#I tell y’all it feels good to be back in the drawing saddle

[herebecritters]

Some Nergal disguises/characters

[the-iceni-bitch]

A Surprise to be Sure

Pairing: Geralt/Fem!Reader

Words: 5761

Summary:  You meet Geralt and Jaskier on the road and have a lovely little adventure in the kingdom of Temeria.

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of violence, TW mentions of rape, SMUT, 18+

A/N: It’s here y’all, my b-day Geralt fic! I’m really happy with how this turned out and could honestly have published it without the smut, that’s how much I love this fic. It is definitely going to be part of a series so I hope you all enjoy! (PS I love writing Jaskier way too much and could honestly just do a full series of him having random misadventures all over the continent!) I’m tagging @navybrat817​ because I know she loves some Henry Cavill

Jaskier had been belting the Fishmonger’s Daughter for the past 30 minutes, and Geralt was ready to murder him.

“Must you insist on shouting our position to every living creature in a 5 mile radius?” He hissed at the bard.

“List, my grumpy, hoar-headed friend. I need to be sure my voice is in top form if I’m performing at a royal ball. Now, you’ll feel better if you sing with me, Oooh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger, Come Quell your Daughter’s Hunger!”

“I’m going to feed you that damn lute before we reach the castle if you don’t shut up. I can’t listen to this for three days.” The Witcher growled under his breath. He couldn’t figure out why he had agreed to accompany the irritating man on his journey, but the man always managed to convince him to go along with his stupid plans.  

“Now, Geralt. You know you secretly love my singing. After all, how many jobs has that little song of mine rustled up for you, eh? Stop being so grouchy.”

He gave him a grunt. “Fine, can you at least sing something else?”

“Ah, but of course, my large, angry friend. Eh hem, You think you’re safe, without a care…”

“Gods, not that one.”

“Well, there’s no pleasing you is there. Ahh, what’s that noise?”

A feminine shriek split the air, causing a flock of birds to take flight only a few feet from the pair of riders. Roach of course didn’t mind, but Jaskier’s mount almost threw him, causing Geralt to smile.

“Gods, see, this is why I hate travelling on these creatures. Give me a nice coach ride any time. Come Geralt, let us see what fair maiden is in need of our assistance.”

“Our assistance?”

“Well, your assistance. C’mon Geralt, a damsel in distress, this is the perfect material for a new song.”

Geralt followed the idiot as he rode towards the sounds of distress, determined to keep him from getting himself killed. He didn’t really like getting involved in petty issues of the realms but knew that Jaskier lived for these tiny adventures.

They came upon you, surrounded by five men in soiled armor. Your cart had a broken wheel and was sinking into the snow and mud. One of the men had you pinned in the back of the cart by your neck as he buried his other hand in your skirts. The other men jeered at you as they kept their watch.

“Look Geralt, a fair maid waiting to be rescued, what could make for a better song? Ho there fellows, stop your raping or you’ll have to deal with my cantankerous companion here.”

“Move along, bard this doesn’t concern you.” One of the soldiers growled at Jaskier before spitting to the side. “Or, wait your turn and we’ll let you and your pal have her when we’re done.”

“Ah, Geralt, I’ll let you take care of them. Make sure to draw it out, a long fight always makes for a better song.”

“Oh, fuck this.” You hissed, pulling out the stiletto you had hidden in your skirts and gutting the man who was restraining you.

Jaskier turned his head and vomited as the man’s intestines seeped out of him and he crumbled to the forest floor. You flung your cloak off your shoulders as you drew the obscenely large longsword you had concealed beneath its folds and chopped off the hand of the next soldier who came charging at you before plunging it into his chest.

“I don’t know, bard. Seems like the maid has things under control.” Geralt grinned at his companion once he had finished emptying his stomach.

You wrenched the blade free as the two unhorsed soldiers rushed you. One of them tossed his own dagger at you and you used your sword to whip it back at him, catching him in the throat. You brought up your dagger and crossed the blades you were holding to catch the sword of your fourth opponent. You managed to loop the dagger under his hilt and wrenched the sword from his grasp as you let the momentum from his attack carry you the two of you backwards, flipping him over your head until you were straddling his chest. You gave him a small smirk as your drove your dagger through his eye.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Jaskier asked as he watched the bloody show with abject horror painted on his face.

“What would you suggest bard? The woman seems to be able to handle herself, and I can’t say these soldiers seem particularly deserving of assistance.”

The final soldier had dismounted and was now striding towards you, twirling his sword around like an idiot peacock. You scowled at him before pulling a massive crossbow from beneath the packages in your cart and shooting him in the shoulder.

He went down with a soft grunt and you strutted over to him, crossbow slung over your shoulder and dagger twirling through your fingers. You tutted at him like you were chiding a naughty schoolboy.

“Oh, Abbett, what did you do with the money? I certainly hope you have it on you. I don’t feel like trekking through this frozen forest digging for it.”

“You cunt.” The man spat at you. “We fought those bloody Nilfgaardians to keep these farmers safe and warm. The least they can do to thank us is give up a few bloody coins and their daughters.”

You shot him again in the leg and he let out a scream.

“One more time, Abbett, the money? I can’t give those poor girls their maidenhoods again but maybe their families can offer a dowry to make them good matches.”

“Argh, bitch! It’s in the saddlebags.”

“Excellent! See, not so fucking difficult, and you saved me the nasty task of gelding you!” You took a few steps forward and shot him through the eye as you went to examine the horse and find the stolen coins.

“Ahem, hello, madam! I am Jaskier the Bard and this is my companion, Geralt of Rivia! Would you join us on our journey to the capital of Temeria? You seem like a lass with stories to tell and I’m just the fellow to put them to song.”

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up.” Geralt hissed at him.

You whipped around to the two of them and pointed your crossbow at the Witcher. “Fuck, I almost forgot about you two. Well, you’ve given me a bit of a conundrum boys. I was counting on there not being any witnesses here. These vagabonds are still wearing the king’s colors after all, and we’re close enough to the capital that that could prove to be a problem for me.” You had started to unfasten the bodice of the gown you were wearing, desperate to get out of the confining layers of cloth that had comprised your disguise. You revealed an outfit of bleached leather and furs that clung to your body.

“Oops.” Jaskier murmured, giving Geralt a sheepish grin as he raised his hands in supplication. “Geralt, friend, maybe you can talk to our new companion.”

“Right, listen, we don’t care that you just slaughtered five of the king’s soldiers, though I’m sure upon closer inspection they’ll be shown to be deserters. And as we have no desire to bring any trouble down on you, we’ll just be on our way.”

“Wait,” You called after them, tossing the rags of your gown onto the abandoned cart as you saddled your horse. “If you’re heading towards the capital, I’ll join you. I have some deliveries to make before I get out of this god-forsaken country, and that way I can keep an eye on you.” You gave them a grin as you rode up the hill to join them. “I can think of worse company than a bard and a Witcher.”

Jaskier shot a grin back at you as you joined them. “Ah, finally someone who will appreciate my talents. Tell me… um..”

“Y/N”

“Y/N, lovely, do you have any requests?”

Geralt groaned internally at the thought of being stuck with two singing idiots for the journey but was cut short by the sound of multiple bows being drawn.

“Fuck.”

“That’s far enough you three.” A captain in shining armor commanded as you came into view of a mounted regiment of king’s soldiers, accompanied by about 100 footmen who all had arrows trained on you. “What do you know about several groups of dead king’s men that have been found in these woods.”

Geralt shot you a look of reproach over his shoulder as you pointedly avoided making eye contact, examining your fingernails like they were the most interesting thing on the continent.

“There’s another group of dead soldiers in the clearing back there, captain. Looks like we’ve found our culprits.”

“Oh, just wait a minute. My grouchy friend and I were just passing through when we came upon this lovely woman being set upon by these supposed kingsmen. Granted, we considered dispatching them ourselves but our fair companion had things well in hand. Seems like she was doing your jobs for you.”

You and Geralt shared a groan. “Shut up, Jaskier.”

The captain gave a snort of derision. “You want us to believe this pretty thing has been besting the king’s chosen troops on her own for months? Take their weapons and restrain the Witcher and the woman. The bard can sing us some songs to pass the time as we travel. We’ll save this for the king to sort out.”

You gave a heavy sigh and started handing over your blades. Jaskier’s eyes started to bulge as you continued pulling smaller and smaller knives out of an increasingly absurd number of hiding places, until there was an impressive pile in front of the soldier who had been tasked with collecting your weapons.

Geralt was less forthcoming in turning over his weapons and didn’t really start until a spear prodded him in the back. He was gazing at Renfri’s blade when the captain lost his patience, and the butt of the spear whipped across the back of his head, knocking him cold.

“Put his blades with the rest of it.”

Geralt woke up with his face buried in your hair and let out a groan at the throbbing in his skull.

“What the fuck?” He lifted his head, squinting against the sun reflecting off the new fallen snow.

“Good morning, Witcher. Apparently this type of restraint has been proven to limit the ability of the restrained to extricate themselves from their bindings. You missed a fascinating lecture on it as they were tying us up.”

The two of you were bound face to face on the saddle of your massive black courser. Your arms and legs tangled around each other and wrapped in an intricate series of knots. He started trying to wrench himself free, but only succeeded in bringing you even closer to him as he let out a grunt of frustration.

“Look at the two of you, so cozy.” Jaskier rode up with a grin on his face, strumming his lute. “Do not worry yourselves, my violent friends. I am currently working on a plan to extricate the two of you from this predicament. I have the ear of the captain.”

“Are you going to annoy him to death Jaskier? Maybe if you sing that damn abortion song enough times, he’ll release us just to be rid of you.”

“You wound me, Geralt. The name of that tune is “You Think You’re Safe” and you’ll be happy to know that the captain is enamored of my talents and has asked me to regale him and his officers at their meal tonight.”

“Ah, good for you Jaskier. Make sure to sing the ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ I hear that’s a favorite of the troops.” You smiled at him, throwing him a wink.

“Oh, I knew I liked you, Y/N! See Geralt, it isn’t so hard to appreciate what I bring to the table. Thank you for your advice, sweet lady, I will be sure to take heed!” He rode off, humming to himself as he tuned his lute.

“Why would you encourage him?” Geralt growled in your ear, still fighting against his bonds.

“Ah, Witcher, you need to relax. I’m sure Jaskier’s plan will work out just fine.”

“The bard is an imbecile, the day I trust myself to any plan of his is the day I resign myself to a slow and painful death.”

“Well, be that as it may, if you don’t stop struggling, we’re going to end up in a very uncomfortable situation.” You said, giving a gasp as another jerk of your bonds brought you indecently close.

“Fuck.” He let out in a hiss, resigning himself to waiting for a better opportunity as a lock of your hair blew into his face, smelling of pine and turned earth “I don’t suppose you have any sort of plan of escape, since it’s your fault we’re in this situation.”

“Geralt, I do apologize that you have ended up in my mess. I’m so sorry that the war with Nilfgaard has caused unprecedented levels of desertion, and that the cowards that have runoff have been terrorizing and robbing the smallfolk. And I’m sorry that the king failed to listen to the pleas of his people, who had to pool together the last of their coin to contract me to come in and relieve them of their problems. But yes, this mess is entirely of my own making, and nothing to do with the colossal mismanagement of the realm of Temeria.”

“Hmmph.” He grunted into your hair. “So how are you getting us out of this mess?”

You gave him a snort. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours Witcher, something will work out.”

“Alright, dismount.” One of the lieutenants ordered, leering at the two of you. “Hope you two have enjoyed today’s ride. I hear they’re already constructing a gibbet for you in Vizima.”

“I see the royal council has decided to do away with even the minimal farce of a trial then.”

Two soldiers had started to undo the maze of knots binding you and the Witcher together and you gave a hiss as blood started to flow back into your legs.

“An attack on the king’s army is an attack on the king. No trials for traitors to the crown.”

“You do know that neither of us are citizens of this kingdom?” Geralt asked him. “You can’t betray a monarch you don’t serve.”

“Pssh, a minor inconsistency. The king can’t be seen as soft during wartime.”

“Oh, of course not.” You murmured as the soldiers dragged you off your mount and led you to the prisoners’ tent that had been erected next to the officers’. The same intricate raveling of ropes and knots started again as they bound your upper bodies to the poles in the center of the tent. You could hear the beginnings of revelry in the officers’ pavilion when they left you.

“Well, now what?” Geralt asked you, pulling against the bonds at his wrists.

“Just, have a little patience.” You chided him, leaning against your pole in as relaxed of a pose as you could achieve.

“You did hear that they plan on executing us once they get us back to the capital?”

“No, Geralt, I missed that.” You spat at him as you heard Jaskier start to sing and gave a small smile. “Excellent, let’s hope he leaves the good stuff until they’re well and drunk.”

“What are you talking about, Y/N?” He asked you, still trying to wrench himself free.

“For fucks’ sake, give it a rest. Apparently the royal knot tyers are the only members of this army who haven’t fallen lax in their duties.” You rolled your eyes at him. “Just give it a half hour and we’ll give you a chance to get out all the pent up aggression.”

“So you do have a plan? Any chance you want to let me in on it?”

“I think I’ll leave it for a surprise.”

The two of you sat there listening as the sounds of drunken celebration filled the camp. It only took 20 minutes for the revelry to reach a dull roar, and a smile crept over your face when you heard the first refrains of ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’.

“Ah, Jaskier, perfect timing.” You muttered.

The song started speeding up and spread through the regiment. You heard the soldiers start clapping along and seized your moment, bending your legs and driving your back into the post you were bound to at each clap, starting to shift it out of the ground with each drive of your shoulders.

Geralt finally seized on your idea and joined you in wrenching his post out of the ground. Within a few rounds of the song, they were loosened enough for you to drag them out of their anchors, causing the tent to collapse around you. You slipped your bonds over the ends of the posts and unraveled yourselves. Geralt gave you a look of appreciation as you hefted your post, flung the folds of the fallen tent off yourself and whipped the post around to take out the two guards that had been posted at the entrance.

“Well, let’s find our weapons, shall we?” You said, giving him a grin.

Apparently, your appraisal of the army had been accurate; you ran into minimal resistance as you made your way to the weapons tent and managed to knock out the only sentries you encountered before Geralt had a chance to react.

“Ah, my babies.” You said to yourself as you started resheathing the ridiculous number of knives you had accumulated for yourself, kissing each blade before you returned it to its rightful place.

“How can you possibly be comfortable wearing all of that steel?” Geralt asked you around a grin, watching you tuck a dirk between your breasts and wondering how you managed to not cut yourself.

“I’m a woman traveling the continent alone, Witcher. I’ve found that the element of surprise is my friend, and there’s nothing quite as surprising as an unexpected knife between the ribs.”

He actually laughed at that, strapping one sword to his back and one to his hip as you hefted your crossbow and loaded it with a bolt before heading back out into the snow.

You were met by the surprised faces of a drunken group of soldiers who were wending their way through the tents, arms around each other as the slurred the lyrics to their favorite song. You shot the first through the chest as you drew your longsword over your shoulder and you dropped your crossbow to the ground, slashing the second across the face before they finally regained their composure and sounded the alarm.

Geralt drew his blades and clashed with three of the remaining soldiers as you grappled with the other two. He managed to drive his long sword through one of their chests before the other two had a chance to converge on him and he struggled to drive them apart with his fists to allow himself room to maneuver. One of his opponents went down suddenly with a dagger through his throat and Geralt threw a look your way to see your first opponent down and missing an eye as you drove your knee into the chest of your second opponent, driving him into a post as you brought your sword around and ran it across his throat.

Geralt threw his assailant over his shoulder and rammed his blade through his chest as you let out a shrill whistle and hefted your crossbow as the sound of hoofbeats rose through the camp. Roach and your courser came charging around the bend suddenly and you latched onto your steed’s mane and swung yourself onto his back as Geralt vaulted onto Roach’s. You turned suddenly and led him back towards the officers’ pavilion as drunken soldiers did their best to pursue you.

“We almost forgot the fucking bard!” You grinned at him as you hopped off your horse and slashed through the back of the officers’ tent. You emerged seconds later with a terrified looking Jaskier, who you tossed over the back of your mount like a sack of potatoes before leaping up behind him and kicking your steed to a gallop.

“Either of you want to fill me in on what the fuck is happening?!” Jaskier shrieked as he bounced around.

The two of you ignored him as you rode on. You set a punishing pace through the whole night, not looking back until you crossed the river into the kingdom of Redania as the sun rose and you finally allowed your horses to slow their pace to a walk, dismounting to give them a rest.

“If my lute is damaged, I’ll never forgive you.” Jaskier whined as he inspected his instrument, hobbling along as he tried to adjust after the unceremonious thrashing he had taken during the ride.

“Jaskier, a little thanks should be in order. Y/N and I did save you from a rather nasty execution after all.” Geralt grinned at him as he walked beside you, Roach nuzzling him in the shoulder as he patted her snout.

“I told the two of you, I had the captain’s ear, I would have been able to talk us out of any trouble.”

You gave him a snort as your courser butted his head into yours, begging for his own pats. “Jaskier, you would have been strung up right beside us. Just think though, this little adventure has the makings of a great song, eh? I’ll buy you a nice hot meal and a bath at the inn we’re coming up on.”

