing under his breath.

"He won't have what's mine."