“Well, I’d never say no to a bath. How close is this inn?”

“Just over the next hill.”

You arrived within an hour and made arrangements for the horses as Jaskier headed in to arrange rooms and meals for the three of you.

Geralt and you headed into the inn and you grabbed the two of you the largest mugs of beer you could arrange before joining Jaskier at a table and tearing into the trencher of bread.

“So, good news first.” The bard said. “I arranged for nice, hot baths for all three of us, in addition to our meals. The only thing is, they only had two rooms.”

Geralt let out a groan at that. “Fine, bard, I guess the two of us are sharing accommodations for the next few days then.”

“Aah, well. I figured, with you two having grown so close during our little journey, that you wouldn’t mind sharing the much, much larger room whilst I make due with the tiny, lonely room myself that I’ve already had them unload my things into.”

The two of you shot him equally reproachful looks over your mugs of beer as a barmaid arrived to let him know his bath was ready.

“Ah, splendid. Well, you two enjoy your breakfasts. I’m going to take a very long nap after my bath and I’ll see you this afternoon, or maybe even tomorrow.”

A whole roasted chicken arrived and the two of you tore into it without a word, polishing it off quickly as you hadn’t realized how famished you were.

“I’ll arrange for them to bring up the hot water for baths for us.” You told Geralt as you stood up and stretched, downing the last of your beer.

“I’m fine without.” The Witcher grumbled at you.

You gave him a derisive chuckle. “If we’re bedding together for the two days it’ll take for the horses to rest up, you’re bathing yourself at least once, I don’t need to smell everywhere you’ve been in the past month.”

He gave an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders as he followed you upstairs. It had been a while since he’d spent the night with a woman he wasn’t paying, and there was something about you he found disarming. Endearing, but disarming nonetheless.

“Ah, at least there’s two tubs.” You said gleefully as you entered the room. A group of attendants arrived a moment later, carrying four large buckets of steaming water between them that they emptied into the copper tubs before taking their leave.

You started by pulling off your supple boots and Geralt turned his back as he began to unlace his jerkin. He heard you give a soft laugh behind him. “Are we really going to pretend like neither of us have seen a naked body before, Witcher?”

He whipped around at the amusement in your voice. You had removed your corset and sleeves and were down to nothing but a thin linen tunic on top. He tried not to stare at the shape of your breasts moving beneath the fabric as you worked at unlacing your breeches. You shot him a wicked look through your lashes as you moved your fingers back to unstrap the multiple sheathes that had been hidden beneath your bodice.

He did his best to ignore you as he ripped his jerkin off over his head. He made easy work of his tunic and breeches and sank into the tub while you were still working on undoing the intricate trappings of your hidden arsenal.

“I really don’t see how you can be comfortable in all of that Y/N.” He chided you as you removed the final straps and drew your tunic over your head before shimmying out of your breeches. He did his best to keep his eyes occupied elsewhere as you stepped into your own bath, hissing at the heat.

“Comfort is a matter of individual preference, dear. Oh, that’s wonderful.” You sank into the water with a sigh and dunked your head under before coming back up with a gasp.

“So, you going to tell me how you ended up with a warhorse, enough steel to equip a small band of thieves, and the strength to wield a tentpole like a damn quarterstaff, or is that something I’ll have to guess at?” He asked as he dumped a bucket over his head and ran the water through his hair before shaking it back out and splashing you, making you yelp.

“I think I’ll keep that my little secret for now, Geralt. Maybe if you buy me a few strongales over the next few days I’ll regale you with my tale of woe.” You let out a sigh as you felt your muscles relax. “Maybe I’ll get you to tell me your history as well. I hear the Redanians have a liquor that will light your chest on fire and make you forget the seasons.”

He gave a laugh and settled his head back against the tub. “You think you can outdrink me girl, you’re in for a nasty surprise… fuck.” He hadn’t heard you leave your tub and sat up startled when you crawled into his, sloshing water over the sides.

“Oh, Geralt, you’ll find that I’m full of surprises.” You said before pressing your mouth to his softly and giving a gentle sigh.

He got over his surprise quickly and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you to him fiercely as he growled against your lips.

You gave him a small laugh as you moved your lips down the line of his jaw to his neck, running your teeth along his collarbone before nipping at him softly as your hands moved down the plains of his chest, dipping below the water to take his cock in your grasp. He gave you a satisfying moan as you did so and you began sliding your hand up and down his length slowly as you raised a small bruise on his shoulder with your mouth.

He bucked his hips up into your hand as you increased your pace and you moved your other hand below the water to play with his balls. You leaned against his chest and gazed up at him with heavy lids as you watched him come apart under your ministrations.

He arched his back and gave a heavy moan as he came in your hand and you grinned against his chest as he softened, planting soft kisses along his throat as he came down and his breathing slowed.

He swallowed thickly and grinned at you before scooping his arms underneath you and lifting you out of the tub easily, making you shriek with glee before he dropped you unceremoniously on the large bed and pounced on top of you, nuzzling himself into the skin below your ear as his large hands skimmed down the sides of your torso before coming to rest on your hips and kneading them, raising bruises on your soft skin.

He brought one hand between the two of you and ran his fingers through the soft hair of your mound before rubbing them between your folds, making you arch into him as you let out a thin whine, fluttering your lashes as you gazed at him. He grinned down at you as he inserted two fingers at an agonizingly slow pace and you moaned as he started fucking them into you, curling them against that sweet, spongy spot each time.

He added another finger as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling your clean scent as you mewled and whimpered, begging him for more. He started strumming your clit with his thumb and you writhed underneath him, doing your best to grind your cunt into him as his fingers stretched you.

It was almost too much when he added the fourth finger and you wrapped your hands in his silver hair, pressing his face to your neck as you cried silently. He moved his mouth back to yours as he increased his speed and pressure on your tiny bud, moving his tongue softly past your lips and tangling it with yours. You came around him, clenching down on his fingers in your release as all the breath rushed out of you. He felt you go rigid beneath him before you collapsed back against the bed with a sigh.

“You think you’re ready for me sweetheart?” He asked as he kissed your neck, moving his hands up to palm your breasts.

You pulled his head back by his hair and gave him a grin before squeezing his sides with your thighs and rolling until you were on top of him, straddling his hips.

You sat up over him and he groaned at the sight of you, soft skin moving over lean muscle, a patchwork of faint scars covering your torso. He ran his thumb over an especially noticeable one that ran over your ribs below your left breast as you guided him to your entrance and sheathed his length inside you suddenly, making him hiss.

You started grinding against him, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone before you started fucking yourself on his cock. He tossed his head back with a moan and a murmured “Fuck” as his hands moved to your hips and guided your thrusts, meeting your hips with his own as he rutted up into you.

He sat up suddenly and pressed you to him as he knelt beneath you, staring into your eyes with lust blown pupils, a thin golden ring around a pool of deep black. You wrapped your legs around his back as he fucked up into you at a faster pace, making it hard for you to breathe.

He wrenched your head down to his and crashed his mouth against yours, his tongue invading you hungrily as you felt your pleasure starting to coil in your abdomen and you whimpered into his mouth.

He felt you starting to clench around him and moved a hand between you to strum at your clit. It only took a moment and you were flying apart around him, every muscle below your waist spasming as your orgasm wracked you and you cried into his mouth. His release was right behind yours as his hips stilled and you felt his spend spurting into you, coating your velvety walls in his release with a feral growl.

He collapsed back on the bed, still holding you to him as you both came down from you pleasure, breathing heavily as your hearts pounded together. You propped your chin on his chest and gave him a sinful grin that he returned, planting a kiss on the top of your head as you started to untangle yourselves.

“Well, if all your surprises are that pleasant, Y/N, I can’t wait to find out more.” He said to you over his shoulder as he stood up from the bed, grabbing a towel to finish drying himself off. He tossed you one and you ran it softly between your thighs, cleaning the mixture of your releases from your slit as you grinned back at him.

“My dear Witcher, I aim to please.” You threw a wink at him before you stood up and stretched. “I arranged for some clean clothes to be brought up, could you check the door for them?”

He peeked his head out and brought in two sets of soft woolens, tossing one to you. You yanked a tunic over your head before stepping into the clean pair of breeches. You decided to forgo most of your blades for the moment, opting for a simple belt that contained two daggers once you had finished lacing up your bodice.

“Shall we head down for more ale?”

“Gods yes, what else do you know about this storied Redanian liquor?”

You gave him a throaty laugh as you headed down to the main room and lute music floated up to meet you.

“Ah, Y/N! Geralt! My friends! Join us for a song won’t you? Y/N, I still want to hear you sing ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’ for us, eh? Oh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger, Come Quell your Daughter’s Hunger”

“Gods, Jaskier, aren’t you sick of that song yet?” Geralt growled half heartedly

“Pull the stick out of your ass, Witcher. C’mon, Jaskier. To pull on my horn, as it rises in the morn!”

“What a lovely voice you have my lady! For tis naught but bad luck, to fuck with a puck!”

The Witcher rolled his eyes at the two of you as he headed to the bar and the rest of the patrons joined in. What he wouldn’t give to never hear this abominable tune ever again.

“Lest your grandkid be born, a hairy young faun! Bleating and baying all day, hey ho!”

Permanent Tags:

@drabblewithfrannybarnes​

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

[x-reader-theater]

Take a Chance, for the Nights are Short {3}

Relationship: Geralt of Rivia X Male!Reader

Summary: It’s one thing to say you’re going to kill a monster. It’s another to actually go through with it. 

Warnings: Cursing, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Allusions to Sex

Word Count: 2,111 words

A/N: Alright! This is my second to last chapter for this fic! I’m still working on the sequel, which I think all y’all will love. This one is a little bit longer, and there’s only an allusion to sex, no actual sex because I just didn’t want to write it. Also, there’s finally some fighting! I’m excited for all y’all to read it! Please like and reblog and please tell me what you think! So, without further ado, chapter three of Take a Chance, for the Nights are Short. 

Chapter: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Chapter 3: Black Ooze is not an Effective Lube

There's a snapping sound and you shoot up on your bedroll, looking around frantically. You palm for your sword and look around. It was far too loud to be apart of the fire. It seems Geralt hadn't heard it. He's still asleep. 

"Geralt!" You hiss through your teeth, trying to wake up your Witcher as you slip on your silk shirt, without letting your would-be attacker know you're awake. "Geralt!" You're a bit louder this time, and it seems he's heard you. Looking over you see him sit up suddenly and look around. The light from the fire has dimmed significantly, but it's not totally out yet. You see him looking around in confusion when there's another snapping twig. His head whips to it like yours did a minute ago and he lifts his chin into the air. He looks like he's… sniffing? 

His eyes widen and he says in horror, "Oh. Fuck." 

Something jumps out from the brush and barrels over to you. A mat of brown fur is all you see as two giant paws start coming towards you. It's a giant, fuck off bear. The bear rears and growls out a large roar, before looking down at you. It moves to land on your chest, to rip you apart from the inside out- 

When Geralt dives from where he was sitting and tackles the bear to the ground. You scramble to your feet and hold your sword up with both hands, getting ready to strike, but Geralt stops you. 

"No! Stop!" You let your sword fall to the ground, your arms hanging useless at your sides. "Get some of your meat!" 

You fumble for your bag that's slung over Jennis and reach blindly into it. You pull out the tied and salted meat, and call out to the bear, "Hey! I have some food for you here! Go and get it!" You show it off to the bear, who watches as it's thrown far into the thicket, before taking off and running off after the meat. 

You stand in shock for a moment before Geralt's running to the fire and kicking dirt onto it, stamping out what remained of the flames. "Come on. We need to go. That won't occupy the bear for long!" He shouts to you and you shake your head, struggling to put your armour back on in record time. It wasn't record time, because you see Geralt bend done in front of you and grab your helmet for you, stuffing it into your chest. You grab it and let out a breath with force as the helmet collides with your chest, the familiar clink of metal echoing out over the lake. You slip it on and rush over to Jennis. You roll up your bedroll and stuff it unceremoniously onto the back of Jennis, before placing your foot in the stirrup and throwing yourself over. You shift as you get comfortable on Jennis, before looking over at Geralt. 

"Follow me!" You shout, and you take off, away from where the bear went. You speed through the forest, the trees whipping by you as you dodge and weave. You ride for a few minutes before stopping in front of a mouth to a cave. You look back and see Geralt is only a second behind, stopping right next to you. You lean forward on your saddle and grin at him. "I think we're far enough." You slide off Jennis. "Come on. We can spend the rest of the night in this cave."

"No we can't," Geralt says. 

"And why not?" You turn with your hands on your hips, not wanting to let him tell you what to do. 

"Because," he says, strapping his two swords to his back. "This is about 500 paces west of the lake." He smirks and your face drains of blood. You're scared. It was one thing to say you're going to kill a beast. It was another to actually kill it. 

Geralt thrusts a lit torch into your hand, and you draw your sword with your left, steeling yourself for what was sure to be a bloody fight. You and Geralt enter into the cavern, and you hold your torch up high, making sure Geralt can see everything he needs. The cave looks like it only stretches on for a few more feet before opening up and becoming wider, but there are large cobwebs leading into the cave that have you worried already. 

Geralt doesn't hesitate though. He just strides right on in. You follow. 

"Geralt I-" 

"Shh!" He snaps, and you close your mouth so hard you hear your teeth clack in your mouth. 

As you walk in further, the amount of webs in the cave multiply, and soon everything you're able to see is webs. There just so happens though, to be a small, one-person path that goes straight to the center of the room. When you enter, you look around, holding the torch aloft as you see yards and yards of spider's web, stretching all along the walls and ceiling. 

You turn around to just look at the exit of the cave, and you are met with eight red eyes staring back at you. 

You scream and drop your torch, grabbing your sheath and yanking your sword out as the cave plunges into darkness. It's only for a moment though because the web alights, and the fire spreads quickly. The room is illuminated in an orange glow and you look behind you to see Geralt looking at you in shock and worry. The eight-legged beast is hanging right behind him. 

"Geralt! Behind you!" You say it almost too late. The spider lunges out with its fangs, going for Geralt, but he rolls underneath the striking beast and stands behind it. He draws his sword as it's lunging for you now, and swipes its' thorax. It shrieks an inhuman scream. It recoils back into itself, climbing up into the ceiling. 

You walk over to Geralt and ask him, "You okay?" 

He's looking up at the monster and he walks towards you, causing you to back up a few steps so you're directly underneath it. "Yes. I'm fine. Focus on the monster!" He's angry, and his eyes are pure black. There are black veins snaking from his eyes. He looks demonic. He looks like a Witcher. 

Geralt turns around and you do the same, the flames burning brighter around you, licking at your leather boots, trying to catch on your clothes but they can't. You look up at the spider, who's sitting there, waiting for something to happen, and you press your back to Geralt, trying to get more underneath the spider. You look back and see Geralt doing the same as you, and he pushes back as well. You're so close, there's no air between the two of you as you look up, and prepare your swords. 

"Hey! Monster!" The spider's eyes whip to Geralt. "You want a meal? Come and get me!" Geralt takes a knife out of his belt and throws it straight up, landing in one of the spiders' legs. It screams that horrible screech once again and lunges for Geralt, who dodges out of the way. You swing up and through one of the spiders' legs, black gore spitting out and landing a foot away from you onto the fire. It sizzles. You scrunch your nose at the putrid smell. 

Geralt tries to move out of the way of the spider's web, which is flung towards him, but he's too late. The web catches his armour and he's pulled back into the spider. He tries to slash with his sword but the spider spins its' web around him, holding him in place. You see its maw open and without even thinking you run with your sword pointed straight at the spider's abdomen. It rips, tears, and breaks apart the skin in moments. The beast screams and flails, sending Geralt to the ground with a large thump. You drive your sword further into the spider and black ooze like blood drips out onto the floor. You pull your sword out and the spider curls its legs into itself, and hangs there, dangling from its web. You're panting, and you wrench off your helmet, trying to catch your breath in the smoke-filled room. You sheath your sword. 

"Uh… a little help?" You peek around the spider and see Geralt on the ground, still encased in webbing, trying to get himself out but failing. 

"Oh! Right!" You leap into the fire, making sure to avoid the black goo that's currently burning as well, and you dash over to Geralt. You take out your dagger, cutting him free. You hold out your hand and joke, "I guess you could say I'm a knight now. I have officially saved a damsel in distress." 

Geralt grunts and rids himself of his remaining webs. The fall behind him and catch flame. "I'm not a damsel." 

You smile. "Whatever you say!" You turn and go to the spider, taking your dagger and slicing the beast open even more. The black ooze drips from the carcass, as well as a multitude of organs that splat on the ground. You don't have to search for long though because the heart is right in the center of its' fat body. You reach out and cut everything you need to, and take the heart out of the body. 

You feel the smoke start to get thicker, and you turn to Geralt. "We should leave. I'm done here." 

Geralt nods and the two of you walk through the fire and the smoke to the fresh air. It's Dawn now. You walk over to Jennis and grab a lead box from your bag, and you place the heart inside it. You place the box back in the pack. You walk over to Geralt who's leaning against the cave wall, soot covering his hair and face. 

"I think we make a pretty good team, Geralt of the Witchers," you say with a smirk. 

Instead of an answer or a retaliation, Geralt grabs your shoulders and slams you into the rock, an unfamiliar creak coming from your armour as it shapes to the rock. He slams his lips into yours and you immediately run your hands over his back and into his hair, tangling them in the white locks. You tug Geralt away and give a lopsided grin as he moans loudly into the quiet forest. You attack his neck with your lips, sucking and biting, and he groans against you. You feel his moan vibrate through his neck and down his shoulders and you shiver as he squeezes your hips underneath your armour and chainmail. 

"As much- ah… as I would like to- mmm…" Geralt interrupts you with a kiss. You pull away and grab his face in your hands. "As much as I would like to continue this here, we have nothing to prepare and I would really like to be in a soft bed without my armour on…" 

Geralt sighs and rests his head on your shoulder. He tilts his head and kisses your neck. "Fine…" he growls out, and you smile, kissing his hair. 

The ride back to Cintra is quiet, but if you ride a little closer to Geralt, he's not saying anything. The ride back is fast as well. You're both wanting something and will stop at nothing to get in soon. You're anxious but also so ready. As soon as you ride through the gates, Geralt takes a sharp left and you ride for only a few more seconds before he good off his horse, ties it up, before striding inside. It's just past nightfall, and you could do with a little bit of sleep after your, nighttime activities. You follow suit, though a little less gracefully, and see Geralt talking to what looks to be an innkeeper, as this is an inn. 

He thanks the man and walks up the stairs. You follow though the innkeeper is yelling at you to stop and talk to him. You don't. You just follow Geralt up the stairs like some sort of fucked up chase. 

As soon as your foot hits the second landing, you're being dragged into a room and pushed up against the door. You close your eyes and moan as lips start sucking on your neck. They pull away and you are met with two, almost glowing, cat-like eyes. 

You're pretty sure the entire inn can hear you that night. You're pretty sure they can hear Geralt too.

[manjuhitorie]

Shinoda’s Instagram Q&A July 18th 2020 - Part 1

👋How are Retro Tone’s Saddles? 🗣The steel saddles are way worth a shot　 　👀 http://astronauts69.com/retrotone/ - https://twitter.com/sho_do_teki/status/1019548356383682561

👋What bandsmen have you been keeping in touch with? 🗣I got calls from Hiroki-san of Lego Big Morl And Adam Touch Takahashi of Bed In (honorifics omitted) I’m usually never the one to hit people up first... 

👋What are you doing awake this late? (approx 3AM JST) 🗣Listening to Audrey on the radio 　👀 Audrey are a manzai comedy duo! https://wow-j.com/en/Allguides/other/tips_manners/02304_en/#2

👋 Have you eaten any pudding lately? 🗣I deeply apologize for waiting so long to make this clear. The pudding phase has long ended. We had a good run everyone.

　👀 https://twitter.com/sho_do_teki/status/1245973638550917121 Shinoda had found a pudding recipe on cookpad which requires only a microwave, a single egg, then milk, sugar, and a sprinkle of vanilla essence! This discovery sparked a trend among Hitorie fans, as many were giving it a shot themselves and joining in on the sweetness!

👋 What is your favorite? 🗣My favorite what?

👋 Are you sleepy? 🗣No problems here

👋 What’s your opinion feeling on cicadas? 🗣My opinion is that they’re dogshit

👋 I’m knee-deep in depression right now, what do I do.. 🗣Watch Audrey videos on youtube You’re bound to laugh and whisk the time away, it’s ideal

👋 How are you? 🗣Physically I’m healthy. Mentally I’m so-so.

👋 Did you get ygarshy any presents for his birthday? If you did, what did you get him? 🗣I can’t tell ya bastards.

👋What happened to your smoke machine? 🗣I still have it 　👀 https://twitter.com/sho_do_teki/status/1269167465499521025 
For SND’s birthday, ygarshy had gotten him a smoke machine. The kind commonly seen at concerts to add effects.
 To quote Shinoda’s reception, he said, “I’m sure y’all got a taste of the level of insanity our bassist is, judging from the MC chat reports of last year’s tour but… This should really set in stone just how insane he is.” 

👋Any new song recs? 🗣SUTENEKO by Siamese Cats 　👀 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVSBarQH6ZY

👋Are you still working out? 🗣If it’s okay to say that I’m still at it then.. Yeah I’m still at it.

　👀 He had been developing aches/feeling like he had muscle atrophy due to drawing so much manga. Thus, after even Hitorie’s manager urged him about the necessity to work out, he finally picked it up. Though he did tweet “I was working out while I slept last night, and now I can’t stand up… Fuckkkk thissssss!!” https://twitter.com/sho_do_teki/status/1264486160211951617  So… Fight on, SND!

👋I want to know what you’ve been eating lately! 🗣I’m cooking hamburgers and hotdogs at home

👋What have you been up to? 🗣Listening to Audrey on the radio

👋What are you up to right now👀 🗣Listening to Audrey on the radio

👋 Do you create distortion by using your amp, or by stomping around by your feet? 🗣By my feet

👋 What’s next after the pudding phase? 🗣I’m in a hamburger phase now

👋 Who manga artist you especially like 🗣I’ve always loved Douman Seiman sensei 　👀 https://myanimelist.net/people/12266/Sayman_Dowman

👋 What’s good about Jaguars? (*the car I think) 🗣They look all robotic

👋 What cigarettes have you been smoking? 🗣Marlboro gold

👋 You strike me as the type who talks to himself a lot, so I ask, do you talk to yourself a lot? 🗣Kinda, yeah

👋 What Hitorie songs are best to start out with? 🗣Like Senseless Wonder Or any relatively simple one

👋 What shampoo do you use? 🗣The Seven Eleven one

👋 I can’t make a song.. The day is going to end in vain again..

🗣The day you finally make it will answer everything Or at least we can hope...

👋 How’s your kitty? 🗣I don’t fucking have one

👋 I want to go to a concert 🗣I wanna go tooo

👋 Any RPG recs? 🗣Landstalker You can play it on a SEGA Genesis Mini, go ham on the ungodly maps

👋 I like you? 🗣What?

👋 Do any movies hold a special place in your heart? 🗣9 Souls probably  Chihara Junia is so awesome 　👀 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0370244/

👋Please take a selfie 👣 🗣I can’t right now fella

👋What onigiri filling do you like? 🗣Spicy cod roe and/or tuna

👋I just want to give up on studying for entrance exams. But I can’t. How do you achieve that which you don’t want to do? 🗣I feel like I’ve never ever even achieved that which I don’t want to do.. 👋 Any recent purchases?
 🗣 *https://www.jimdunlop.com/cry-baby-mini-wah/

👋 Who’s the greatest genius you know? 🗣Shimoyaka 　👀 Check them out here: https://twitter.com/simoyaka - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9qsoxiPKaY - Tanaka Bunko is the name of Shimoyaka’s doujin group.

👋 Do you ever have troubles or worries? 🗣I do

👋 Which do you recommend out of the great Ghibli 4 playing in theaters? 🗣Well, anything but Mononoke Hime..

👋 My ex girlfriend introduced me, so when I listen the memories come flooding back... 🗣What are you talking about?

👋 I’m torn on whether to cut my hair or not, should I? 🗣Enough already, just cut it.

👋 Do you have a favorite Tanaka Bunko song? 🗣High Score Girl (👀 https://ch.nicovideo.jp/simoyaka/video/so36488388) It sounds like Dinosaur Jr. ( 👀 The western band)

👋 Have you gotten good at any cooking recipes lately? 🗣Do hotdogs count as cooking?

👋 What to do when you can’t sleep 🗣Listen to the radio and stuff

👋 Why don’t you get a kitty?
 🗣Laziness and allergies as a joint force are preventing my kitty endeavors

👋 Will you sleep after this? 🗣I don’t know

👋 For my Coming of Age Ceremony, I’m not sure if I should cut my hair into a short bob or let it grow long so I can style it. Which suits your tastes more Shinoda-san?
 🗣The short bob 100%

👋 So you like girls with short hair.. Then, what hair color do you like? 🗣I don’t really care as long as it looks good

👋 I slept as this time yesterday, but I woke up at this time today. I want to be reborn as a Marlboro gold cigarette.

🗣It may be wise to not aspire to turn into consumables much

👋 What kind of gear is on your current pedal board? 🗣 *A picture consisting of a BOSS TU3W, Xotic EP Booster, WEED MDW-1 wah, Crowther Hotcake, Electro-Harmoni Nano Bass Big Muff, Arion SCH-Z Stereo Chorus, and BOSS DD-20.

👋 I just woke up, good morning 🗣Good morning

👋 Then I want to be reborn as a bed or sofa 🗣Chill

👋 Time to go to work! Cheer me on! 🗣Have a swell day

👋 I’m job-hunting right now, tell me something 🗣I hope it all works out…

👋 I’m a fan from Taiwan and a guitar newbie, do you have any tips and tricks for pressing chords? 🗣Make sure you’re pressing cleanly, I think

👋 Good morning~ Due to various circumstances I’m living in Tokyo for one month starting today, cheers to our battles to come 🗣Battles!?

👋 After drinking all night yesterday, I fell back to sleep 3 times before finally waking up just now. I woke up out of fear after remembering the news about the man who’s bladder exploded. 🗣That shit’s scary as hell? 　👀 https://nypost.com/2020/06/23/mans-bladder-explodes-after-holding-pee-for-18-hours-after-beer-binge/

👋 As a guitarist/vocalist what are you most careful of? 🗣Don’t wiggle around too much and wear yourself out

👋 Alco and Peace’s radio segments are just too damn good, ain’t they…? 🗣I’ve listened to the skit about Ichiru at an international tournie so many times that I’ve lost count, they’re seriously the best 　👀 They’re a manzai comedy duo too!

👋 What temperature do you keep your air-conditioning at? 🗣It depends but, when I do use it I’ll bring it all the way to 24 degrees celsius.

👋 What are you going to do now? 🗣No idea

👋 Have you ever been approached by fans at festivals or out in town? On that note, is it okay to approach you? (；.Д.) 🗣I have. It depends on the time and place.

👋 I love you. Time to go to work… 🗣Have a nice day

👋 Do you ever go to cat cafes and stuff? 🗣I’ve been.

👋 I’ve been job hunting with no resolution in sight, please give me words of encouragement! 🗣You can do it~

👋 Good morning,,, I bombed my mock exams and would love a picker-upper,,, 🗣Well, mock exams aren’t the end so

👋 What do you think of girls who cheat? 🗣I think they’re girls who cheat

👋 I keep doing Hitorie cover bands but I can’t seem to improve the skill* (I’m the drummer) 🗣I’m amazed that you’re even trying at all

👋 Good morning.. Please cheer me on,, 🗣You can do it~

👋 Can you tell me what entertainer you like! 🗣Kamomental 　👀 Another nother manzai duo!

👋 How to restore absolute exhaustion 👀Find something immersive, or laugh-inductive, or just go to sleep…

👋 What’s your favorite out of all the Hitorie merch released thus far? 🗣The album art pins

👋 What is the philosophy behind men who have affairs? 🗣They’re the type who can do it and stomach it, so they just do it, I think

👋 The album cover pins are so cool that I hesitate to use them, Shinoda-sensei what pins do you use? 🗣I always lose pins in a matter of minutes so I’m too scared to use them..

👋 I miss Shinoda-san’s girl and cat drawings 
🗣I haven’t been drawing much huh

👋 Do you listen to anything besides Audrey on the All Night Nippon radio station? 🗣Not much, only like Creepy Nuts (👀 They host a hip-hop/rap battle station!) or Sakuma (👀 He takes letters from listeners and digs into various hypothetical or real events)

👋 What’s the most recent movie you’ve watched? 🗣Lost Paradise in Tokyo 　👀 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1519647/

👋 It’s Sunday yet I have to wake up early and go to work, please put my heart at ease,,, 🗣I pray for your health…

[wildwesternwoman]

Yeehawgust Day Three: Pony Express

A/N: I am doing Yeehawgust this year as writing prompts (and I am VERY behind). While this is an RDR blog, this is ORIGINAL fiction. There is, obviously, a lot of inspiration draw from Red Dead as well as other Western games, movies, TV shows, and books that I love. Mostly in the names of characters. All characters, however, are my own. All prompts will follow the same group of characters.

As always, feedback is appreciated.

Soundtrack: The Man Comes Around - Johnny Cash

“Let me have it!” Sophia screeched.

“Why, Sophie? It isn’t yours is it, Sophie?”

Mickery snatched the envelop from Len’s hand. “Why does he call you that anyway? All the time I known ya, no one’s ever called ya that.”

“Why dontcha go ask him? And give me that before you go.”

“Hey!” Andy’s voice boomed out, scaring all of them to stillness. They stared at him wide-eyed. Andy’s anger was not a fun thing to be on the business end of. “I thought I told you guys to leave that alone. It ain’t none a y’all’s.”

           Andy took the envelope from Mickey and laid it on the bed where he could see it as he buttoned up his shirt. MacKenzie had asked him to take it to the neighboring ranch. It surely wasn’t anything too important cause she didn’t even seal it. It was a large manila envelope and all she did was button it closed.

“I think it’s certainly my business,” Sophia interrupted.

“And just how’s that?”

“Well, it’s my ranch.”

           The boys laughed and Sophia stubbornly put her hands on her hips. Sometimes they all felt like they were children, merely pretending to be adults. Occasionally they would break character. This was one of those times.

“It’s your daddy’s ranch, Soph.”

           Andy did feel for Sophia. He really did. Things had been all laid out for her just the way she wanted up ‘til recently. Her sister came home from a cushy corporate law job and just waltzed right into Sophia’s job. Andy badly wanted to know why. Had Sophia done something in the almost year he had been gone to warrant her replacing? Was MacKenzie just that good at running ranches? He couldn’t see that.

           Andy wanted to ask Mr. Alder – and had it been a year ago, he might’ve. But things just didn’t quite feel the same anymore. This was still home, but it felt like the family had changed. Len and Sophia – and Mickey – they were really all he had left. The only things that had remained the same in that year. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“That’s Sophie,” Len teased, pulling Andy from his thoughts.

           He found himself lost in thought a lot recently. Reflecting on the changes he was seeing, on life, on definitively not being a young man anymore. He’d never felt older. At just 35. How pathetic. While the others argued on about Sophia and her new nickname, he thought about how he felt. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. He didn’t know if he wanted to know.

           He buttoned up his shirt, put on his hat, and picked up the envelope. Paying no mind at all to his friends bickering behind him. He walked right on out, much to their shock. Was he even listening to them? No, no he was not. And ss he walked out of the house, he came face to face with another person he didn’t want to hear babble on about childish nonsense.

“Where ya goin’, Rockford? Runnin’ out on our race?”

Damn Ryan.

“No.”

“Well, it sure looks like you’re leavin’.’”

           Andy pushed passed him, not quite feeling like he owed him any sort of explanation. He knew he wasn’t handling all the changes well. Ryan was kind of his boss. But he had done nothing to cause Andy to show him any kind of respect. He was certainly not a leader.

           And Ryan was certainly not used to the lack of respect that Andy consistently showed him. Sure, he might’ve been an old hand, but he had been gone a long time and a lot of things had changed. He was going to have to be shown that things were much different now. He placed his hand firmly on Andy’s shoulder.

           Andy whirled around, face to face with Ryan. Both of the men felt angry and disrespected. It was an absolute recipe for disaster. Andy’s immediate urge to ball up his fist and punch Ryan directly in the face vouched for that.

“Ya wanna take your hand off ‘a me?”

“Ya wanna tell me where the hell you’re goin’?”

“No, I do not.”

           Ryan felt like he was at a crossroads here. If he let Andy get away with this disrespect, it would save a fight. A fight that could potentially land both of them in a lot of trouble with Hosea or Mr. Alder. But Andy would then always feel that he had a right to disrespect him. If he put him in his place, however –

“Let him go now.” His internal monologue was cut off by a feminine Southern voice. “I said now, Ryan.”

           MacKenzie Alder was her daddy’s eyes and ears on this ranch and she was out to prove she could do a better job of that than her sister. Two of their best workers killing each other would not lend itself to her favor. She was already at a disadvantage in that a lot of the older hands didn’t like her, especially Andy. They felt she had stolen the job from Sophia, even though she was immensely more qualified. Perhaps coming to Andy’s rescue would win her some point.

“Not that it is any of your business since Mr. Rockford is off the clock, but he’s running an errand for me. Taking some documents over to Green Rose.”

           Ryan looked at Andy a beat longer before letting him go and taking a step back. MacKenzie was a smart woman, she had to know that Andy had to be taught to respect more folks than just Sophia and those hands he hangs out with. They were not the ones in charge anymore.

“I expect no further issues from the two of you. Or both Hosea and my father will be informed, and that ends well for neither of you.”

           MacKenzie placed her hands on her hips – a power pose. She was in charge here. At least in this situation. No one else. Not her dad, not the foreman, and certainly not her sister. She called the shots. She wanted to get that message across loud and clear to these.

Ryan cursed. “Whatever, have a good ride, Mr. Pony Express.” And he stalked off into the house for God knows what.

           Andy looked at MacKenzie. In all the years he had worked here, he felt this was the first time he had really seen her. She looked similar to her sister in that they were both around the same height and blonde with light eyes. MacKenzie’s were a striking blue where Sophia’s were a deep green. They shared the same nose and same look on their faces when they were angry.

           But as Andy studied her closer, he realized the two could not be more different. Sophia was a cute girl-next-door type. Sweet and funny, she always looked like she belonged here. MacKenzie, on the other hand, did not. Even around the ranch, she wore dress clothes. Dresses, blazers, boots that you’d sooner see at a gala than in a pasture. She carried herself differently, too. At first, it seemed like she was more confident than her sister, but at closer look, she just expressed that confidence in her body language.

           Sophia was effortless, MacKenzie was all strategy. Andy reckoned both had their good and bad points. He just hoped she wasn’t expecting a thank you for coming to his aid. She didn’t seem to be. She just nodded at him, instructed him again to get that envelope to the neighbors, and then walked off into the house, as well.

           Andy could only ponder where that left him as he made his way toward the barn. He almost didn’t want to take his horse now after Ryan’s little

pony express

quip, but it was a faster route than the roads from this ranch to the next, so he saddled up anyway and headed off

[arthurmorgan-s-heart]

Arthur Morgan X Reader: Someone to Lose

Everything had gone without a hitch - at first.

The bank’s safes had been full to bursting, the customers and employees had put up little resistance, and the law’d been nowhere in sight - an easy, well-executed job. All that was left to do was get away.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment things had started to go wrong - was it when Arthur and Charles had taken a few moments more than they should have to make sure all the safes were empty? Had Bill shouted too loudly as he held the staff and customers at gunpoint? Or perhaps it had been Lenny, when he’d lingered in the bank for half a moment before following you?

There’s no way to be sure, and you suppose it hardly matters now.

Jobs could go wrong - they often did. It was the way of things - the way of the life you led. You’d lost count of how many towns you and the gang you’d grown to call family had been run out of to the sounds of gunshots and curses.

But now, as you ride away from the bank with empty hands and what seems to be half the lawmen in New Hanover hot on your heels, you feel true fear for the first time: the fear that this might be the end of you. The fear that you might lose everything; everyone.

Despite the panicked beating of your heart, you turn around in your saddle, firing blindly at your pursuers, hearing the others around you do the same do the same - though Arthur’s aim, as always, seems to be the most accurate and the deadliest out of all of you. Pained shouts ring out behind you as his bullets find their marks, though they do little to stem the seemingly endless flow of lawmen riding after you.

Arthur looks at you when he turns back around in his saddle to reload his repeater, his gaze lingering on you for barely half a second before it lowers to the gun in his hands, though it’s enough for you to see the fire that burns deep behind the infinite blue of his eyes - eyes that had grown dark with adrenaline and a rage that could only be seen in men fighting for their lives. You’d seen that flame before, many times; it always came when Arthur found himself in the middle of a firefight, making him come alive, making him into what he needed to be to get out of whatever seemingly desperate situation he found himself in.

That fire had kept him alive where other men would have died, you know that - and yet you can’t help but fear that, one day, it would lead him to his doom, as well. You shake the thought from your mind as soon as it comes, a bullet whizzing dangerously close to your ear. Now is hardly the time to entertain such thoughts. You know you have to focus on getting the lot of you out of this - alive.

The green expanse of the Heartlands unfurls itself before you, wild and magnificent and desperately open, offering no place to hide - you had to hope you could simply lose them. You veer off the road suddenly, and hear the others do the same, following you into the hills.

“Looks like they startin’ to let up!” Lenny shouts as you push the horses up a steep, rocky slope. You can barely hear him over the thundering of hooves and gunshots.

“Alright, c’mon!” Arthur roars, holstering his repeater before drawing his pistol. “We gotta - “

A shot rings out, seemingly louder than the others in the already deafening cacophony of gunfire, and Arthur’s breath suddenly seems to leave him, cutting him off mid-sentence. You turn your head as your horse reaches the top of the hill, and see red - blood. It’s streaming from his upper arm in a crimson wave that quickly turns the sleeve of his shirt from a pale blue to a deep, angry red, and cold dread washes over you at the sight. He’s dropped his pistol, the weapon tumbling back down the hill, forgotten.

“Arthur!” Lenny calls out, eyes widening. Your own blood is pounding in your ears, and you feel as if you can’t breathe, but you keep riding - there is little else you can do, though you do turn around to fire your revolver at the last few lawmen struggling up the slope after you. You’re not sure how many bullets you waste as you fire at them wildly, seemingly half-blind with tears and panic, but when you finally stop, there is no sign of them.

“Shit,” you hear Arthur hiss under his breath, the hand of his wounded arm holding on to the reins while he presses against the wound with the other. He looks up to see you looking at him as you bring your horse next to his. Your worry is plain to see, you know it - you’re not trying to hide it. He attempts a comforting smile at the sight, though it looks more like a pained grimace than anything. “I’m alright,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. There is a strain to his voice that he can’t quite hide, even as he takes the lead, guiding you back down the other side of the hill. “We’re almost outta this - can’t stop now.”

The thought occurs to you to protest - but you know Arthur’s right. So you follow him in silence, riding with the others for a few more minutes until he stops in the hollow of a hill, under a small cliff, hidden from sight. He’s pale already, and blood is dripping off his forearm and down unto his horse’s coat, rolling down its shoulder in fat red trails - and though he hardly seems to care, you feel almost sick at the sight. What if he bleeds out, right in front of you? What if he loses his arm? What if -

“Alright. Split up,” he starts before your thoughts can drag you even further into the dark abyss of your panic. He seems to struggle to keep his breathing even, and you trade looks with the others - they are as concerned as you. Even Bill seems to have momentarily forgotten about the money you’d had to leave behind, his eyes trained on the red staining Arthur’s clothes. “Go back to camp. Hope I don’t need to tell you not to get followed.”

“Arthur, your arm - “ Charles starts.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur shoots back gruffly. “Don’t need no - “

“God’s sake, Morgan,” Bill snaps. “You’re bleedin’ all over the goddamn place. Bad enough we lost the money - “

“Wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t - “ Arthur starts, pain and irritation plain in his voice, though you climb off your horse before he can say any more, stepping between them.

“I’ll take care of him,” you say, moving closer to Arthur to take his horse’s reins from him. He resists for half a second before letting go. “Y’all go back to camp. We’ll be okay.”

Bill huffs out an annoyed breath, turning Brown Jack around brusquely before riding away without a word. Lenny opens his mouth to speak, but Charles reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, and he stays silent, simply offering an encouraging, tight-lipped smile before following Bill.

“You sure you’re okay?” Charles asks, meeting your eyes. You smile, as confidently as you can manage - you’re sure he sees right through you, to where all your panic and fear and worry are boiling into an uncontrollable ball of fire that might burst out of you at any moment, though he waits for your answer all the same.

“Yeah,” you say, and the steadiness of your voice surprises even yourself. “It’s alright.”

He looks at you for a few more seconds before shifting his gaze to Arthur, and apparently deciding you can manage on your own; he turns away with a silent nod before spurring Taima into a gallop and disappearing after the others.

“Alright,” you say as you turn back to Arthur, choking back the tears you feel burning the back of your throat as you look at his blood-soaked shirt. “Come on. Get down.”

With the others gone, he relents without protest, muffling pained groans as he climbs off his horse before allowing you to guide him to a nearby boulder. He sits on the ground with a laboured sigh, the last of the strength that had been holding him upward seemingly leaving him as he leans back against the rock bonelessly and closes his eyes. His hand is still clutched tightly over his wound, and the bleeding seems to have stopped - that’s good, at least, you can’t help but tell yourself.

Your hands shake slightly as you rifle through both of your saddlebags for supplies - a bottle of whiskey, a needle and thread, and an old shirt you can rip into strips for makeshift bandages until you can get him to camp. You find one at the bottom of his saddlebag, crumpled and apparently forgotten, but reasonably clean. It would do.

“My shirt,” you hear him mumble when you kneel on the ground next to him, looking up to see him staring down at the cloth in your hands with half-lidded eyes, veiled by exhaustion. “You gave me that shirt.”

You remember. He’d met you in town with a gash in his shirt from an unfortunate encounter with an unusually belligerent buck, and you’d bought him another one - as a gift, and as a thank you, for making you laugh harder than you had in years.

But now, instead of bringing a smile to your face, as it usually does, the memory brings bitter tears to your eyes.

“Yeah. I did,” you reply simply, not daring to say any more lest your words turn into sobs, blinking away the tears that had welled in your eyes.

You try and ignore the sound of his laboured breaths as you unsheathe your knife and go about slicing the shirt into makeshift bandages - for a long time, the only sounds to be heard between you, aside from the wind rustling the grass and the birds flying overhead, is the ripping of cloth and Arthur’s heavy breathing. You feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to look at him, focusing on your shaking hands and the dangerously sharp edge of your knife as you slice and rip and tear the shirt - and seemingly all the good memories associated with it - into tatters.

Only when the garment is nothing more than an unnameable pile of cloth on the ground in front of you do you meet his eye, looking up slowly, almost cautiously, and finding him looking at you with the same expression he had before - exhaustion, and gratitude, and concern.

“You alright, darlin’?” he asks finally, even as you reach up, one hand still holding your knife as you start to cut away the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt - it’s ruined anyway. He doesn’t protest.

“No,” you answer simply, truthfully. He must have expected your answer, yet he still seems taken aback, and he shifts under your touch, bringing the edge of the knife dangerously close to his skin. You give him a reproachful look.

“Ain’t the first time we been shot at,” he says. He hisses in pain as you peel the cloth away, revealing the wound; just a graze. Shallow, and clean. You can’t help a quiet sigh of relief. “Ain’t gonna be the last.”

“I know,” you reply. You don’t dare meet his eyes as you uncork the bottle of whiskey. “I just…”

You take a shuddering breath, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to look at him - every worried line of his face, the melancholy curve of his mouth. He was always so concerned about you, even in a moment such as this.

“Don’t wanna be without you,” is all you say before you lean forward, selfishly not allowing him time to respond before you tip the bottle over the wound, letting the alcohol trickle down over the damaged skin. He gives a pained, surprised gasp, one hand shooting up to grab at your wrist, fingers curling around your forearm loosely while the other tightens into a fist at his side, long groans of pain clawing their way from his throat.

“Lil’ warnin’ next time?” he pants when you’re done, and guilt flashes through you - though when you look up at him, he manages a small smile.

“Sorry,” you say as you inspect the wound. “Ain’t gonna need no stitches,” you add after a few moments of silence.

“Good.” You feel him watching you as you pick up the strips you’d made out of his shirt. He allows a few moments to trickle by in silence before he speaks again. “Y’ain’t never gonna be without me, darlin’.” He says quietly. You meet his gaze - soft, caring, honest, sincere. “Never.”

You bark out a laugh - dry and humourless. You wish you could believe him wholeheartedly - but a part of you know that he could be ripped from you at any moment by this life that you lead, and you from him.

“Don’t know that,” you whisper as you start bandaging his wound. Your fingers are still shaking. “It’s what we are. The life we got. Can’t know what’ll happen on the next job, or the one after that, or the one after that.” You hear our voice become thick with tears again, your breath catching as you fight back the sob that wants to tear itself out of your throat. “I wish things could be different,” you add in a whisper, barely more than a breath.

You’d wished it many times, had even allowed yourself to imagine what that different life might be like - a small ranch, a few horses, a dog or two or three. But that’s all it was: a dream. And you know it.

You’re so consumed by your own thoughts and the work of your hands that you don’t notice him reaching for you until you feel the rough pads of his fingers against your cheek, and you look at him.

“Soon,” he says, with a small smile. “Dutch’ll get us outta here, and we’ll be together, and things’ll be different. Dutch always gets us through. You’ll see.”

You give him a smile of your own, and you hope he doesn’t notice how forced it must look. There is something inside you that whispers that something has changed; and though you’re not sure exactly what it is exactly - it feels almost as if the world itself has shifted, just enough for fate to become crueler than it already is - , you know that it might very well lead to the end of everything you’ve ever held dear.

But for now you smile, and try to believe that you might have a future with the man you love.

Oof - I finally managed to finish something. I’m a bit out of practice, so I hope this is still somewhat acceptable. Terribly sorry for the inactivity lately, and I hope you’ll like it, @anorahble  💕💕

[andrea-lyn]

Western Malex prompt where Michael is a cowboy with a sordid past and Alex is a bounty hunter with a history with Michael

“Guerin,” calls Maria, “you might want to mosey out of here.”Michael glances up from the table that he’s been playing cards at, tipping his black hat up somewhat, giving her the head tilt as he asks her, silently, how much trouble he’s about to be in. In response, she pours five fingers of whiskey, which means on that scale of one to give, if he doesn’t hustle, he’s not leaving with his life.“Gentlemen,” he says, rising swiftly. “Y’all keep my funds, but I’ll be coming back to play you for them later.” He makes a hasty exit out the back, but it’s not quick enough to prevent himself from hearing a familiar voice. “Maria DeLuca, just the woman I wanted to see…”It’s like Michael’s been shot, for the visceral force of the punch that strikes him in his gut. He nearly walks right back into the saloon, but there’s two problems with that. The first being that his face adorns the majority of the Most Wanted posters in the room.The second being that the voice belongs to Alex Manes, bounty hunter extraordinary, and someone with whom Michael shares one hell of a past with. Even though it feels like his feet are tarred and stuck to the earth, he tips his hat lower over his face and forces himself out.Alex. What is Alex doing here? Given how Michael and Alex had left things the last time they’d seen each other, he suspects he already knows the answer is nothing good. On his way back out to the Evans ranch, he yanks down a few more Wanted posters with his face on them, grimacing as he shoves them in his pocket. Fancy that the man responsible for getting him on those posters has rolled into town. He knows that there had been a brief moment when Alex had almost had a poster of his own, but then, dear old Daddy had fixed that up real nice.Michael suspects that Alex is in town to collect on his bounty now, because that’s the kind of thing that he deserves in his string of bad luck.He stashes the papers in the well when he arrives back on the ranch, storming inside all rage and fire, earning both Max and Isobel’s concern. “What the hell happened to you?” Isobel demands, glancing up from the accounts she’s been going over.“Alex Manes is in town,” is the first thing he says, hanging his hat and heading inside the kitchen to make sure he’s out of sight from all the windows in case Alex didn’t roll into town alone and he’s been followed. “I don’t know what for, yet, but best be cautious,” he says, loading up his pistol. He doesn’t tend to carry it too often, but if he’s got to defend his life, then he needs it. Isobel and Max peer at him cautiously. They don’t know the whole of the story, just that the Manes family have it out for him.”He hasn’t sighted you?””No, DeLuca got me the heads up before things turned ugly, I slipped out the back,” Michael assures, sipping his whiskey. “I’ll head out to the fence I’ve been meaning to patch up, camp out under the stars for a while. When he’s gone, one of you can come and get me. I don’t want this trouble touching you. You’ve both been overly nice, letting me stay with you with the bounty on my head…”“You’re family, Michael,” Max retorts. “It’s the least we can do.”“We’ll do our best to throw him off the scent, but from what I recall, Alex has a particular habit of finding you.”There had even been a time when Michael had enjoyed being found by him, but that’s long ago and neither of them are those young idiots – not anymore.It takes him a few hours to pack up all his things, but when he goes to the stables to get his horse, he’s not alone as he slides the saddle on his girl. Isobel’s made her way out there, draping her shawl over her shoulders. “You know, you two never talked after the incident.”Michael chooses not to look at her as he works on tacking the horse. “Funny how your face all over a wanted poster would do that.” Isobel glances from Michael to his horse, then back to him. “You’re right. I can’t imagine why the Manes family would be so angry at you. That doesn’t mean Alex is.”“It’s too dangerous,” Michael says, because no matter what he might hope or feel, there’s no point in him having those emotions if he ends up with a bullet through his brain for the trouble. It means he lies low, waits for Alex to leave town, and goes right back to this pathetic life that he’s cobbled together for himself.It might be depressing as hell, but at least he’s alive to live it.Isobel squeezes his shoulder, giving him her moral support as always, but willing to let him make his own mistakes. “We’ll send a runner out when the coast is clear.”“Much appreciated,” Michael says, and begins his ride out until he’s two miles from the house where the fence has been in disrepair for months. He sets up camp and the first night, he doesn’t fix a thing. He cooks up stew by the campfire and drinks himself to sleep, which has the unfortunate side-effect of making him dream about the last time he and Alex had been alone together. In the morning, he wakes chilled and alone and it makes him angry. He takes out that anger on the fence, ripping it to shreds because in order to build it back up again, he needs to tear it down first. By mid-afternoon, he’s earned himself more than a few scrapes, but has the framework mostly in place. He’s in the middle of hammering in the posts when he hears footsteps over his shoulder. “If you’re here to hurry me up, there’s no point in me finishing until you give me the all clear,” he bitches at Max over his shoulder, hissing when the barbed wire catches his thumb and draws blood. “Unless that’s what you’re here to do, in which case, I got another day of work before I can head back into town.””Guerin.”Michael steadies himself as he rises to his full height. He’s got his back to the man, his bleeding thumb between his lips, but his other hand hovers at the handle of his gun, inches away. ”Guerin, I’m not here to bring you in.”Michael turns slowly to find Alex Manes standing there. Michael thinks that if this is his last day on earth, then at least the last sight he sees is the most beautiful thing in the world.”You’re not an easy man to find.””That was on purpose, seeing as your father made sure that every damn bounty hunter in the country would be after me.” Michael spits, sending dust flying, just thinking about the $500 bounty on his head. The fact that he would send his own son to collect it is salt in that wound, especially seeing as there’s no ‘dead or alive’ when it comes to the price on Michael Guerin’s head.Jesse Manes would never be that kind. The only word under that bounty price is DEAD.”You never even gave me a chance to talk to you before you took off,” Alex protests.Michael scoffs as he turns, sinking down onto the stool he’d brought with him. Alex has made it very clear that he’s not armed, both in the fact that his holster with both guns is several feet away and he’s stripped down to a loose linen shirt and tight trousers that wouldn’t hide a knife if they even could.”What was there to talk about? You and I got caught fucking one another in your Daddy’s barn and I’m the one who ended up on the wanted poster.””I’m his son,” Alex says, voice clipped. “He just beat me instead of going to the trouble of having my face sketched and printed. Besides, you stealing Dad’s prize horse definitely didn’t help matters. You spoiled his youngest son and took his pride and joy in the same day.”“I thought sons were supposed to matter to fathers more than horses,” Michael says, setting his hammer down. “How come the horse is the pride and joy and not you?”Alex scoffs and shakes his head. “You clearly don’t know Jesse Manes.”“So, you’re not here to bring me in for the bounty?”“I’m here for the opposite.”Michael’s curious enough to listen to whatever it is that Alex is proposing. He makes a gesture for him to go on, bending down to pick up his bottle of whiskey, drinking to give himself some liquid courage.“I know exactly my Dad’s methods. I know how he’ll come after you. I even know where he’s focused his hunt for you. You and me are going to make sure that no one comes after you again.” Michael raises a brow to ask how, but Alex gets there first. “There’s a few other criminals with your rough physical description out there. We’re going to have to shave those curls of yours for a little, at least until we can convince everyone that you’re dead, but once we haul in one of my other bounties and get your poster down…”“Then I’m a free man,” Michael says. “Free to do anything you like, go anywhere you want,” Alex agrees, and after a moment, adds, “Be with anyone you want to be with.”He hears the hitch in Alex’s breath when he makes that offer. “What if the only place I’ve ever wanted to be is by your side?”It’s the exact right thing to say, given how Alex’s face lights up with relief and determination. “Then I’d say it’s a good thing I’ve been looking for a partner.” Michael knows that he’ll have to tell Isobel and Max, he’ll need to shave his head (god help him), and it won’t be easy to avoid Jesse forever, but going out there with Alex to get that price off his head, riding side by side into the sunset?“Then you’ve got a partner, long as you want him,” Michael says, leaning forward to shake on it, brushing his thumb up and over Alex’s hand when they cement the agreement. Michael also knows one other thing.The next time they fool around, they’re doing it with a door that locks. He’s smart enough not to make that mistake twice.

[reddeadmort]

You wanted John Wick, you got it, with a bit of Deadpool thrown in. Here, Kieran's gone missing from Shady Belle and the reader goes off to find him. Probably less fluffy then you might have been hoping? 

Canon re-write as Kieran didn't deserve to die; might do a prequel/a few more chapters where the reader saves some other gang members; them that need savin' anyway. Warning: Kieran doesn’t escape completely unscathed.

Haven’t been able to spend much time writing recently, so this might not be particularly polished, but hopefully it’s still enjoyable :) 

“Nobody puts Kieran in the corner” | AO3

Technically a Kieran x f!reader, though poor bugger doesn’t have any lines. Arthur and Mary-Beth feature at the beginning/end.

Guidance: Violence. Lots of it. Tiniest hints of fluff. Kieran doesn’t die though, so that’s something? Eye trauma, lots of swearing. 

Words: 2.5k

“Y/N, have you seen Kieran anywhere?”

“No Mary-Beth, I ain’t. Something wrong?” You frowned; Mary-Beth look worried, and it wasn’t like her to fret unnecessarily.

“I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just….well…… this morning he asked me to meet him by the lake, to read to him. Except I can’t find him, and he’s never been late before.” You smiled at the thought of Mary-Beth reading to Kieran; you and her were the only ones that really gave him the time of day. He was sweet, always nice to you, and you loved how well he cared for the horses.  

“I’m sure one of the others sent him to get some supplies or something. When was the last time you saw him?”

“I’m sure it was…well, actually…. I don’t think I’ve seen him since he asked me. He said Hosea had asked him to check for post in Rhodes, and I haven’t seen him around since then.”

“Wait here, Mary-Beth. I’ll go ask Arthur.” You walked briskly over to Arthur, glancing over to the horses – it didn’t look like Kieran’s was there. You were growing increasingly concerned; you hadn’t seen Kieran since this morning either, and there had been reports of O’Driscolls in Lemoyne - they were spreading like a disease.

“Arthur, one of you boys sent Kieran out for something?”

“Hmm.. don’t think so Y/N. Everythin’ alright?”

“Not sure Arthur, not sure. I’m gonna go have a look for him. You fancy riding with me?”

“’Fraid not Y/N” Arthur sighed. “Dutch says I’ve got to go to some party in Saint-Denis, gotta dress up all fancy. I don’t know if I’m going to enjoy this.”

You laughed, the idea of this lot dressed up in evening wear seemed so ridiculous. “Treat it like a hunting expedition Arthur, then you’ll feel more comfortable. Anyway, I’m going to go have a look for Kieran now.”

“Sure thing, be careful Y/N.”

You started to walk away before turning back to Arthur.

“Here, Arthur, how come you never tell me to be safe? You always say ‘be careful’ to me, but ‘be safe’ to the other girls. You say ‘be careful’ to Sadie too.”

Arthur chuckled. “’Cause, Y/N, with you and Sadie it ain’t your safety I worry about. It’s the safety of anyone that looks at you funny.”

“That ain’t true Arthur… you make me sound psychotic.” You rolled your eyes, Arthur sure did exaggerate sometimes.

“Y/N, I once saw you kill three men in a bar... with a pencil. With a goddamn pencil. My goddamn pencil actually.”

“Oh yeh. Forgot ‘bout that.” You grinned at Arthur then walked off towards your horse. Arthur watched you leave, shaking his head.

-----

The postmaster in Rhodes was more than useless; his inability to see what was going on was useful when it was your group causing trouble, but when you wanted information it was not helpful. You were walking up towards the saloon, contemplating your next move, when you spotted that old veteran you and Arthur had given a few dollars to. A few more dollars later and you had the information that you were looking for, though it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

Apparently a group of rough looking men with Irish accents had accosted a weedy looking man that you assumed to be Kieran as he exited the post office. They’d headed north out of town; luckily there was enough of them they should be easy to track. As you mounted your horse, you contemplated going back to camp, rounding up a few of the others, but that wasn’t really an option. If these were O’Driscolls, and if they had Kieran, you didn’t have time to do anything other than chase them, hard. They were already a good half day ahead of you.

-----

You’d only been riding for an hour or so when you saw the smoke. You almost rode straight past, assuming the camp would be Lemoyne raiders – surely the O’Driscolls wouldn’t have set up so close to Rhodes and Shady Belle. There was far too much noise though; the raiders were like rats, covering this area, but they were never found in groups of more than 8 or 10.

You turned into the trees and dismounted. You left your horse a little way behind you, still in sight, and crept towards the edge of the small hill so you could look down into the little hollow the camp was positioned in, the evening darkness providing you with some cover. Removing your rifle from your shoulder, you settled down onto your front on the ground.

You scanned the camp through your rifle scope. Definitely O’Driscolls, and there was a lot of them – about 30. This was going to be difficult, even for you. The camp was pretty spread out, so it shouldn’t be particularly tricky to take a fair few of them out silently with your knife or bow. You decided to have a good look at the camp, then go back to your horse to arm up. You had your rifle, of course, and your two revolvers on your belt, but you wanted to make sure this lot got the best of you; and, in your rush to check out the camp, you’d stupidly left your ammo satchel attached to your saddle.

The O’Driscolls looked like they were having a celebration of sorts; for a moment, you wondered if your information was wrong. Then your scope settled on the figure of Kieran, swinging by the ankles from a tree branch, bound hands dragging on the floor. Thank fuck, he was still alive.

You’d barely finished that thought when the man holding the red-hot iron rod came into view. Without pause, or warning, the bastard held the burning metal to one of Kieran’s eyes. His scream hadn’t reached your ears before your finger squeezed the trigger, blowing out the brains of the bastard that dared hurt your boy. Fuck subtle.

The next shot got a particularly ugly fucker between the eyes. You smiled to yourself as the third tore through the head of one man and into the chest of another behind him. 4 for 3, not bad. You got off another 2 shots, ending two more pathetic O’Driscoll lives, before the idiots even realised where you were. Bullets thudded into the trees 5 metres or so to your side while you lined up your 6th rifle shot. You settled on a particularly stupid man that was attempting to hide behind a pile of crates. Unfortunately – for him anyway – he was cowering on the wrong side. You quickly removed his panic along with most of his face.

You pulled your head away from the scope, reaching to your side for another clip to reload. Your hand got halfway before you remembered where your ammo satchel was. Shit.

You looked up just in time to see the lit dynamite hurtling through the air towards you. Acting on pure instinct, you dropped your rifle and rolled to your side. You were about to cover your face with your arms when you witnessed the dynamite collide with an overhanging branch and bounce back towards the camp. You raised an eyebrow as you saw the little group of unfortunate men look at the still sizzling dynamite at their feet, then look at each other, then look at nothing as they were blown to smithereens. Well that was a freebie.

You looked behind you only to see your horse fleeing through the trees. Poor bugger never did like loud noises; he was a pretty crap horse for an outlaw. Sighing, you got to your feet, took shelter behind a tree and checked the chambers of your revolvers. 12 bullets, 20 odd men left. Maximum effort.

As you ran through the trees to the left of the camp, the O’Driscolls continued to fire at the spot you had vacated. Never underestimate the stupidity of idiots.

Reaching the edge of the camp, you paused, watching them unload into the trees up the hill. This was going to be too easy.

“Okay boys, I only have twelve bullets, so y’all goin’ to have to share!” you called out. As the men span round, you took out the 2 most alert fuckers – you might be slightly psychotic, but you weren’t stupid. Dodging behind a wagon, you let them unload a volley of shots at you before you crouched down and took out three with a well-placed shot from under the wagon into a small oil tank.

9 shots, 15 left.

Taking advantage of the confusion the explosion caused, you sprinted across to a pile of crates, loosing 4 shots as you ran. All 4 caught men in the chests; you preferred shots to the head, but there was a limit to what even you could do while running.

5 shots, 11 left.

Ducking out from cover, you fired off a round just as one of theirs whistled past your cheek. You felt the heat sear your face, the blood start running down. To your disappointment, your shot went wide, sailing past your intended target. Someone, somewhere, was obviously enjoying the show though, as another man popped out of cover just in time to take your rogue bullet between the eyes.

4 shots, 10 left.

You chucked your empty revolver to one side, switching the remaining gun to your right hand and drawing your knife with your left. Time to get personal.

You tugged your hat off your head and threw it up into the air as you dived towards some nearby tents. You watched as your hat – or what was left of it – hit the ground. Shame. Was a good hat.

You crept up behind an unsuspecting man, driving your knife into his back as you shot another distracted bastard. Using your knife, you dragged the man with you, utilising him as a rudimentary shield.

3 shots, 8 left.

Diving behind another wagon, you swore as you landed hard on a box, the contents spilling out. As you looked down however, you grinned at the red sticks next to you. Picking up two, you stood up and overarm launched them both into the air. Stepping out from cover, you waited for the dynamite to reach the head height of the surviving group before igniting them with two shots. You shut your eyes and turned your head as the spatter covered you. Lovely.

1 shot, 1 left.

The last man emerged from the smoke and didn’t even have a chance to raise his repeater before your final bullet ploughed into him, smashing him to the ground. You stalked towards him as he lay moaning and groaning on the floor. Standing over him, you took in the pathetic sight; one hand was clutching at his breastbone, the other reaching up to you in a begging gesture.

“If that hit you in the chest, I’m sorry.” You smiled at him and a look of confusion flashed through the pain on his face. “I was aimin’ for your crotch.”

“What the hell did we do to you, you crazy bitch.” The man gurgled as he forced the words out, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth.

You stayed silent, stepping towards the fire and slowly drawing another pointed iron rod from it. You walked back towards the prone man, chucking the glowing rod in the air, catching it again perfectly by the cooler end.

“It’s not what you did that angers me so…. It’s who you did it to.”

Starting to choke on his own blood, the dying bastard still managed to cough out a reply.

“Who? That fucking nobody?”

You squatted down next to him, resting your forearms on your thighs, before cocking your head to one side and staring at the unfortunate O’Driscoll.

“That fucking nobody is mine.”

In one swift movement, you buried the poker into the ground; it just so happened to pass through the man’s eye and skull before it hit the earth.

Standing up, you surveyed the destruction around you. Arthur was probably right; safety wasn’t really a concern of yours. A whimper from behind you snapped you back to reality, reminding you why you were here.

You ran to Kieran, swiftly cutting the rope holding him up, trying your best to support him and break his tumble to the ground. You made quick work of the ropes around his feet and wrists and helped him sit up. You got a good look at his face for the first time since the start of the fight. His eye was bad… no, his eye was gone. You could feel the rage rising in you again, but tried to dismiss it – there was no one left to take it out on.

“It’s alright Kieran, I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He collapsed into your chest, sobbing, unable to speak. You gently rubbed his back, letting all his fear, panic and pain leak out. After a little while, you pulled away slightly, tearing a piece of material off your shirt and tying it the best you could around his wounded eye socket.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you home.”

-----

It was early morning by the time you and Kieran arrived back at camp; you’d stopped a couple of times to let him rest and be sick. Arthur, Hosea, Dutch and a couple of the others were drinking and laughing at one of the tables, all dressed up in their finery. As you dismounted, they looked over, their chuckling ceasing immediately as they saw you. For a moment, you wondered why they had such horrified looks on their faces; sure, Kieran was injured, but he’d live. You glanced down at yourself only to remember what you were covered in, and the wound to your face. Your hand went to the graze; you’d completely forgotten about it, luckily it appeared to have clotted on its own.

Arthur and Hosea ran over and helped a still shocked Kieran off your horse. He’d been deathly quiet the entire ride back; he was going to take a little while to get over what he suffered, but you'd be more than happy to spend time comforting him. Hosea led him away towards the house, calling for Miss Grimshaw. Arthur stayed with you, hands resting on his belt, looking you up and down.

“Y/N… you were a bit less…. crimson….when you left.”

“Hey, bits of O’Driscoll are the lastest fashion accessory I’ll have you know” you grinned up at him, feeling the dried blood on your face crack as you did so.

Arthur chuckled before gesturing for you to follow him back to Dutch and the others.

“Come on you, you better bring us up to speed. How many pencils did ya use this time?”

“None I’m ‘fraid, sorry to disappoint. Got a good couple of stories about dynamite though.”

[papa-rhys]

Benevolence - Preview

Here’s Chapter One of my novel for your viewing pleasure. 

It’s only my first draft so it’s subject to change! Enjoy!

The papers have spelled my name wrong again – damn mess that they are. 

It ain’t like “Olivia Sullivan” is difficult and if they was strugglin’ so damn much, they coulda just used “Black Olli” like everyone else. They say I got some Indian in me, that it’s what makes me so “savage” in nature, but I don’t know if that’s true or not and I don’t reckon the press knows a damn thing they’re talking about when it comes to Indians. To be honest, I don’t know how much of anything them papers say about me is true, these days.  

Probably most of it. 

When you live the kinda life I live, you get in the habit of forgettin’ all the awful things you do. All the dead faces you leave behind ya tend to blur into one, and after a decade or so, the papers can say anything they damn well please about you ‘cause you can’t remember enough of what you’ve done to confirm nor deny it.  

Readin’ through the paper feels like I’m reading a Penny Dreadful, only I’s the subject of it. I ain’t got the foggiest idea whether or not I killed that man like they’s sayin’, just like I ain’t got the foggiest whether or not I got Indian blood tricklin’ through my veins. But I guess there could have been a point between the seventh and eighth shot of whiskey a few nights back where I did indeed bounce that man’s head off the edge of the bar and kill him. I suppose it does align with my reputation. 

I close the paper and fold it in half, slapping it onto the wooden bench beside me and getting to my feet. It’s a painfully hot day in El Santo, New Mexico - hotter than usual, even. The black shirt and jeans I’m wearin’ ain’t helpin’ matters, but us Sullivan’s always did value style over comfort. Stupid, really. Good fashion sense never did much to help ‘em when The Law came chargin’ into camp. The thought makes my skin flush even hotter and I shake it off. God, I’m achin’ for a little rain. 

Folk around town are busying themselves, taking advantage of the sunshine overhead. Cowboys mosey on by, dipping in and out of the saloon despite it only being just past ten in the morning. The ladies are dressed in their cotton dresses and holding their lace parasols, chatterin’ to each other about their god-awful husbands. 

Ma ‘n’ Pa always reckoned I’d make some feller a fine wife. And I suppose I would. If I wanted to. But I reckon I’m built for the life I got. I can shoot, I can brawl, I can lie, and I can damn well rob a feller blind. The Lord didn’t design me for cookin’ and cleanin’ and watchin’ babes in their cradles. I ain’t no damn maid and it’d be a waste of all I’m good at if I settled for bein’ one. I don’t gotta be cooped up in no farm house in order to show a man I love him.

I head for the general store and pick up a few supplies for the road. Baked beans, jerky, some cartridges for every one of my weapons, and a few carrots and corn cobs for my horse, Monty. It’s a long day’s ride ahead of us until we get into the next town over and I reckon we’ll both be beat by mid-afternoon and dyin’ for a good bit of grub. 

“Hey there, boy,” I coo, patting him on the side of the neck as he huffs. There’s a funny lookin’ guy standing outside the saloon a little ways up the street that’s been eyeing me since I went into the general store and I reckon I’ve been made. But I ain’t too keen on letting him know that I’m aware of him, so I keep my head tilted down as I fuss over Monty a little more. “We should make a move, I reckon,” I tell him, earning a shake of the head from him. “Yeah, well I’s the boss, not you.” 

I untwist the reins from the hitching post and mount up, keeping my head forwards as I bring Monty around and keeping my eyes off the man outside the saloon. I observe him from the corner of my eye on the way past – black hat, long black coat coverin’ a brown shirt, and gold capped boots. Ain’t no mistakin’ who he is. 

He’s a Red Wolf. Hell, I’d bet my life on it. 

I dig my heels in and Monty starts into a trot; his hoofs thudding rhythmically against the dirt road. I don’t want the Wolf to know I’s made him, but I sure as hell do want him to be able to catch up with me farther along the trail that leads outta town. He’ll follow, for certain. He wouldn’t be able to resist a young woman  and besides, he knows exactly who I am and Red Wolf creed says he’s gotta kill me soon as he recognises me. Here’s hopin’ he abides and manages to catch me.  

Otherwise, how else will I be able to kill him? 

I pull the reins steady and Monty comes to a stop at the side of the trail just before a winding tree. We’re about two miles outta town now and it’s one of the last few trees around before the scenery fades into open land, offering nothing but sky and half-dead grass either side of the trail.  

I’m outta my saddle in a split second, hopping down onto the dirt and securing Monty’s reins to the tree. He gets skittish around gunfire. Not all that useful for an outlaw, but he’s a good boy and does what he’s told, so I’ve kept him all these years regardless. He gets antsy as the man from town appears a ways down the trail and I lean against Monty with my elbow rested on the saddle and one boot crossed over the other, waiting for him to reach me. 

It takes a few minutes for him to catch up to me and for a moment I think he’s gonna keep ridin’ west, following the open road into the next town over; which would be a shame ‘cause I’m really in the mood for killin’. But he stops just ahead of me and drops down off his beige Arabian; his spurs clinking with the impact. 

He’s a few years older than me – maybe 30 ish – and his jaw is shadowed with a scruffy stubble that looks more than a few days overdue for a trim. There’s wrinkles in the corners of his eyes as he scowls at me and what’s visible of his cheeks between the wide-brimmed hat and the previously mentioned stubble is littered with scars. He makes his way towards me with his hands on his hips - flicking his coat open to flash me a glimpse at his twin pistols - and I turn to face him, lowering my arm to my side where my Colt sleeps, cradled against my hip. 

“Mornin’, Miss,” he says, nodding his head. He seems friendly enough but I know who he is. I know it’s feigned. That friendly neighbour act might work on cowboys and workin’ girls, but he ain’t foolin’ me and there’s no way he’d expect to given who I am and the history our clans got with each other. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and stop right where you stand, partner,” I tell him, stopping him in his tracks a few feet away. “I don’t reckon you’s as dumb as to not know you I am.” 

He smiles and his crooked, blackened teeth make my stomach churn a little. “I know’s exactly who you is, Miss Sullivan.” 

He dares to take another step – his hands still on his hips and his chest puffed out – and I draw as fast as the thought flits through my mind. Raisin’ a gun to a man is second nature to me. He chuckles and raises his hands, but not high enough. His chuckle stops and he draws too and in the blink of an eye, we’re both starin’ down the barrel of each other’s weapon.  

I fire first, but I don’t got any use for him if he’s dead, so I aim for the hand that holds his gun and blow a hole in his thumb, earning a roar from him. The pistol falls to the dirt and he stumbles and I’m on him in seconds; pouncing on him like a rabid dog. I’m straddling him now and he fights back until I clock him around the jaw three times with the butt of my Colt and he finally gives up. 

“Alright, alright, you made ya damn point,” he hisses, spitting a mouthful of blood into the dirt beside us. 

I grip him by the collar of his shirt, curling the fabric around my fingers and pulling tightly. “Who named The Sullivans?” I ask him. “Who told The Law where we was campin’?” 

He smirks up at me. “Your gaggle of inbred yeller-bellies had quite the bounty on yer heads,” he says. “Happens y’all just got sloppy.” 

I hit him again. “You know as well as I do that that ain’t true, so cut the shit ‘n’ give me the name of the Wolf who tipped ‘em off.” 

“I ain’t got –“ 

Another smack should do it. 

This time I angle my strike downwards and get him in the nose and the crunch it makes under the impact of my Colt is enough to damn near echo. It’d surely turn my stomach if I hadn’t done it a million times before.

He yells and his head flops back and for a second I’m worried I’s killed him, but he starts shakin’ his head and I reckon he don’t think his buddy is worth dyin’ for.  “Jacob Dixon,” he breathes, his head rolling on his shoulders and his eyelids fluttering. “Goes by ‘Dix’… he’s the feller who ratted ya damn gang out. Just… enough with the damn hittin’, girl.” 

“Where’s this feller at?” I ask. He shakes his head and swallows hard. “You tell me where he is ‘n’ I won’t bleed ya like a stuck pig,” I spit, my face inches away from his. 

“Don’t go pokin’ around for him,” he tells me. “You’ll only find stuff you didn’t wanna know.” 

“I swear to the heavens if you don’t tell me the location, I will kill you.” 

“Alright, alright… But if I tell you, you’ll let me go?” he asks, blood trickling into his mouth from his nostrils and spitting back up at me as he talks. 

“Sure, I’ll let ya go,” I tell him. “If you give me the location.” 

“We’re camped before the Arizona border. I don’t know the name of the place, just that it’s inside the boundary of the New Mexico Territory.” He coughs and splutters and spits another mouthful of blood. “We’s been there a few weeks.” 

“How many of ya?” 

“I thought was gonna let me –“ 

I’m runnin’ real low on patience and the thought of a bullet carvin’ a path through this guy’s skull is lookin’ real temptin’. “How many?” I roar. 

“Five of us! The rest of the fellers is spread out in different states. Boss wanted us coverin’ the way from here to California. Said you was gonna be comin’ for him ‘n’ didn’t want ya to get closer than he’d like.” 

I push myself up onto my feet and dust myself off, smacking the dirt away from my knees as he flops onto the floor. “What’s ya name?” I ask him, fixin’ the position of my hat. 

“Tommy,” he croaks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at the blood smeared across it. 

“Thanks for yer help, Tommy,” I tell him, raising my Colt and bringing the sights flush with his forehead. “But I never liked folk who grovel.” 

“No, wait, I –“ 

With a squeeze of the trigger, there’s one less Wolf in the pack. One less name on my list. Tommy’s blood seepin’ into the dirt of the trail beneath him, the liquid poolin’ around his head and creepin’ its way towards the spot where his Arabian had stood before takin’ off at the sound of the gunshot. His eyes are still wide with fear, his arms and legs sprawled out in every direction, and I feel damn good about it.

I wipe my mouth and then raise my neckerchief to my forehead to mop up the beads of sweat I’d earned in the sun-doused scuffle. Stuffing my Colt back into its holster, I head for Monty, who huffs and stomps at the gunshot that surely rings in his ears as much as it does in mine. “There, there, boy. It’s alright,” I tell him, placing my hand to his nose and soothing him. “I’s got us a lead on that rat of ours.”

[smilingformoney]

Platinum Diamond Scene: Act in a Sketch with Raleigh

Josh Morello: Awesome! Josh Morello: First off, we wrote two different versions of the script. Would you rather play a parody of yourself, or a parody of Jaylen Riaz? You: Jaylen? Fiona: Playing up your beef with Jaylen would amp your popularity up immediately. Avery: Then again, Cadence, it really just depends on whether or not you want to play up your rivalry with her. You: Hmm…

Who do you play on Last Call? -Jaylen

You: The people want what they want. Besides, I don’t owe her anything. Fiona: Good call. Josh Morello: Works for me!

-Yourself

You: I’d rather just make fun of myself. I barely know her, anyway. Josh Morello: Works for me!

Josh Morello: And don’t worry, this is last minute, so we’ll have teleprompters in case you forget your lines. Shane: Go forth and slay, you guys! Shane and Josh leave together. You: Guess we’re really doing this… Raleigh: I guess we are…

Soon, it’s almost your turn to go onstage with Raleigh for your skit. The curtains roll back. The lights blink on. The studio audience roars. You wait in the wings for your entrance. Host: Hello, hello! We’re back with Pop Star Jeopardy, your favourite place to feel validated when you know a piece of trivia a celeb doesn’t. Host: With us tonight, we have… your favourite rebel and heartbreaker, currently in the head and in trouble for crashing yet another yacht… Host: …Raleigh Carrera! Raleigh Carrera: Yo, what’s good. I didn’t think I’d be able to make it tonight… but turns out it’s pretty easy to blow off community service when you’re famous. The crowd boos loudly, but they’re loving it. Raleigh Carrera: What? What’d I say? Host: O… kay! Next up! Our other contestant decided it was better for their image to do charity work in Africa for the Pictagram posts… so we found a replacement! Host: Don’t ask which country in Africa… because they won’t remember! The audience boos again! Host: Bravely taking up the mantle, we have a surprise guest, your fave pop star killing it on Charttopper…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: Cadence!

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: Jaylen Riaz!

You walk on stage, trying not to trip, and place yourself behind the podium. The crowd cheers loudly, stomping their feet, when they recognise that it’s you.

-If you’re playing yourself

You: Hi, New York! I was busy… -Writing Raleigh Carrera’s name with hearts in my diary, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how head over heels in love I am for my wonderful partner yet?! Have you seen the thing they do when they flip their hair? They’re amaz--

-Talking about how much I idolise Avery Wilshere, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how big an inspiration they were and is to me, my life, and all of my music?

Host: Yes… many times! Let’s move on!

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Jaylen Riaz: Helloooo, New York! I was busy… -Adopting all the sick kittens in a shelter, but I’m here now! +2000

Jaylen Riaz: I was, like, definitely not gonna tell you guys I did this awesome, angelic thing because I hate humble bragging… Jaylen Riaz: But honest is just like, the most important thing to me, you know?

-Having ghostwriters write all my music, but I’m here now! +2000

You: Which is to say, I wasn’t busy at all!

The audience laughs appreciatively, which encourages you. +5000 Audience Member: Cadence acting onstage? What a twist! She’s so multitalented! Host: In Pop Star Jeopardy, all of the winnings go toward our celebs’ charity of choice… Host: …which typically means their next booze cruise in Ibiza! But we deal with it because of the ratings! Isn’t that right? Raleigh looks up from texting. Raleigh Carrera: Oh, sorry, you were saying? Something came up with my private island off the coast of Bora Bora. Host: …I think that means it’s time to start the actual game! Host: Today, our categories are… ‘Living Frugally,’ ‘Methods Of Public Transportation,’ and ‘How To Be Relatable.’ Host: Raleigh Carrera… You’re up. Raleigh Carrera: Thanks, Josh, you’re the man. I got this on lock. I’ll do ‘Living Frugally’ for 400. Host: Alright! You’re on a first date, but you only have $20 on you. How do you make that money go far… and win your date’s heart? Raleigh Carrera: Easy. What is… ‘Take them back to my penthouse for a topshelf nightcap…’ Raleigh Carrera: ‘…and spend the $20 on a Ride XL Lux Black so send them home and make sure they don’t spend the night?’ The crowd erupts into more jeers, but they’re all grinning. Raleigh Carrera: What, come on? It’s cost effective! Raleigh Carrera: I’m just saying what I know y’all are thinking.

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: That is… an incorrect answer! Cadence, take us home.

You: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Singer-Songwriter Broken Hearts Foundation?’

You: It’s for a good cause. We pour everything into our music. We have a lot of feelings. You: We also say ‘heart on our sleeve’ a lot.

-‘Escaped My Hometown And Never Shut Up About It Club?’

You: No one even knows where my hometown is, but I feel like it’s important to remind people of this a lot. And I support other people who do the same.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: That is… an incorrect answer! Jaylen Riaz, take us home.

Jaylen Riaz: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Yachts for Tots?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to grow up and not have a Tubular Two birthday bash along the lush, golden sands of Turks and Caicos.

-‘Screens for Teens?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: This foundation puts 4K TVs with 3D options into every classroom. Jaylen Riaz: Because no student should have to suffer through low-res movies.

-‘Equestrian for Pedestrians?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to get to their destination in anything less than a gold-plated saddle.

The name of the organisation gets a big laugh, and you see Josh smile at Shane backstage in the wings. That must have been one of Shane’s lines! Shane: … Host: And that response is… also incorrect! In order to win, you have to actually go on the date! Host: Who hurt both of you? Host: Let’s just skip forward to our final round!

-If you’re playing yourself

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Cadence. It’s getting real now.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Jaylen. It’s getting real now.

Host: The category is… ‘What do you do for fun?’ As long as you write or draw your answer, you will win! Host: So please… be sure to follow directions! Host: And don’t forget to select a wager!

-If you’re playing yourself

You glance behind the podium to see two notebook props.

Pick a notebook! -Diary with hearts -Journal titled ‘Poetry’

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Cadence, you go first. You lift the notebook up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the hearts diary/poetry journal

You: In my spare time, I love to write beautiful songs… And let people know that I wrote my own songs! You: Like, I really, really write my own songs. Did you know how much I hate using ghostwriters? Host: Oh, yes, actually! This is a well-publicised fact! Host: You know, you only had to write a sentence or draw a picture on the lectern, not author a whole book… You: In my pursuit of authenticity and art, I cannot be silenced. Host: Marvellous, I suppose! And what did you select as your wager? You: I went all in.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

You glance behind the podium to see two painting props.

Pick a painting! -Rembrandt Self-Portrait prop +1000 -Mona Lisa prop +1000

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Jaylen Riaz, you go first. You lift the painting up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the Rembrandt/Leonardo da Vinci painting

Jaylen Riaz: In my spare time, I love to create beautiful art… Especially those already created by other people! Host: Beautiful, Jaylen! Most people just, uh… Use the pen we offer on the podium. Not create a whole painting. Jaylen Riaz: In my pursuit of truth, my art cannot be restricted by any medium. Host: Marvelous! And what did you select as your wager? Jaylen Riaz: I went all in, so to speak, just like my ailing grandmother raised me to do. Host: How moving! You mention your ailing grandmother so often, I feel like I already know her!

Host: And Raleigh, what do you have to share with us today? Raleigh lifts up something from behind the podium. Raleigh Carrera: This is what I like to do for fun, no doubt.

BOTTLE OF ABSINTHE -Watch Raleigh take a swig!

Raleigh hiccups. Raleigh Carrera: Is this show over yet? I have places to be. Host: Uh, Raleigh… That definitely does not qualify as a written entry or a drawing! Host: In that case… given that she wagered all of her earnings thus far and won this round, I’m pleased to announce that the winner is…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: …Cadence! You: Ohmygod, thank you so much! You: I’d like to thank my family and my best friend Shane, who I talk about repeatedly even though none of you know who he is…

-If you’re playing Jaylen +2000

Host: …Jaylen Riaz! Jaylen Riaz: Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I’m so moved! I’m speechless! Jaylen Riaz: I’d like to thank my family, my life coach, puppies, marshmallows, rainbows, the cat I definitely didn’t kick on the way here…

The audience oohs, ahhs, and explodes into laughter as confetti bursts from the ceiling and begins to rain down above you. +45,000 Host: Congratulations! Raleigh: And now, live from New York… +50,000 You: …IT’S LAST CALL! Josh Morello: We got a great show for you tonight! Cadence is here! Stick around!

You run backstage together with Raleigh, giddy from the rush of performing. Soon, you can hear Josh beginning his opening monologue… Josh: Now, I don’t know about you, but I have been keeping up-to-date on the newest season of The Debutante… You: (That monologue must be what Shane helped write! I’m so proud of him!) You head back to wardrobe and change…

Raleigh: That was pretty wild, huh? You: That was… thrilling! My heart’s still pounding in my chest. Raleigh: Well, congrats, superstar. Looks like you’ve got a back-up career in comedy if this whole singing thing doesn’t work out. You: Oh, hardly. I had to keep biting my lip to not break into laughter because of you and Josh. Raleigh: Happens to the best of us. You: You know, it’s cool that you didn’t mind making a bit of fun of yourself. Raleigh shrugs. Raleigh: Yeah, it’s good to not take that stuff too seriously. I had a blast up there. Raleigh: Besides, it’s like my image has a life of its own, one that’ll carry on even without me. It’s not fully mine anymore. You: You think so? That must be unnerving. Raleigh: We have images of ourselves, whether we want them or not. I’d rather have this one. You: Rather than…? Raleigh just grins, not answering your question. You: Okay, have it your way. You: So… I guess I’ll see you later after my performance? Raleigh: Sure. Unless… Raleigh’s eyes gleam mischievously.

You: (I should…) -Make out with Raleigh.

You lean in close, and cup Raleigh’s chin in your hands, placing one soft kiss on their lips. Raleigh: Oh, I see. Trying to wind up in the headlines with your fake partner, huh? Raleigh: Starring in a Last Call sketch together, making out backstage… You: I’ve got a taste for the headlines now… Although I doubt anyone will find us back here. Your lips meet again, and Raleigh’s arms enfold around you. They draw one of your knees up, pulling you closer. Raleigh: Cadence… You jump and they catch you, holding you at the thighs as you wrap your legs around her. Raleigh walks backward until they reach the couch, and you fall down upon it together, hopping on their lap and kissing them more. You: Mmm… You intertwine your hands together, until they gently push you back so you lie against the cushions. On top of you, they trail kisses down your neck. You reach a hand back behind you to brace against the couch. Raleigh: Shouldn’t you be getting ready soon? You: Shhhhh… You groan as they press against you, your fists clenching, bunching up cloth on her shirt. They slip a hand under your top… You: I… The door opens. Zadie: Ugh, I’m so glad I moved my silk swatches away from that couch before you all got to it. You break apart from Raleigh, blushing furiously. Zadie’s standing behind a rack of costumes, blinking rapidly. Zadie: Not to bust this up, but Cadence needs to get dressed. Not un-dressed. You: I should, uh, go do my fitting… Raleigh: No problem. Gotta give the people what they want right? You: See you later? Raleigh gives you one last kiss on the lips. Raleigh: Maybe. Raleigh squeezes your hand as they slip away.

-Give Raleigh a hug.

You lean in close, and wrap your arms around Raleigh. You: See you later, partner. Raleigh: Yeah, we did great up there. Good luck during your show. You give Raleigh one last squeeze, and then you let them go.

[din-skywalker]

A Bandit’s Treatment

Something I wrote that took me a few days to write. Idk why. But I love the idea so tell me if y’all want more :)

Dust brushes against the bare parts of Mark’s legs as he steps across the sand covered ground, dead and dying yellow grass crunching beneath his feet. A few stickers cling to his knee high boots, digging their spiny clutches into the rubber of the soles. His mid long, black hair is buffeted madly by the wind and the loose clothing he currently wears dances along his sun kissed skin, a shadow falling across his eyes as the hat he wears blocks the harsh rays of sunlight out. He can hear Ethan rambling behind him, the young man fussing quietly to himself about how it was probably a cougar or a bandit raid.

Mark’s grip around the holstered pistol tightens and he glances over his shoulder at Ethan, making sure he still holds the shotgun. Nearby he can hear their horses nickering loudly, snorting occasionally as they draw nearer. The barn soon looms over them, sand brushing against the holes in its sides as they approach.

That’s when Mark’s eyes land on the unfamiliar, loose horse. It is standing beside the barn, turning it’s large, black eyes towards them. It snorts, dust and air exploding in front of its face as it’s head rears back, ears drawing to its skull. A dark brown saddle is strapped tightly around its stomach, a large bag of goods tied haphazardly on its back.

Blood stains the ground around its hooves. It trails into the barn and Mark can already hear Ethan’s rambling grow faster. The young man never has been good with blood, even if he is training to be a doctor.

“Ethan,” Mark said as he turned to the other, breaking off the endless trail of worried muttering. The young man jumps, light eyes widening as they meet Mark’s darker pair. “You get the horse and check it for injuries. See if you can find a clue of who our mysterious guest is.” He pauses, cocking the gun as he slowly pulls it from its holster. “I’ll go greet our guest.”

Ethan swallows heavily and shakes his head, raising the shotgun. “You take this one, Mark,” he said quickly. “You’ll be dealin with the person. They could be armed.”

Mark considers this a moment before nodding with a grim smile, trading guns with his protege. “Be careful,” he said. “Horse seems a bit spooked.”

He then turns towards the barn entrance, lowering the barrel of the gun as he stalks forward, eyes locked on the doors. The dust filled winds press and brush against his face but he doesn’t even blink as Ethan passes him, hurrying towards the fearful steed.

Mark reaches the barn entrance in a few more steps and he pushes it open with his right hand, holding the shotgun in his left. The inside is dimly lit, the only source of light being the thin rays of sunlight clawing it’s way through small holes in the walls and roof. The rope necklace dangles around his neck, the heart shaped ruby brushing against the dusty brown cloth covering his chest. It’s the only piece of jewelry he’d ever wear.

The soft sound of a pained gasp causes Mark to freeze, entire body going stock still. His eyes slowly shift to the right, scanning the area before him until they finally land on the source: a young man that looks to be around his age collapsed on the dirt floor. Mark raises the shotgun barrel instantly but hesitated as the injured man’s green eyes land on him, a small and eerie chuckle reaching his ears.

“Shooting an injured man?” he said, his voice which sounds like it would normally be deep and proud scratchy and shaky. Mark slowly lowers the gun, only now seeing the large blood stain on the man’s ragged shirt. It covers the entire area above his stomach and sides and Mark can already tell it was from a gun. “Lousy man, then.”

“I’d watch how you speak to me currently,” Mark replied, his stomach boiling already with his doctor’s instinct. He wants to rush forward and quickly help the wounded man but he knows anyone could be dangerous out here. “I am the man who currently holds your life in his hands.”

The man chuckles once more and shakes his head, green, almost glowing eyes shutting as he tuts. “I feel as though you wouldn’t shoot me over something I’d said,” he points out a moment later. He coughs after, blood dripping onto his chin from between his lips and Mark knows he needs serious surgery.

“Yes, but I’d leave you to die,” Mark replied with a firm nod, fully lowering the shotgun. “I am the only doctor in miles in this area.”

“Unless you count the boy with you.”

“I wouldn’t, yet.”

Shaking his head once more the man lowers his chin to his chest, obviously tired. “Alright,” he said in surrender. “Help me out, doc?”

“You’ll owe me,” Mark said with a smirk even as he moves forward, reaching a hand out to help the man up. “You’ll owe me, mister…?”

“Just call me Anti,” the man informed abruptly, letting Mark pull an arm around his shoulders. “Now tell me, who will I owe?”

“Doctor Mark Fischbach,” he answered, leading his newest patient to the exit. “Call me Mark, though.”

“Nah,” Anti said with a grin. “I think imma stick with doc, doc.”

Mark allows this as he leads Anti for the shed he keeps any patients he gets.

What a ride he’d be on in a few day’s time.

———

Please, if you enjoyed, tell me!!

[farplane]

land of fury; then (20-22)

février + mars 2020: scene excerpts from the yeehaw sairsel au™️; set in the past that became a beginning. 3,254 words.

If not for the abandoned cabin they found half-buried in the snow, they wouldn’t have made it through the night—Arne was well aware of that. They’d nearly gotten their heads blown off by the local sheriff’s hired guns, and Sairsel had saved their skins when he ran up the mountain path and made them disappear the way only someone with his upbringing could have. It was either a sheer damn miracle or pure genius that they’d lost the hunting party ten minutes up the winding slope.

Arne wasn’t too proud to admit that. The two of them would’ve been shot dead or hanged if not for Sairsel and Sairsel alone. But it was hard to sing his praises when his impulse for salvation had driven them right into a gathering blizzard completely unprepared and without horses.

Veric found them when they were just a few hundred meters away from the cabin, a dark shape looming in the snow on his white stallion. By then, the cold had bit into Arne’s hands so cruelly that his skin was patchy pink and his hand trembled enough that he wouldn’t have managed a decent shot when he whipped out his gun at him.

“Oh, my boys,” Veric breathed into the wind. He dismounted, wading through the snow until he could pull Arne into his arms. Arne didn’t know how to keep himself from stiffening every time anyone showed him that sort of affection, but Veric was warm and paternal and, of all the stupid things to need in that moment, some part of Arne that was still too young needed exactly that. “I’m so glad you’re both all right. When I saw your horses—”

“We had to leave them. Wouldn’t have lived long enough to try and ride off if we’d gone back,” Sairsel said stiffly from behind Arne.

Sairsel always kept his distance—even more so when he knew he deserved a lecture for how they’d botched the job. He didn’t seem to understand that Veric wasn’t Morgaine.

“You boys did the right thing. Now, you listen to me: it's ugly down there, and you ain’t going to manage it back down on foot, not in this storm. You two need to shelter up, keep warm, and I will get your horses up here as soon as the snow dies down. Here—”

Veric undid the clasps that held his bedroll to his saddle and pushed it into Arne’s arms, then dug into his bags for provisions: strips of cured meats and cheese wrapped in cloth, along with his beloved flask, beautifully inlaid and always filled with his favourite whiskey.

“Veric—” Arne began.

“Don’t you worry about me, son. We’re all going to get through the night,” Veric said, squeezing Arne’s shoulder. “You got lucifers?”

“I know how to make a fire,” Sairsel called flatly, taking a few steps up through the knee-high snow towards the cabin before turning. “I’m getting out of this wind, Mr. F. You keep standing here and freeze if you want.” He spoke like he was biting back his own teeth from chattering. “Be safe,” he added in Veric’s direction, because he was a moody shit, but he wasn’t an ingrate.

Arne wasn’t far behind Sairsel; it was a quick farewell between him and Veric, and soon the white horse was indistinguishable from the blizzard again as he rode off. When he caught up with Sairsel inside the cabin, Arne slammed the door shut behind them and stomped his boots on what remained of the moth-eaten rug and let his entire body shudder from the cold.

“I’m just as thrilled as you are to be in this situation, Sel,” Arne snapped as he shook snow from his hat, “but now ain’t the time for your attitude. We’re in this mess together and we’re getting out of it together, you got me?”

Sairsel pressed both lips together in a thin line, snowflakes still melting in the short hairs of his beard. And maybe he noticed Arne’s good faith in not giving him an earful about being so difficult with Veric; maybe he even appreciated it. He pulled his coat tighter around him and went to find something they could burn.

The whole place was little more than a skeleton: a long-dead thing that had forgotten the old lives it had lived, and the only thing they could do was pick it apart under the shelter of its bones. Nothing to steal; nothing to eat; nothing much to look at. Sairsel found three logs buried in the snow of what must have once been the garden, outside, but it would hardly last them through the night. Together, they pulled out the loosest floorboards of the cabin and broke them up clumsily, for want of a proper axe: they propped the planks up at an angle against the wall and kicked until they had pieces enough to keep a meager fire burning until Veric came back.

On the bright side, moving about just to get the fire started almost worked Arne up into a sweat, and neither of them ended up with frostbite now that they were out of the storm.

Had it been anyone else with him, Arne might have been concerned about the likelihood of either of them getting on the dangerous side of freezing at some point through the night, but with Sairsel, he wasn’t worried. Sairsel knew how to survive—and Arne trusted him with both their lives more than he could say.

It wasn’t long before night fell and they had only the fire for a light, and by then, Sairsel was yawning and curling in on himself and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. They’d pushed the bed from the far corner of the cabin up near the fire, laid out Veric’s bedroll on what remained of the lumpy mattress, and now Sairsel was beginning to look rather longingly at it.

“You want to flip a coin for the bed?” he asked stiffly, only sparing Arne the barest glance.

Arne frowned. “You have to know how stupid that sounds.”

“Sorry?”

“We got to stay warm, not risk one of us freezing to death on the floor,” Arne said. “You above all people—”

“I know,” Sairsel said, and Arne gave him a perplexed grimace.

“Then why’d you suggest flipping for it? Ain’t like we never slept in the same bed before.”

Sairsel shrugged, his shoulders tight; he didn’t tell Arne that he didn’t want the suggestion to come from him, that he was protecting himself in more ways than one. Instead he forced a small smile onto his lips, scratching at the stubble on his jaw.

“Yeah, and I always had to get an earful from you for the whole day after about elbowing you.”

“That’s because your elbows are damn knives.”

“And your feet are hammers,” Sairsel shot back, and they both relaxed as Arne snorted. The fire, meager as it was, crackled in the silence. He fed it another piece of wood and rose.

They both settled on what little space the mattress offered, shedding their coats and trousers to drape over Varic’s bedroll. With the two of them on their backs, their shoulders fit tightly together; it wasn’t long before Sairsel was rolling onto his side, his back to Arne, but Arne stayed still.

Even with the fire, the chill was undeniable. Arne felt it sink into his cheeks, into the tip of his nose; he willed it not to sink lower and settle in his spine, trying instead to focus on the diffuse heat of the fire and the warmth of Sairsel’s body next to his. Something tugged at him hard, trying to pull him out of the bed, to make any distance between them possible again. He swallowed and stared at the ceiling and didn’t shiver.

Sairsel couldn’t stay still, shifting again and again. Arne elbowed at his kidneys. 

“Stop your damn wriggling.” 

“Stop taking so much bloody space,” Sairsel hissed, blindly kicking him back. “Your shoulders feel three feet wide.”

“I can’t exactly help being a decent size.”

“You could at least lie on your side.”

“I don’t like sleeping on my side,” Arne said, jostled by Sairsel’s shoulder when he tossed himself onto his back. They were side by side again, and Sairsel’s arm felt even warmer against Arne’s. All the damn wriggling. He sighed out through his nose. “Now you’re just being a child.”

Sairsel said nothing. He merely stared at the darkened ceiling—not petulantly. He never seemed to be able to draw out their bickering for very long anymore. Arne turned his head, trying to make out what details he could from the faint glow of the fire dancing on his face.

“Y’all right?” Arne asked quietly, because Sairsel’s eyes were open.

“Just fine,” Sairsel replied.

He wasn’t, but Arne didn’t know how to press him for something truer—didn’t know how to justify the insistence. He sighed, turning onto his side to face Sairsel with his head pillowed under his arm, and he could have sworn he almost saw him flinch.

“What?” Sairsel snapped, barely turning his head to look at him.

“You said I should be on my side.”

“Bloody hells," Sairsel mumbled, wriggling again to turn his back to Arne. The bed’s iron frame whined as he curled in on himself, tight like he used to when he was a scared kid out of the wild he'd always known and into another that had different rules entirely.

Arne frowned at the line of his back, at the space left between them. For all that the proximity had stifled him mere moments ago, now the distance felt wrong, insurmountable. His fingers twitched, but he stopped himself. Took a breath, two, five. Their fire hissed like trying to burn wet wood.

He moved.

“What?" Sairsel snapped when Arne touched his shoulder.

“It’s goddamn cold in here," Arne said gruffly, matching Sairsel's tone, and draped an arm over him to pull him close—almost flush against his chest.

He realized it must have been two years, at least, since the last time he'd touched Sairsel with that kind of unthinking ease. In the decade since Morgaine had found her son and taken him in the same way she and Veric had taken in Arne, they'd ridden horses together, shared bedrolls, sat shoulder to shoulder on long night watches. They'd bathed in rivers and lakes, splashing water and wrestling and trying to push each other underwater like little kids. 

They had been little kids. They'd been friends, if not brothers—because Sairsel had always pushed back against the idea, had refused to abandon the family he'd had and lost in the woods.

And then it stopped, all at once, and Arne knew he had himself to blame the most because it had to have been when he saw Sairsel with the marshal's son. If he was really, painfully honest with himself, something dislodged in him then, cleaving a space between him and Sairsel he didn't know how to live with. He blamed his anger on the idea that Sairsel was endangering them by dancing so close to the law; he made it abundantly clear to Sairsel, and not kindly. He'd wanted Sairsel to remember exactly what he was, what world he belonged to. Who he belonged with.

But a part of it had been disdain, too, and for that Arne had been ashamed of himself for two years. Because it was Sairsel, and Sairsel had always been honest with himself; never hid, never let it make a difference. Arne would never forget the night Sairsel stared into the fire and told him he didn't like girls: he'd looked nervous, like he was one bad breeze from falling apart, but unyielding. More certain than he was about most things. Arne had sat with it for a bit, and then he'd said “all right," and then, because he was a kid, he'd asked, “does that mean you're interested in me?" and Sairsel had laughed so hard he'd almost spat coffee out of his nose, and that had been that.

It had been all right, but somewhere along the way they had become men and Arne had seen the reality of Sairsel with a man, not just the idea of it, and it had disgusted him beyond understanding. So he'd kept to a new sort of distance, because he was ashamed of himself for it and angry with Sairsel and it was so stifling that he couldn't bear to touch him the way he used to. Sairsel must have felt it; he couldn't seem to bear to touch Arne, either, for all that time.

Sairsel was close enough that Arne could almost feel the rise and fall of his breath in his back, and it felt right; like breathing his first real, full breath after passing through thick smoke. But Sairsel was stiff as a corpse, too—tightly wound like the way he was when he felt a panic coming on.

Arne didn't think. He bowed his head, touched his forehead to the nape of Sairsel's neck, and splayed out his fingers to press his palm against Sairsel's chest. 

For a moment, he thought he could feel echoes of his heartbeat against his hand, but Sairsel knocked his wrist away and said, “Don't."

Even in the quiet, his voice was heavy enough for Arne to understand. He drew back, fell into stillness while Sairsel moved to turn onto his back again.

“Just sleep, Arne.” 

There was a weight on Arne’s chest, so present he wasn’t sure how he could ignore it long enough to close his eyes and slip away. Maybe he ought to apologize, but he didn’t know how to bring the words around, to have it make sense why his apology came now and in this manner. He barely even knew how to give shape to the feeling that things might feel right again if he stepped past the new walls they’d both built. Such small things he was missing: clapping Sairsel on the back, shaking his shoulder, getting an arm around the back of his neck.

He was tired of leaving himself empty. Touch was a burning thing, but the absence of it put everything in the world at a distance that wasn’t natural.

Arne forced his eyes to make out as much of Sairsel’s face as he could in the dark, and he thought of the marshal’s son. Sunny fellow, wild like the sea—but peaceful, as if there wasn’t a tide in him. Near the same height as Sairsel: on the short side of average and built like him, too, lean in a way that was strong. He’d kissed Sairsel with a hand on the back of his neck and a lingering smile, and something ugly had risen in Arne when he saw; when he felt some weight of that kiss on his own mouth through the distance and it felt so goddamn wrong.

Sairsel breathed slow, but he wasn’t sleeping. He must have felt Arne watching him: he tilted his head Arne’s way again, still wearing that exhausting expression on his face somewhere between sullen and nervous. Arne wanted to reach out and pat his cheek until Sairsel was annoyed enough to smack his hand away; wanted to tell him that they weren’t so far from the people they used to be, and there was some good in that.

Instead, he leaned forward and he caught Sairsel’s mouth in a kiss. Sairsel pulled back on instinct, frowning so deep it ached, but he listened to the silence and he heard that Arne wasn’t making excuses or laughing it off. Arne stayed still, watching his lips, and then Sairsel was kissing him like he was afraid of himself.

Arne reached out from under the precarious warmth of the bed to cup Sairsel’s jaw, feeling a flush of heat chase the cold lingering on Sairsel’s cheek. He felt himself coming apart, too, scattering and buzzing with noise and all that damn space as it ate itself away; he was lost and he lost himself in the heat of Sairsel’s mouth.

Sairsel’s hand touched his wrist, white-hot—for a distant second Arne’s insides seized up with the dread that Sairsel might be pushing away, but he wasn’t. His fingers only burned a trace along his forearm, touching. 

Something snapped—in Arne, in Sairsel, maybe in both of them at the same time and in the exact same way. They pulled at each other, tasted each other's skin, forgot the cold and the last two years that loomed like a haunting. Never once did Arne stop to doubt.

The iron frame whined and the fire hissed and the storm howled. When it was done, Sairsel turned away and Arne listened to the silence until he drifted away wondering at the fear that that silence had slid between his bones.

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing. What do you think we’re doing?”

Arne had that look about him like a too-full kettle reaching a boil; tense and full and frustrated. He didn’t look angry. Sairsel knew what angry was, for Arne, and this wasn’t it—for all that he was a brute and always battling some quiet, unspoken sort of rage, he made it a point of honour to keep it at bay around Sairsel. On the bad days, it was infuriating.

He still wasn’t sure whether this qualified as a bad day; whether he wanted to go far enough as to pick a fight, because they were almost as good at that as they were at being a team. There was a difference between being good partners in a job and playing nice—and this wasn’t a job.

This was a mess.

“Don’t play with me, Sel. I know you and this ain’t your kind of stupid.”

Sairsel felt particularly petty, he supposed; particularly contrary. “You know me?”

“If not me, then who does?” Arne said, rising from the bed and picking up Sairsel’s gunbelt to toss it roughly at him. “I know you better than anyone.”

It shouldn’t have taken a snowstorm and a narrow, lumpy bed to make them cross an irrevocable line—Sairsel knew that much by the look on Arne’s face. But the sun had come up blinding on the snow, and the night had passed, and Arne knew him like no one else did.

He did. It made Sairsel tense and it made him restive and it made him want to see the weight of his discomfort turned around to weigh on Arne.

“You mean because we fucked?” he asked. Arne looked away with colour flushing up his neck. It was childish, but Sairsel felt some manner of triumph at that. “Because you’re not the first, I’m sorry to say.”

Arne’s lips thinned. “That marshal’s son?” he asked, more comfortably than Sairsel would have expected. 

That gave him pause; made him reach for defiance again.

“Him. A couple others.”

Arne nodded, and Sairsel realized that he didn’t have that sour look about him for the reasons he’d tried to provoke. “So they knew you—like that,” he said, skipping over his unease and into stubborn certainty. “I still knew you better than they ever done even before last night.”

“Right,” Sairsel said flatly, and didn’t say that he didn’t want him to. Didn’t want anyone. “And who knows you, big man?”

“You do,” Arne said, simple as that. “Better’n anyone.”

Sairsel knew what they were doing even less now than when Arne had asked.

[smilingformoney]

Platinum Diamond Scene: Act in a Sketch with Avery

Josh Morello: Awesome! Josh Morello: First off, we wrote two different versions of the script. Would you rather play a parody of yourself, or a parody of Jaylen Riaz? You: Jaylen? Fiona: Playing up your beef with Jaylen would amp your popularity up immediately. Avery: Then again, Cadence, it really just depends on whether or not you want to play up your rivalry with her. You: Hmm…

Who do you play on Last Call? -Jaylen

You: The people want what they want. Besides, I don’t owe her anything. Fiona: Good call. Josh Morello: Works for me!

-Yourself

You: I’d rather just make fun of myself. I barely know her, anyway. Josh Morello: Works for me!

Avery: What about me? I’m down to play a fun character as well. Josh Morello: Any preference? Avery: Surprise me. Josh Morello: Oh, then, we’ll have something in store for you… Josh Morello: First, we’ll send you off to hair and makeup while I meet up with Shane to go over the scripts. Then, we’ll go over lines together. Josh Morello: And don’t worry, this is last minute, so we’ll have teleprompters in case you forget your lines. Shane: Go forth and slay, you guys! Shane and Josh leave together. You: Guess we’re really doing this… Avery: I guess we are…

Soon, it’s almost your turn to go onstage with Avery for your skit. The curtains roll back. The lights blink on. The studio audience roars. You wait in the wings for your entrance. Host: Hello, hello! We’re back with Pop Star Jeopardy, your favourite place to feel validated when you know a piece of trivia a celeb doesn’t. Host: With us tonight, we have… your favourite rebel and heartbreaker, currently in the head and in trouble for crashing yet another yacht… Host: …Raleigh Carrera! Raleigh Carrera: Yo, what’s good. I didn’t think I’d be able to make it tonight… but turns out it’s pretty easy to blow off community service when you’re famous. The crowd boos loudly, but they’re loving it. Raleigh Carrera: What? What’d I say? Host: O… kay! Next up! Our other contestant decided it was better for their image to do charity work in Africa for the Pictagram posts… so we found a replacement! Host: Don’t ask which country in Africa… because they won’t remember! The audience boos again! Host: Bravely taking up the mantle, we have a surprise guest, your fave pop star killing it on Charttopper…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: Cadence!

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: Jaylen Riaz!

You walk on stage, trying not to trip, and place yourself behind the podium. The crowd cheers loudly, stomping their feet, when they recognise that it’s you.

-If you’re playing yourself

You: Hi, New York! I was busy… -Writing Raleigh Carrera’s name with hearts in my diary, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how head over heels in love I am for my wonderful partner yet?! Have you seen the thing they do when they flip their hair? They’re amaz-- Host: Yes… many times! Let’s move on!

-Talking about how much I idolise Avery Wilshere, but…

You: …I’m here now! You: Have I told you how big an inspiration they were and is to me, my life, and all of my music?

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Jaylen Riaz: Helloooo, New York! I was busy… -Adopting all the sick kittens in a shelter, but I’m here now! +2000

Jaylen Riaz: I was, like, definitely not gonna tell you guys I did this awesome, angelic thing because I hate humble bragging… Jaylen Riaz: But honest is just like, the most important thing to me, you know?

-Having ghostwriters write all my music, but I’m here now! +2000

You: Which is to say, I wasn’t busy at all!

The audience laughs appreciatively, which encourages you. +5000 Audience Member: Cadence acting onstage? What a twist! She’s so multitalented! Host: In Pop Star Jeopardy, all of the winnings go toward our celebs’ charity of choice… Host: …which typically means their next booze cruise in Ibiza! But we deal with it because of the ratings! Isn’t that right? Avery looks up from texting. Raleigh Carrera: Oh, sorry, you were saying? Something came up with my private island off the coast of Bora Bora. Host: …I think that means it’s time to start the actual game! Host: Today, our categories are… ‘Living Frugally,’ ‘Methods Of Public Transportation,’ and ‘How To Be Relatable.’ Host: Raleigh Carrera… You’re up. Raleigh Carrera: Thanks, Josh, you’re the man. I got this on lock. I’ll do ‘Living Frugally’ for 400. Host: Alright! You’re on a first date, but you only have $20 on you. How do you make that money go far… and win your date’s heart? Raleigh Carrera: Easy. What is… ‘Take them back to my penthouse for a topshelf nightcap…’ Raleigh Carrera: ‘…and spend the $20 on a Ride XL Lux Black so send them home and make sure they don’t spend the night?’ The crowd erupts into more jeers, but they’re all grinning. Raleigh Carrera: What, come on? It’s cost effective! Raleigh Carrera: I’m just saying what I know y’all are thinking.

-If you’re playing yourself

That is… an incorrect answer! Cadence, take us home.

You: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Singer-Songwriter Broken Hearts Foundation?’

You: It’s for a good cause. We pour everything into our music. We have a lot of feelings. You: We also say ‘heart on our sleeve’ a lot.

-‘Escaped My Hometown And Never Shut Up About It Club?’

You: No one even knows where my hometown is, but I feel like it’s important to remind people of this a lot. And I support other people who do the same.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: That is… an incorrect answer! Jaylen Riaz, take us home.

Jaylen Riaz: Well, Josh, what is… ‘Skip the date and donate $20 to…’ -‘Yachts for Tots?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to grow up and not have a Tubular Two birthday bash along the lush, golden sands of Turks and Caicos.

-‘Screens for Teens?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: This foundation puts 4K TVs with 3D options into every classroom. Jaylen Riaz: Because no student should have to suffer through low-res movies.

-‘Equestrian for Pedestrians?’ +1000

Jaylen Riaz: Because no one should have to get to their destination in anything less than a gold-plated saddle.

The name of the organisation gets a big laugh, and you see Josh smile at Shane backstage in the wings. That must have been one of Shane’s lines! Shane: … Host: And that response is… also incorrect! In order to win, you have to actually go on the date! Host: Who hurt both of you? Host: Let’s just skip forward to our final round!

-If you’re playing yourself

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Cadence. It’s getting real now.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Raleigh Carrera: Alright, let’s go, Jaylen. It’s getting real now.

Host: The category is… ‘What do you do for fun?’ As long as you write or draw your answer, you will win! Host: So please… be sure to follow directions! Host: And don’t forget to select a wager!

-If you’re playing yourself

You glance behind the podium to see two notebook props.

Pick a notebook! -Diary with hearts -Journal titled ‘Poetry’

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Cadence, you go first. You lift the notebook up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the hearts diary/journey titled ‘Poetry’

You: In my spare time, I love to write beautiful songs… And let people know that I wrote my own songs! You: Like, I really, really write my own songs. Did you know how much I hate using ghostwriters? Host: Oh, yes, actually! This is a well-publicised fact! Host: You know, you only had to write a sentence or draw a picture on the lectern, not author a whole book… You: In my pursuit of authenticity and art, I cannot be silenced. Host: Marvellous, I suppose! And what did you select as your wager? You: I went all in.

-If you’re playing Jaylen

You glance behind the podium to see two painting props.

Pick a painting! -Rembrandt Self-Portrait prop -Mona Lisa prop

Host: And now… It’s time to reveal the answers of our celebrity contestants! Jaylen Riaz, you go first. You lift the painting up so the crowd can see.

DEFINITELY YOUR OWN, ORIGINAL WORK! -Show the Rembrandt/Leonardo da Vinci painting

+1000

Jaylen Riaz: In my spare time, I love to create beautiful art… Especially those already created by other people! Host: Beautiful, Jaylen! Most people just, uh… Use the pen we offer on the podium. Not create a whole painting. Jaylen Riaz: In my pursuit of truth, my art cannot be restricted by any medium. Host: Marvelous! And what did you select as your wager? Jaylen Riaz: I went all in, so to speak, just like my ailing grandmother raised me to do. Host: How moving! You mention your ailing grandmother so often, I feel like I already know her!

Host: And Raleigh, what do you have to share with us today? Avery lifts up something from behind the podium. Raleigh Carrera: This is what I like to do for fun, no doubt.

BOTTLE OF ABSINTHE -Watch Avery take a swig!

Avery hiccups. Raleigh Carrera: Is this show over yet? I have places to be. Host: Uh, Raleigh… That definitely does not qualify as a written entry or a drawing! Host: In that case… given that she wagered all of her earnings thus far and won this round, I’m pleased to announce that the winner is…

-If you’re playing yourself

Host: …Cadence! You: Ohmygod, thank you so much! You: I’d like to thank my family and my best friend Shane, who I talk about repeatedly even though none of you know who he is…

-If you’re playing Jaylen

Host: …Jaylen Riaz! +2000 Jaylen Riaz: Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I’m so moved! I’m speechless! Jaylen Riaz: I’d like to thank my family, my life coach, puppies, marshmallows, rainbows, the cat I definitely didn’t kick on the way here…

The audience oohs, ahhs, and explodes into laughter as confetti bursts from the ceiling and begins to rain down above you. +45,000 Host: Congratulations! Avery: And now, live from New York… +50,000 You: …IT’S LAST CALL! Josh Morello: We got a great show for you tonight! Cadence is here! Stick around!

You run backstage together with Avery, giddy from the rush of performing. Soon, you can hear Josh beginning his opening monologue… Josh: Now, I don’t know about you, but I have been keeping up-to-date on the newest season of The Debutante… You: (That monologue must be what Shane helped write! I’m so proud of him!) You head back to wardrobe and change…

Avery: Wow, that was wild, wasn’t it? You: Acting on stage was so… thrilling! My heart is still pounding. Avery: Congratulations! You’re such a superstar! Looks like you’ve got a back-up career in comedy if this whole singing thing doesn’t work out. You: I doubt it. Between you and Josh, I had to fight not to break. Avery: Oh, I did break. Many times. You: Happens to the best of us. You: By the way, it was fun seeing you act as Raleigh. Avery: I think we all have just a little bit of Raleigh in us. And they’re a good sport… That’s one thing I like about them. You: So… I guess I’ll see you later after my performance? Avery: I suppose so. Unless… Avery’s blue eyes twinkle slightly.

You: (I should…) -Make out with Avery.

You lean in close, and cup Avery’s chin in your hands, placing one soft kiss on their lips. Avery: This is a bit risky, isn’t it? You’ve got a fake partner to be loyal to, remember? Wouldn’t want rumours of infidelity getting out. You: I doubt the paparazzi will find us back here. You stumble backward until you fall on top of the couch, Avery on top of you. You wrap you legs around her waist, drawing them closer, as your hands roam down their back. Avery: Cadence… They trail kisses down your neck, gently pinning your hands above you as your head bounces against the couch cushion. You: Mmm… You sit up, hopping on Avery’s lap. Their hands wander down your sides, then pull you closer to them at the waist. You: Man, if only old Cadence Dorian could see me now. Making out Avery Wilshere. Avery: You’re one to talk. I’m just as dazzled by you. Avery sucks gently on your lower lip, her hand slipping under your top… The door opens. Zadie: Ugh, I’m so glad I moved my silk swatches away from that couch before you all got to it. You break apart from Avery, blushing furiously. Zadie’s standing behind a rack of costumes, blinking rapidly. Zadie: Not to bust this up, but Cadence needs to get dressed. Not un-dressed. Avery: Got it. Well, I’ll see you later, Cadence. Good luck. You: Thanks. Avery gives you one last tender kiss on the lips, and then they slip out the door.

-Give Avery a hug.

You lean in close, and wrap your arms around Avery. Avery: Congratulations again, Cadence. We were a great team up there. You: Always. You give them one last squeeze, and then you let them go.